AN UNBELIEVABLE STORY
A 2016 Strange New Worlds Submission ~ An Original Star Trek Tale
By all accounts, V’Nell was notably intelligent, well liked, and remarkably adept at controlling his emotions, even though he had yet to submit himself to the act of kolinahr. Yet, here he was: strong, handsome, and unfortunately dead.
Of course, the death of this promising young Vulcan would be scrutinized, not only by his own family but by the majority of his home world as well. V’Nell was not only sought after by many on the council to succeed any of them due to his tenacity and dedication in a wide variety of fields, but as the only child of a very prestigious Vulcan politician, the boy was in the public eye and his untimely death would be sorely taken. His father, Malec, serving as High Councilor for the Ministry of State within the Vulcan High Council, would undoubtedly be devastated by the loss of his only child… and it was Tuvok’s unfortunate duty to inform Malec of this event.
It was a strange convergence of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His accomplishments within Starfleet afforded Tuvok the opportunity to take transport aboard the USS Katar on a personal excursion. Captain Malone was more than eager to escort the Vulcan wherever he wished, provided he regale the commanding officer with tales of his adventures in the Delta Quadrant. A cheap payment for transport, Tuvok acquiesced, hence his presence on the Defiant-class starship. He was unaware of the prominent guest also aboard the ship, until he was summoned from his small quarters and notified of the event by the captain.
“I can only assume you’ve informed me of this incident because we share the same heritage. I assure you, Captain, no such meeting was necessary; I share no bond, any more personal with the boy, other than being Vulcan,” Tuvok responded with an almost stale demeanor. Though slightly miffed at the captain’s assumptions, his delivery was entirely devoid of emotion. Truly Vulcan.
“I get that, Tuvok,” responded Malone, “and I hate to drag you into this—especially something so serious—but with the limited crew afforded to me on this vessel, I’m at a loss as to a capable officer to assign to this incident.”
“Surely, a medic can be secured once we reach the closest star base. I will be quite unaffected by the delay.”
“That would be true had this event been a natural occurrence.”
There was a silent pause between the two men.
“You suggest otherwise… but I’m unclear why,” said the Vulcan, quizzically.
“I think you should see for yourself.”
They walked in silence as the captain led Tuvok to another small room, but stopped before the closed door. “I know about Vulcan capacities for emotions, but I still feel it necessary to prepare you all the same.”
“I understand, Captain. You may open the door.”
Malone keyed the door and it slid open with a barely audible swish. The single large room was dimly lit, and so the captain requested the ship’s computer to brighten the lights. Complying, the room was illuminated to reveal a dead Vulcan sitting upright in a chair just inside the entrance. His arms were draped down with his knuckles touching the floor, his head fallen back and to the side facing away from the two men.
“His position looks quite relaxed,” offered Tuvok upon first view of the body. “I hardly see signs of a struggle here.”
Malone moved forward into the room and circled around the seat to face the body. “This is the peculiar part.”
Tuvok followed, his brow furrowing with curiosity at the sight. “Interesting.”
The boy’s eye sockets looked almost completely hollow: the globes ruptured with a mix of ocular fluid and green blood trailing down the side of the young Vulcan’s face, down his sleeve, and onto the metal floor. Tuvok bent closer to the pale face to get a better look, but said nothing.
“So?” Malone prompted.
Tuvok did not meet the captain’s gaze, but continued to examine the body. “This is obviously very strange.”
“Agreed.”
“As I said, there’s no sign of a struggle here,” Tuvok stated. “But…”
“But?”
The Vulcan took a moment before answering, “It’s a very random occurrence for one’s eyes to burst like this. Even if this happened naturally, it would hardly be a viable cause of death no matter how severe this trauma would likely be to endure.”
“Could he have suffered an attack of some sort, perhaps in response to the pain?” asked Malone, involuntarily wincing slightly at the thought.
“Doubtful. Even during a massive heart attack, the victim would be capable of moving for a few seconds. V’Nell’s posture does not give such an impression, as I stated before.”
“You know this boy?” Malone asked, almost incredulously.
Tuvok triggered back: “You do not?”
“No.”
Tuvok stood. “I only know of him. He’s quite prominent a figure on Vulcan, at least his father is. Has Malec been notified?”
“I have yet to contact anybody. Other than you and me, only my first officer knows of this. I was hoping…”
Tuvok raised an eyebrow. “…that I would do the honors,” he concluded.
“Once the investigation was complete anyway,” finished Captain Malone with a faint smile. “I can provide you with anything you need.”
“I just need some time.”
“Done,” responded Malone quickly. “I’ve already ordered a full stop, and I can inform Starfleet command of our delay.”
“Hold off on that, Captain. I shouldn’t need more than an hour here—there’s not much to investigate,” Tuvok said, looking about the small room.
“Then I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be on the bridge when you’re done.”
Malone turned and was out of the room, the door closing automatically behind him, leaving Tuvok alone with the dead Vulcan. He looked down on the lifeless body draped almost lazily on the armchair and simply stood there in silence with the corpse. Moments later, he reached out slowly and touched the boy’s head lightly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He retracted his hand and made his way to the small couch opposite the body and sat down. Looking solemnly at the pale figure before him, Tuvok softly spoke again, “I do not yet know exactly what happened here, but I promise you justice.”
The Vulcan then took a long look around the room, scanning the small space deeply from the seated position. Afterwards, he simply closed his eyes and folded his hands together, his two forefinger tips touching. “Computer,” he called, “Dim lights to ten percent illumination.” The computer replied with a faint trill and lowered the lights to near darkness. And there sat the two bodies—both completely silent and unmoving—as Tuvok meditated somberly.
Of course, the death of this promising young Vulcan would be scrutinized, not only by his own family but by the majority of his home world as well. V’Nell was not only sought after by many on the council to succeed any of them due to his tenacity and dedication in a wide variety of fields, but as the only child of a very prestigious Vulcan politician, the boy was in the public eye and his untimely death would be sorely taken. His father, Malec, serving as High Councilor for the Ministry of State within the Vulcan High Council, would undoubtedly be devastated by the loss of his only child… and it was Tuvok’s unfortunate duty to inform Malec of this event.
It was a strange convergence of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His accomplishments within Starfleet afforded Tuvok the opportunity to take transport aboard the USS Katar on a personal excursion. Captain Malone was more than eager to escort the Vulcan wherever he wished, provided he regale the commanding officer with tales of his adventures in the Delta Quadrant. A cheap payment for transport, Tuvok acquiesced, hence his presence on the Defiant-class starship. He was unaware of the prominent guest also aboard the ship, until he was summoned from his small quarters and notified of the event by the captain.
“I can only assume you’ve informed me of this incident because we share the same heritage. I assure you, Captain, no such meeting was necessary; I share no bond, any more personal with the boy, other than being Vulcan,” Tuvok responded with an almost stale demeanor. Though slightly miffed at the captain’s assumptions, his delivery was entirely devoid of emotion. Truly Vulcan.
“I get that, Tuvok,” responded Malone, “and I hate to drag you into this—especially something so serious—but with the limited crew afforded to me on this vessel, I’m at a loss as to a capable officer to assign to this incident.”
“Surely, a medic can be secured once we reach the closest star base. I will be quite unaffected by the delay.”
“That would be true had this event been a natural occurrence.”
There was a silent pause between the two men.
“You suggest otherwise… but I’m unclear why,” said the Vulcan, quizzically.
“I think you should see for yourself.”
They walked in silence as the captain led Tuvok to another small room, but stopped before the closed door. “I know about Vulcan capacities for emotions, but I still feel it necessary to prepare you all the same.”
“I understand, Captain. You may open the door.”
Malone keyed the door and it slid open with a barely audible swish. The single large room was dimly lit, and so the captain requested the ship’s computer to brighten the lights. Complying, the room was illuminated to reveal a dead Vulcan sitting upright in a chair just inside the entrance. His arms were draped down with his knuckles touching the floor, his head fallen back and to the side facing away from the two men.
“His position looks quite relaxed,” offered Tuvok upon first view of the body. “I hardly see signs of a struggle here.”
Malone moved forward into the room and circled around the seat to face the body. “This is the peculiar part.”
Tuvok followed, his brow furrowing with curiosity at the sight. “Interesting.”
The boy’s eye sockets looked almost completely hollow: the globes ruptured with a mix of ocular fluid and green blood trailing down the side of the young Vulcan’s face, down his sleeve, and onto the metal floor. Tuvok bent closer to the pale face to get a better look, but said nothing.
“So?” Malone prompted.
Tuvok did not meet the captain’s gaze, but continued to examine the body. “This is obviously very strange.”
“Agreed.”
“As I said, there’s no sign of a struggle here,” Tuvok stated. “But…”
“But?”
The Vulcan took a moment before answering, “It’s a very random occurrence for one’s eyes to burst like this. Even if this happened naturally, it would hardly be a viable cause of death no matter how severe this trauma would likely be to endure.”
“Could he have suffered an attack of some sort, perhaps in response to the pain?” asked Malone, involuntarily wincing slightly at the thought.
“Doubtful. Even during a massive heart attack, the victim would be capable of moving for a few seconds. V’Nell’s posture does not give such an impression, as I stated before.”
“You know this boy?” Malone asked, almost incredulously.
Tuvok triggered back: “You do not?”
“No.”
Tuvok stood. “I only know of him. He’s quite prominent a figure on Vulcan, at least his father is. Has Malec been notified?”
“I have yet to contact anybody. Other than you and me, only my first officer knows of this. I was hoping…”
Tuvok raised an eyebrow. “…that I would do the honors,” he concluded.
“Once the investigation was complete anyway,” finished Captain Malone with a faint smile. “I can provide you with anything you need.”
“I just need some time.”
“Done,” responded Malone quickly. “I’ve already ordered a full stop, and I can inform Starfleet command of our delay.”
“Hold off on that, Captain. I shouldn’t need more than an hour here—there’s not much to investigate,” Tuvok said, looking about the small room.
“Then I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be on the bridge when you’re done.”
Malone turned and was out of the room, the door closing automatically behind him, leaving Tuvok alone with the dead Vulcan. He looked down on the lifeless body draped almost lazily on the armchair and simply stood there in silence with the corpse. Moments later, he reached out slowly and touched the boy’s head lightly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He retracted his hand and made his way to the small couch opposite the body and sat down. Looking solemnly at the pale figure before him, Tuvok softly spoke again, “I do not yet know exactly what happened here, but I promise you justice.”
The Vulcan then took a long look around the room, scanning the small space deeply from the seated position. Afterwards, he simply closed his eyes and folded his hands together, his two forefinger tips touching. “Computer,” he called, “Dim lights to ten percent illumination.” The computer replied with a faint trill and lowered the lights to near darkness. And there sat the two bodies—both completely silent and unmoving—as Tuvok meditated somberly.
Malone walked around his ship leisurely as he looked over its exterior. A little bruised, the Katar could hardly be considered in pristine shape, but her captain didn’t mind at all. Each scratch, ding, and burn were scars earned while out amongst the stars—his home. He was born on a starship and knew he would more than likely die on one as well. Malone was a transient man, with no true roots anywhere. For every minute he did make landfall, his mind was still lingering on the beauty and freedom of space.
As he waited for his passenger to arrive, he circled his ship—a standard procedure for him—and took in deep breaths of the hot Vulcan air. Whenever he made landfall, it was a treat to take in the local flavor. Each planet had their own bouquets, cadences, and other variances. A man of Malone’s particular proclivities relished such unique qualities not only for their distinctiveness, but for the simple fact that it always made him itch to get back aboard the comforts of his ship. Within the metal walls of the Katar, the air was canned and almost too clean, but distinctively home.
For now, the alien air of the red planet was oddly welcoming. The heavy heat of the rocky desert where he docked—far from any localities to be recognized or bothered with—combined with the dryness, invariably lent itself to the dusty taste in Malone’s mouth. Also, he thought he tasted something peculiar brought on by the aroma on the wind; perhaps only a trick of the mind, the sensation made him think of reptiles. Must be all that green blood, he reflexively thought to himself. Then again, maybe it was the peculiar commission he had agreed to that already made him feel like he was dealing with snakes.
His original reason for coming to Vulcan was to pick up a local dignitary—and Starfleet celebrity—for a simple transport. Working within the Special Operations Division of Starfleet granted Malone strange and/or secret missions for the Federation, most times working under the radar of standard protocol & procedures. This was hardly one of those times. No, the task was simply to pick up Lieutenant Commander Tuvok from his home planet and transport him to the predetermined destination of his choosing—what Malone determined to merely be a holiday escape. And even though his ship was designated as an escort vessel, normally such a task would be beneath him since the mission was hardly considered even mildly spicy. But Tuvok was singularly intriguing to the captain.
Malone was not a name that resonated harmoniously around Starfleet. Not that his reputation was soured in any way, but simply because his personality as a wildcard—combined with his tenacity for completing his mission at whatever the cost—awarded him command of a very small, yet remarkable ship within a division of Starfleet of which most officers have never even heard. This special division usually worked outside the confines of Starfleet standards; nonetheless, striving for freedom and prosperity of the Federation. Their methods were not always genial, but then again, their missions hardly lent themselves to act accordingly. Regardless, the Special Operations Division was considered a necessary evil; and therefore, required a certain type of officer to accommodate its level of secrecy, proficiency, and danger. Malone was that type.
So when the opportunity arrived to meet Tuvok—the man who served aboard the famous ship, Voyager, as its security officer while stranded in the Delta quadrant—it was almost too delicious a dish for Malone to turn away from. It was his ulterior motive to seduce the Vulcan into regaling him with stories of his time in the remote depths of space. He drank in tales of Jonathan Archer’s first forays into the unknown and James Kirk’s swashbuckling adventures to strange new worlds. And now—short of the captain of the fateful, stranded ship—here was Voyager’s security officer, the first line of defense for the ship—hell, the Federation—in uncharted, dangerous space! Malone was certain to revel in stories of daring, danger, and intrigue—just the sorts of things he enjoyed in real life. For that reason alone, he took this simple transport mission and he eagerly awaited Tuvok’s arrival.
As he was checking the hydraulics of the entrance ramp, he heard gravelly steps approaching from behind him. He quickly turned his head, eager to greet his anticipated guest, but became disappointed when neither of the two men approaching the ship resembled the dark-skinned Vulcan he expected. He shrugged off his dismay and began to cross the distance between himself and the newcomers, wiping a smudge of lubricant from his fingers onto his charcoal canvas pants, the stain barely noticeable.
He was greeted with inquiry: “Is this your ship?”
Malone’s eyes immediately fixated upon the older and shorter of the two Vulcan men. “Yeah,” he curtly replied. “Can I help you?”
“Indeed,” he began, “We seek transport off-world. Might you be able to accommodate us, Captain…?” The Vulcan smiled widely as he lingered on the final syllable, prompting for a name.
“Malone,” he replied, already exasperated. “This is a Federation ship; I’m not prone to making taxi rides.”
The Vulcan nodded. “I apologize, Captain Malone. I noticed the ship’s design, but your lack of uniform allowed me to assume that perhaps it was…” he paused for the right word, “decommissioned.”
“Or more likely stolen,” Malone interjected. “Starfleet rarely sells their decommissioned ships.” He kept the Vulcan’s gaze, unflinchingly. “But I would think you would already know that.”
The speaker looked to his companion briefly before replying, “Meaning?”
“You’re government,” Malone stated as he pointed to the metal broach glittering on the Vulcan’s robes. “Kinda hard not to notice in this light.” He motioned to the sun hanging low and crimson in the hazy sky above. “I don’t know the symbols, but I’m vaguely aware of the design.”
The Vulcan touched the gold and navy pin. “Right,” he admitted and smirked at the oversight on his part. He cleared his throat gingerly before continuing, “Please, forgive my rudeness. I am Ambassador Jareln, and this is my associate, V’Nell.” He motioned towards the tall Vulcan teen, silent and almost entirely behind him.
“Can’t score a ride anywhere else, Ambassador?” Malone’s tone became mildly, yet unapologetically snide. He turned and began to walk back towards the Katar. The ambassador hastily followed him.
“I wish to keep this discreet, Captain,” he intoned as he trailed the human. “I can make it quite rewarding.”
“You’d be better off stroking a Ferengi’s ears with that offer. I don’t need your money.”
“I’m sure,” Jareln acquiesced, then continued melodically, “But that’s not what I had in mind.” The Vulcan positioned himself perfectly so that when Malone pivoted to confront him, Jareln was able to make his offer with little more than a whisper.
Initially shocked by the other’s sudden closeness once he turned, Malone was equally intrigued by the words. “Did I hear that right?”
“Indeed,” assured the other. “I can have it beamed directly to your cargo hold within the hour.”
Malone thought hard on the amazing offer; his mind spinning with the endless possibility that Jareln’s payment could afford him. The Vulcan stepped back from the man slowly, his hands folded before him either to hide his hope or aid his calm… or both. Regardless, it snapped Malone out of his haze. “Where would you even get a cloaking device?”
“That is not your concern.”
“Isn’t it?” Malone retorted.
He turned away from the Vulcan again and walked a circle around his ship, coming to the edge of the cliff of the small plateau he landed the Katar upon. Raising his voice, his mind bubbled over as he spoke, “I don’t even know who the hell the two of you are—and I honestly don’t care!” He bit his lip with a quick pause before continuing, “And you come to me with a simple transport request—which is odd enough since you can obviously see this is a Starfleet ship. But then you tell me that in return for bringing you two… wherever the hell it is you quietly want to go, that you’re gonna give me a cloaking device in return for my trouble…” He stood there and wiped his brow before turning to the two Vulcans. “Well, that’s a considerable amount of trouble,” he accentuated the adjective by jabbing his finger pointedly to the ground. “So, it is most definitely my concern.”
“It would only be one passenger for the trip,” Jareln corrected. He waved his hand to his partner. “V’Nell.”
“I don’t care if I’m shipping him or his entire extended family,” Malone boomed back. “What the hell is so important about this kid that you’re willing to commit technological treason against your government to get him off-world?!”
“Consider it a matter of life or death,” answered the older Vulcan casually.
“His or yours?”
“His. Logically,” remarked Jareln as he made his way over to the young man. “This may be hard to believe, Captain Malone, but V’Nell here holds the future of the Vulcan Empire in his hands.”
Malone strode towards the two Vulcans, kicking up red dust with each swift step. “This kid?” he asked. “Are you serious?” He was answered with a nod of affirmation, to which Malone countered, “He looks like a trembling little tribble—he hasn’t even said one word yet!” Malone turned and glared at the boy.
“He’s under duress, Captain.”
Jareln placed his hand on Malone’s shoulder and turned him away from V’Nell, guiding the captain closer to his ship with his other hand leading them with an open palm. “I understand your reservations, Captain, but I implore you to consider our position here.” He came to a stop just far enough so the boy could not overhear their conversation. “V’Nell is in significant danger,” he explained. “Knowing this—and in an effort to get him off Vulcan without raising suspicion of the act—I have privately kept a constant monitor for any small ships able to aid us. When I was fortunate enough to find your ship entering our atmosphere, it presented me with the perfect opportunity; your ship is not only small enough to avoid standard landing protocols, but is also capable to the task should any issues arise.”
“And the cloaking device?”
“A trade that holds gravitas, to be sure,” the Vulcan replied. “Again, while I understand your reticence to accept a payment that obviously brings its own risks, it is offered only to emphasize the dire import of the request.”
Malone eyed the Vulcan to get a better read on him, looking for another way to trust him other than the words coming out of his wide, thin mouth, but he could read nothing more on the alien’s face. Malone took a step away, wincing out of sight of Jareln.
“Where is he going?”
“Anywhere far, Captain.”
Malone looked at the Vulcan, his mouth twisted with visible disdain.
“Basically,” Jareln said, “Just keep him away from Vulcan for at least five days. I’m sure we can arrange something by then to secure the boy after that time.”
“You want me to babysit him?” Malone huffed, his agitation increasing again.
“Hardly,” the Vulcan playfully admonished. “He’s old enough to take care of himself, so you need not watch him like a child. All you’re doing is providing him safe passage on board your ship. Think of him as cargo; he will be no more of a burden than that.”
“And when will I be sure I can bring him back?”
“Five days, Captain. No more, no less.”
Malone looked over his shoulder at the tall Vulcan boy a few meters behind him. V’Nell was faced away from the duo, looking out over the desert expanse roiling with heat waves below. He looked pained, holding his arms close to his body tightly wrapped within the dark plum robes that covered his entire slender frame. Malone sighed, resigned to take part in this frail boy’s fate.
“Five days,” he repeated emphatically. “Otherwise, I drop him off at the first planet I come across—M-class or not.”
“Of course,” replied Jareln. His facial features curled smugly at the obvious bluff. The Vulcan tucked his hands into the wide cuffs of the opposing sleeves of his gray and blue robes.
Malone’s face bent into a grimace of forced resignation looking at V’Nell once again. “Hey, kid,” he yapped, “Hop on board!”
The boy looked to Jareln with consternation, silently confirming the human’s call before acting on it. The elder Vulcan nodded narrowly with a deep stare, which seemingly supplanted the boy, until Jareln turned to descend the plateau. V’Nell moved with a strange jerk and then, in a brisk walk, made his way across the tiny gravel and into the ship. Malone watched, mildly amused.
“Don’t forget that payment either,” he barked out to the ambassador making his way across the desert to ostensibly nowhere. “I’m not leaving without it!”
Without missing his stride, Jareln raised up one hand just parallel to his pointed ear. In it was a pale gray, circular device with three smaller shiny black buttons. Malone hardly registered the transporter remote before he heard the Vulcan call back,
“You’ve already been paid!”
As he waited for his passenger to arrive, he circled his ship—a standard procedure for him—and took in deep breaths of the hot Vulcan air. Whenever he made landfall, it was a treat to take in the local flavor. Each planet had their own bouquets, cadences, and other variances. A man of Malone’s particular proclivities relished such unique qualities not only for their distinctiveness, but for the simple fact that it always made him itch to get back aboard the comforts of his ship. Within the metal walls of the Katar, the air was canned and almost too clean, but distinctively home.
For now, the alien air of the red planet was oddly welcoming. The heavy heat of the rocky desert where he docked—far from any localities to be recognized or bothered with—combined with the dryness, invariably lent itself to the dusty taste in Malone’s mouth. Also, he thought he tasted something peculiar brought on by the aroma on the wind; perhaps only a trick of the mind, the sensation made him think of reptiles. Must be all that green blood, he reflexively thought to himself. Then again, maybe it was the peculiar commission he had agreed to that already made him feel like he was dealing with snakes.
His original reason for coming to Vulcan was to pick up a local dignitary—and Starfleet celebrity—for a simple transport. Working within the Special Operations Division of Starfleet granted Malone strange and/or secret missions for the Federation, most times working under the radar of standard protocol & procedures. This was hardly one of those times. No, the task was simply to pick up Lieutenant Commander Tuvok from his home planet and transport him to the predetermined destination of his choosing—what Malone determined to merely be a holiday escape. And even though his ship was designated as an escort vessel, normally such a task would be beneath him since the mission was hardly considered even mildly spicy. But Tuvok was singularly intriguing to the captain.
Malone was not a name that resonated harmoniously around Starfleet. Not that his reputation was soured in any way, but simply because his personality as a wildcard—combined with his tenacity for completing his mission at whatever the cost—awarded him command of a very small, yet remarkable ship within a division of Starfleet of which most officers have never even heard. This special division usually worked outside the confines of Starfleet standards; nonetheless, striving for freedom and prosperity of the Federation. Their methods were not always genial, but then again, their missions hardly lent themselves to act accordingly. Regardless, the Special Operations Division was considered a necessary evil; and therefore, required a certain type of officer to accommodate its level of secrecy, proficiency, and danger. Malone was that type.
So when the opportunity arrived to meet Tuvok—the man who served aboard the famous ship, Voyager, as its security officer while stranded in the Delta quadrant—it was almost too delicious a dish for Malone to turn away from. It was his ulterior motive to seduce the Vulcan into regaling him with stories of his time in the remote depths of space. He drank in tales of Jonathan Archer’s first forays into the unknown and James Kirk’s swashbuckling adventures to strange new worlds. And now—short of the captain of the fateful, stranded ship—here was Voyager’s security officer, the first line of defense for the ship—hell, the Federation—in uncharted, dangerous space! Malone was certain to revel in stories of daring, danger, and intrigue—just the sorts of things he enjoyed in real life. For that reason alone, he took this simple transport mission and he eagerly awaited Tuvok’s arrival.
As he was checking the hydraulics of the entrance ramp, he heard gravelly steps approaching from behind him. He quickly turned his head, eager to greet his anticipated guest, but became disappointed when neither of the two men approaching the ship resembled the dark-skinned Vulcan he expected. He shrugged off his dismay and began to cross the distance between himself and the newcomers, wiping a smudge of lubricant from his fingers onto his charcoal canvas pants, the stain barely noticeable.
He was greeted with inquiry: “Is this your ship?”
Malone’s eyes immediately fixated upon the older and shorter of the two Vulcan men. “Yeah,” he curtly replied. “Can I help you?”
“Indeed,” he began, “We seek transport off-world. Might you be able to accommodate us, Captain…?” The Vulcan smiled widely as he lingered on the final syllable, prompting for a name.
“Malone,” he replied, already exasperated. “This is a Federation ship; I’m not prone to making taxi rides.”
The Vulcan nodded. “I apologize, Captain Malone. I noticed the ship’s design, but your lack of uniform allowed me to assume that perhaps it was…” he paused for the right word, “decommissioned.”
“Or more likely stolen,” Malone interjected. “Starfleet rarely sells their decommissioned ships.” He kept the Vulcan’s gaze, unflinchingly. “But I would think you would already know that.”
The speaker looked to his companion briefly before replying, “Meaning?”
“You’re government,” Malone stated as he pointed to the metal broach glittering on the Vulcan’s robes. “Kinda hard not to notice in this light.” He motioned to the sun hanging low and crimson in the hazy sky above. “I don’t know the symbols, but I’m vaguely aware of the design.”
The Vulcan touched the gold and navy pin. “Right,” he admitted and smirked at the oversight on his part. He cleared his throat gingerly before continuing, “Please, forgive my rudeness. I am Ambassador Jareln, and this is my associate, V’Nell.” He motioned towards the tall Vulcan teen, silent and almost entirely behind him.
“Can’t score a ride anywhere else, Ambassador?” Malone’s tone became mildly, yet unapologetically snide. He turned and began to walk back towards the Katar. The ambassador hastily followed him.
“I wish to keep this discreet, Captain,” he intoned as he trailed the human. “I can make it quite rewarding.”
“You’d be better off stroking a Ferengi’s ears with that offer. I don’t need your money.”
“I’m sure,” Jareln acquiesced, then continued melodically, “But that’s not what I had in mind.” The Vulcan positioned himself perfectly so that when Malone pivoted to confront him, Jareln was able to make his offer with little more than a whisper.
Initially shocked by the other’s sudden closeness once he turned, Malone was equally intrigued by the words. “Did I hear that right?”
“Indeed,” assured the other. “I can have it beamed directly to your cargo hold within the hour.”
Malone thought hard on the amazing offer; his mind spinning with the endless possibility that Jareln’s payment could afford him. The Vulcan stepped back from the man slowly, his hands folded before him either to hide his hope or aid his calm… or both. Regardless, it snapped Malone out of his haze. “Where would you even get a cloaking device?”
“That is not your concern.”
“Isn’t it?” Malone retorted.
He turned away from the Vulcan again and walked a circle around his ship, coming to the edge of the cliff of the small plateau he landed the Katar upon. Raising his voice, his mind bubbled over as he spoke, “I don’t even know who the hell the two of you are—and I honestly don’t care!” He bit his lip with a quick pause before continuing, “And you come to me with a simple transport request—which is odd enough since you can obviously see this is a Starfleet ship. But then you tell me that in return for bringing you two… wherever the hell it is you quietly want to go, that you’re gonna give me a cloaking device in return for my trouble…” He stood there and wiped his brow before turning to the two Vulcans. “Well, that’s a considerable amount of trouble,” he accentuated the adjective by jabbing his finger pointedly to the ground. “So, it is most definitely my concern.”
“It would only be one passenger for the trip,” Jareln corrected. He waved his hand to his partner. “V’Nell.”
“I don’t care if I’m shipping him or his entire extended family,” Malone boomed back. “What the hell is so important about this kid that you’re willing to commit technological treason against your government to get him off-world?!”
“Consider it a matter of life or death,” answered the older Vulcan casually.
“His or yours?”
“His. Logically,” remarked Jareln as he made his way over to the young man. “This may be hard to believe, Captain Malone, but V’Nell here holds the future of the Vulcan Empire in his hands.”
Malone strode towards the two Vulcans, kicking up red dust with each swift step. “This kid?” he asked. “Are you serious?” He was answered with a nod of affirmation, to which Malone countered, “He looks like a trembling little tribble—he hasn’t even said one word yet!” Malone turned and glared at the boy.
“He’s under duress, Captain.”
Jareln placed his hand on Malone’s shoulder and turned him away from V’Nell, guiding the captain closer to his ship with his other hand leading them with an open palm. “I understand your reservations, Captain, but I implore you to consider our position here.” He came to a stop just far enough so the boy could not overhear their conversation. “V’Nell is in significant danger,” he explained. “Knowing this—and in an effort to get him off Vulcan without raising suspicion of the act—I have privately kept a constant monitor for any small ships able to aid us. When I was fortunate enough to find your ship entering our atmosphere, it presented me with the perfect opportunity; your ship is not only small enough to avoid standard landing protocols, but is also capable to the task should any issues arise.”
“And the cloaking device?”
“A trade that holds gravitas, to be sure,” the Vulcan replied. “Again, while I understand your reticence to accept a payment that obviously brings its own risks, it is offered only to emphasize the dire import of the request.”
Malone eyed the Vulcan to get a better read on him, looking for another way to trust him other than the words coming out of his wide, thin mouth, but he could read nothing more on the alien’s face. Malone took a step away, wincing out of sight of Jareln.
“Where is he going?”
“Anywhere far, Captain.”
Malone looked at the Vulcan, his mouth twisted with visible disdain.
“Basically,” Jareln said, “Just keep him away from Vulcan for at least five days. I’m sure we can arrange something by then to secure the boy after that time.”
“You want me to babysit him?” Malone huffed, his agitation increasing again.
“Hardly,” the Vulcan playfully admonished. “He’s old enough to take care of himself, so you need not watch him like a child. All you’re doing is providing him safe passage on board your ship. Think of him as cargo; he will be no more of a burden than that.”
“And when will I be sure I can bring him back?”
“Five days, Captain. No more, no less.”
Malone looked over his shoulder at the tall Vulcan boy a few meters behind him. V’Nell was faced away from the duo, looking out over the desert expanse roiling with heat waves below. He looked pained, holding his arms close to his body tightly wrapped within the dark plum robes that covered his entire slender frame. Malone sighed, resigned to take part in this frail boy’s fate.
“Five days,” he repeated emphatically. “Otherwise, I drop him off at the first planet I come across—M-class or not.”
“Of course,” replied Jareln. His facial features curled smugly at the obvious bluff. The Vulcan tucked his hands into the wide cuffs of the opposing sleeves of his gray and blue robes.
Malone’s face bent into a grimace of forced resignation looking at V’Nell once again. “Hey, kid,” he yapped, “Hop on board!”
The boy looked to Jareln with consternation, silently confirming the human’s call before acting on it. The elder Vulcan nodded narrowly with a deep stare, which seemingly supplanted the boy, until Jareln turned to descend the plateau. V’Nell moved with a strange jerk and then, in a brisk walk, made his way across the tiny gravel and into the ship. Malone watched, mildly amused.
“Don’t forget that payment either,” he barked out to the ambassador making his way across the desert to ostensibly nowhere. “I’m not leaving without it!”
Without missing his stride, Jareln raised up one hand just parallel to his pointed ear. In it was a pale gray, circular device with three smaller shiny black buttons. Malone hardly registered the transporter remote before he heard the Vulcan call back,
“You’ve already been paid!”
When Tuvok came onto the bridge, it felt eerily abandoned. There were no crew members at station to take orders from the captain who was seated stoically and yet entirely relaxed in his chair in the center of the room.
Malone swiveled to come face to face with the Vulcan. “A little strange, I concede, but I needed some time to myself. Since we’re not going anywhere at the moment, I hardly needed my bridge crew, so I relieved them for the time being.” He tipped his head to the side a bit and with a smirk followed with, “It’s good to be the captain.”
“Understandable,” Tuvok replied, standing just inside the entrance doorway. “Since it is unlikely for a ship of this size to have a ready room.” He glanced about the bridge. “Shall I return later?”
“Not at all,” returned Malone, standing. He gestured to the seat proximately to his right, and to a slight platform below that of his own—presumably that of his executive officer. “Please, take a seat.”
Tuvok joined him, and both men sat simultaneously before Malone prompted the obvious conversation, “So, what did you discover… if anything?”
“There was hardly much to learn in that room,” Tuvok stated with a slight look of disappointment on his face. “But I definitely have plenty of questions.”
“I’ll help where I can,” Malone replied. He waved an open palm to Tuvok, “Shoot.”
The Vulcan adjusted himself in his seat before beginning. “How did the boy come to be on this ship?”
“It was a simple escort request,” answered Malone.
“A request?”
“Yes. Just about an hour before you boarded, a man approached me with the request to take the boy off-world.”
“It’s highly unusual to give passage to civilians aboard a Starfleet vessel so casually.”
“True,” Malone replied through a smile, “but I would hardly call a request from an ambassador ‘casual’.”
“An ambassador? What was his name?”
“I don’t recall, to be honest—probably because I couldn’t pronounce it to begin with.” Malone snickered to lighten the mood a bit, but the attempt was met with Vulcan stoicism. He returned to a more appropriate mood. “Anyway, he showed the proper credentials, and I cleared it with Starfleet before accepting.”
“Did anybody else know the boy was onboard?”
“No.”
“Then you were the one to discover his body?”
“Only about ten minutes before I called for you,” said the captain. “The boy had been in his quarters for the majority of our trip, so I just went to check on him. He was dead when I got there.”
“He wasn’t dead long,” Tuvok paused. “The body was mildly warm when we were there. I would say V’Nell was killed not five hours into our trip.”
Captain Malone placed his hands on the arms of his chair and leaned forward a bit, “Then he was killed?” he asked in a lowered tone. “How?”
“Unfortunately, I do not know,” admitted the Vulcan. Tuvok stood and circled around to stand behind his chair, placing both hands on the back before continuing. “There was no evidence to suggest a struggle, and the forensics of the body and the fluid discharge from the victim barely denote physical violence.”
“And there was no weapon,” Malone chimed in. “At least, none that we know of.”
“No. There was no weapon used on the boy.”
Malone became visibly concerned, “But his eyes…”
“Severely damaged. Yes,” agreed Tuvok, “but not with a weapon.” Tuvok turned and paced the room as he continued, “Consider the options,” he began. “V’Nell’s eyes were not sliced or stabbed. Had that been the case, there would be evidence to suggest so in the room—blood trails or spatter, respectively, either on the furniture, walls, or floor. That room contained no such marks. Since this class vessel is not tailored with standard comforts, it would be easy to clean such fluids from both the metal walls and floor, but the fabric of the furniture would invariably be stained.”
Malone slowly nodded his head in agreement as he took in Tuvok’s assessment. “So, no knife.”
“Or blade of any kind,” concluded Tuvok. “Had such a weapon been used at all, not only would there be evidence of such a wound on what remains of the boy’s eyes themselves, but there would undoubtedly be accompanying injuries as well.”
Malone’s eyes narrowed, questioningly, to which the Vulcan instinctively responded, “There would be either small lacerations or puncture wounds in and around the eyes from where an assailant might stab or slash. Again, no such clues were present.
“Which leaves blunt force trauma,” he continued.
The captain took a deep breath. “How is that even possible?”
“It’s not,” Tuvok replied astutely, “At least not in this case.”
“How is it possible at all?” Malone’s incredulity clearly evident both on his face and tone of voice.
Tuvok descended the platforms of the bridge, approaching the view screen mounted at the bow of the ship. “If a blunt object was used to kill a person, it’s highly unlikely that the victim’s eyes would be the direct target to accomplish the task.” He shook his head quickly to mimic disbelief, stating, “The very terminology negates the idea; the word ‘blunt’ is quite apropos regarding such a vile weapon… or its subsequent action.”
Malone sneered with disgust at the thought.
“If the victim was beaten, he would definitely show more signs of such an attack—bruises, blood clots, even broken bones.” Tuvok paused a moment in thought. “The only way it would even be possible for V’Nell’s eyes to burst the way they did would be for an incredible amount of pressure to be applied to them. If he was struck on the head, for instance, the impact would likely cause considerable trauma to his brain, which would then swell…” He raised his eyes to meet Malone’s and began to walk back towards the commander as he finished the thought in his head.
“Even if that could happen,” Malone added, “that’s obviously not the case here.” He made a quick snort of derision and raised his hand in a gesture to reference the dead body growing colder in the rear of the ship. “There’s not a mark on that kid’s body,” he barked, “Not a prick!”
Tuvok returned to the seat he was offered, and the two officers sat in silence for a few minutes before the captain spoke again, “So now what?”
“Let’s go back for a minute,” said Tuvok. “What brought you to Vulcan in the first place?”
“It was random, actually,” replied the captain. “I guess it was just all in the timing, really, from when you made the transport request to when it was approved by Starfleet… mine was the nearest ship to accommodate you.”
“I see,” said Tuvok. “How many serve aboard the Katar?”
“On a standard mission, I can have a crew of up to about eighteen to twenty members. Currently, I only have four, including myself. With you and the boy, our number is—was six.”
“I was unaware crew numbers fluctuated like that on Starfleet ships.”
“Hardly applicable on an Intrepid-class ship, Tuvok.”
“Understandable, Captain, but I’ve also served on smaller vessels. The Wyoming—“
“—was a Steamrunner,” Malone interrupted.
“Mediterranean-class, actually,” Tuvok corrected.
Malone smiled. “Still, those ships are more than three times the size of mine and,” he emphasized the word, “are not able to take the missions usually granted to a Defiant-class ship like my own.”
“Escort missions?”
“Tactical escort missions,” specified Malone, almost proudly.
“The difference being?”
The captain smiled toothily. “Tact, of course.”
“I see.”
“Most times, I get the dirty jobs, Tuvok,” Malone stood and put his weight on the back of his command chair with an elbow. “And I’m not ashamed to admit that I like them.”
“And did this mission offer such…” Tuvok lingered for a second, looking for the appropriate word, “…dirt?”
Malone squinted an eye and cocked his head with birdlike quickness. “Are you suggesting something, Lieutenant?”
“Not at all,” answered Tuvok.
“Because if you are, you should just come out with it!” Malone’s voice was uncharacteristically loud for such a mild prodding.
“I am merely engaging our conversation using your own words. I meant no disrespect, Captain.” He was sure to noticeably emphasize the address.
The captain’s mood calmed instantaneously. “No. I apologize. I don’t know why I snapped.”
“The current situation does warrant a considerable level of stress,” Tuvok replied. “For you,” he added.
“Murder doesn’t make you feel even a little stressed, Tuvok?”
“Stressed: no. Curious: yes.”
With a quick burst of laughter, Malone grasped the rear of his chair, simultaneously swiveling and falling into it. “You Vulcans,” he chuckled. “So damned precise!” Smiling, he asked, “It’s that whole lack of emotions thing, isn’t it?”
“Lack of emotions does lend itself to a better assessment of the facts in any situation,” Tuvok responded, tutorially.
Malone answered back with only an audible huff, as if just coming to the realization of Tuvok’s statement. The sound was followed by an increasingly awkward silence.
“If I may ask,” Tuvok broke the hush slowly, “what makes you think this was a murder?”
“Wait,” Malone slurred out with growing confusion, “What?”
“You just used the word ‘murder’.”
“Right,” agreed Malone. “I thought that was already the consensus here. You said it—“
“I said that V’Nell was killed,” Tuvok corrected. “I never said he was murdered.”
Malone growled, “What’s the difference?!”
“The boy could have been killed by something—anything,” he said. “By saying he was murdered, you suggest that V’Nell was killed by someone—a person.” He paused briefly. “There is a difference.”
“Damn it, Tuvok,” Malone exploded, standing. “The boy is dead!” He turned away, walking towards the door. “Something. Someone.” He grumbled under his breath, then doubled back quickly to address Tuvok again, “I think your logic is getting the better of you!”
“Just as I think your emotions are getting the better of you,” replied Tuvok, unaffected.
“Bull—“
“Your demeanor is increasingly exasperated, simply by my query.”
Malone, realizing the Vulcan’s assessment of him was correct, turned away from Tuvok and took a deep breath. He walked to the nearest console along the wall, and placing both hands flat on the shelf of the glass control screen, he caved all his weight upon it; leaning against the panel, as if by necessity—releasing the tension and trying to relax. He took another deep breath, slowly this time, and released it audibly before standing again. Still, he remained silent for quite some time.
“Captain…” Tuvok prompted.
Facing the console screens on the wall, Malone answered, “I didn’t kill him, Tuvok.”
“I said no such thing,” the Vulcan replied, “But if V’Nell was killed by someone and not some random event, then we need to interview the rest of the crew.”
“No,” Malone stated resolutely. “We don’t.”
“Captain, this is a ship,” Tuvok began, “A closed environment. There are no escape pods or shuttlecraft on a ship of this size. We are surrounded by nothing but space and stars and dust. And, if your suggestion is true, a murderer.”
“V’Nell was not killed by any of my crew, Tuvok,” Malone spoke softly but clearly to the screens before him, “I can assure you.”
“How?”
Malone turned to face the Vulcan fully.
“Because I was there.”
Malone swiveled to come face to face with the Vulcan. “A little strange, I concede, but I needed some time to myself. Since we’re not going anywhere at the moment, I hardly needed my bridge crew, so I relieved them for the time being.” He tipped his head to the side a bit and with a smirk followed with, “It’s good to be the captain.”
“Understandable,” Tuvok replied, standing just inside the entrance doorway. “Since it is unlikely for a ship of this size to have a ready room.” He glanced about the bridge. “Shall I return later?”
“Not at all,” returned Malone, standing. He gestured to the seat proximately to his right, and to a slight platform below that of his own—presumably that of his executive officer. “Please, take a seat.”
Tuvok joined him, and both men sat simultaneously before Malone prompted the obvious conversation, “So, what did you discover… if anything?”
“There was hardly much to learn in that room,” Tuvok stated with a slight look of disappointment on his face. “But I definitely have plenty of questions.”
“I’ll help where I can,” Malone replied. He waved an open palm to Tuvok, “Shoot.”
The Vulcan adjusted himself in his seat before beginning. “How did the boy come to be on this ship?”
“It was a simple escort request,” answered Malone.
“A request?”
“Yes. Just about an hour before you boarded, a man approached me with the request to take the boy off-world.”
“It’s highly unusual to give passage to civilians aboard a Starfleet vessel so casually.”
“True,” Malone replied through a smile, “but I would hardly call a request from an ambassador ‘casual’.”
“An ambassador? What was his name?”
“I don’t recall, to be honest—probably because I couldn’t pronounce it to begin with.” Malone snickered to lighten the mood a bit, but the attempt was met with Vulcan stoicism. He returned to a more appropriate mood. “Anyway, he showed the proper credentials, and I cleared it with Starfleet before accepting.”
“Did anybody else know the boy was onboard?”
“No.”
“Then you were the one to discover his body?”
“Only about ten minutes before I called for you,” said the captain. “The boy had been in his quarters for the majority of our trip, so I just went to check on him. He was dead when I got there.”
“He wasn’t dead long,” Tuvok paused. “The body was mildly warm when we were there. I would say V’Nell was killed not five hours into our trip.”
Captain Malone placed his hands on the arms of his chair and leaned forward a bit, “Then he was killed?” he asked in a lowered tone. “How?”
“Unfortunately, I do not know,” admitted the Vulcan. Tuvok stood and circled around to stand behind his chair, placing both hands on the back before continuing. “There was no evidence to suggest a struggle, and the forensics of the body and the fluid discharge from the victim barely denote physical violence.”
“And there was no weapon,” Malone chimed in. “At least, none that we know of.”
“No. There was no weapon used on the boy.”
Malone became visibly concerned, “But his eyes…”
“Severely damaged. Yes,” agreed Tuvok, “but not with a weapon.” Tuvok turned and paced the room as he continued, “Consider the options,” he began. “V’Nell’s eyes were not sliced or stabbed. Had that been the case, there would be evidence to suggest so in the room—blood trails or spatter, respectively, either on the furniture, walls, or floor. That room contained no such marks. Since this class vessel is not tailored with standard comforts, it would be easy to clean such fluids from both the metal walls and floor, but the fabric of the furniture would invariably be stained.”
Malone slowly nodded his head in agreement as he took in Tuvok’s assessment. “So, no knife.”
“Or blade of any kind,” concluded Tuvok. “Had such a weapon been used at all, not only would there be evidence of such a wound on what remains of the boy’s eyes themselves, but there would undoubtedly be accompanying injuries as well.”
Malone’s eyes narrowed, questioningly, to which the Vulcan instinctively responded, “There would be either small lacerations or puncture wounds in and around the eyes from where an assailant might stab or slash. Again, no such clues were present.
“Which leaves blunt force trauma,” he continued.
The captain took a deep breath. “How is that even possible?”
“It’s not,” Tuvok replied astutely, “At least not in this case.”
“How is it possible at all?” Malone’s incredulity clearly evident both on his face and tone of voice.
Tuvok descended the platforms of the bridge, approaching the view screen mounted at the bow of the ship. “If a blunt object was used to kill a person, it’s highly unlikely that the victim’s eyes would be the direct target to accomplish the task.” He shook his head quickly to mimic disbelief, stating, “The very terminology negates the idea; the word ‘blunt’ is quite apropos regarding such a vile weapon… or its subsequent action.”
Malone sneered with disgust at the thought.
“If the victim was beaten, he would definitely show more signs of such an attack—bruises, blood clots, even broken bones.” Tuvok paused a moment in thought. “The only way it would even be possible for V’Nell’s eyes to burst the way they did would be for an incredible amount of pressure to be applied to them. If he was struck on the head, for instance, the impact would likely cause considerable trauma to his brain, which would then swell…” He raised his eyes to meet Malone’s and began to walk back towards the commander as he finished the thought in his head.
“Even if that could happen,” Malone added, “that’s obviously not the case here.” He made a quick snort of derision and raised his hand in a gesture to reference the dead body growing colder in the rear of the ship. “There’s not a mark on that kid’s body,” he barked, “Not a prick!”
Tuvok returned to the seat he was offered, and the two officers sat in silence for a few minutes before the captain spoke again, “So now what?”
“Let’s go back for a minute,” said Tuvok. “What brought you to Vulcan in the first place?”
“It was random, actually,” replied the captain. “I guess it was just all in the timing, really, from when you made the transport request to when it was approved by Starfleet… mine was the nearest ship to accommodate you.”
“I see,” said Tuvok. “How many serve aboard the Katar?”
“On a standard mission, I can have a crew of up to about eighteen to twenty members. Currently, I only have four, including myself. With you and the boy, our number is—was six.”
“I was unaware crew numbers fluctuated like that on Starfleet ships.”
“Hardly applicable on an Intrepid-class ship, Tuvok.”
“Understandable, Captain, but I’ve also served on smaller vessels. The Wyoming—“
“—was a Steamrunner,” Malone interrupted.
“Mediterranean-class, actually,” Tuvok corrected.
Malone smiled. “Still, those ships are more than three times the size of mine and,” he emphasized the word, “are not able to take the missions usually granted to a Defiant-class ship like my own.”
“Escort missions?”
“Tactical escort missions,” specified Malone, almost proudly.
“The difference being?”
The captain smiled toothily. “Tact, of course.”
“I see.”
“Most times, I get the dirty jobs, Tuvok,” Malone stood and put his weight on the back of his command chair with an elbow. “And I’m not ashamed to admit that I like them.”
“And did this mission offer such…” Tuvok lingered for a second, looking for the appropriate word, “…dirt?”
Malone squinted an eye and cocked his head with birdlike quickness. “Are you suggesting something, Lieutenant?”
“Not at all,” answered Tuvok.
“Because if you are, you should just come out with it!” Malone’s voice was uncharacteristically loud for such a mild prodding.
“I am merely engaging our conversation using your own words. I meant no disrespect, Captain.” He was sure to noticeably emphasize the address.
The captain’s mood calmed instantaneously. “No. I apologize. I don’t know why I snapped.”
“The current situation does warrant a considerable level of stress,” Tuvok replied. “For you,” he added.
“Murder doesn’t make you feel even a little stressed, Tuvok?”
“Stressed: no. Curious: yes.”
With a quick burst of laughter, Malone grasped the rear of his chair, simultaneously swiveling and falling into it. “You Vulcans,” he chuckled. “So damned precise!” Smiling, he asked, “It’s that whole lack of emotions thing, isn’t it?”
“Lack of emotions does lend itself to a better assessment of the facts in any situation,” Tuvok responded, tutorially.
Malone answered back with only an audible huff, as if just coming to the realization of Tuvok’s statement. The sound was followed by an increasingly awkward silence.
“If I may ask,” Tuvok broke the hush slowly, “what makes you think this was a murder?”
“Wait,” Malone slurred out with growing confusion, “What?”
“You just used the word ‘murder’.”
“Right,” agreed Malone. “I thought that was already the consensus here. You said it—“
“I said that V’Nell was killed,” Tuvok corrected. “I never said he was murdered.”
Malone growled, “What’s the difference?!”
“The boy could have been killed by something—anything,” he said. “By saying he was murdered, you suggest that V’Nell was killed by someone—a person.” He paused briefly. “There is a difference.”
“Damn it, Tuvok,” Malone exploded, standing. “The boy is dead!” He turned away, walking towards the door. “Something. Someone.” He grumbled under his breath, then doubled back quickly to address Tuvok again, “I think your logic is getting the better of you!”
“Just as I think your emotions are getting the better of you,” replied Tuvok, unaffected.
“Bull—“
“Your demeanor is increasingly exasperated, simply by my query.”
Malone, realizing the Vulcan’s assessment of him was correct, turned away from Tuvok and took a deep breath. He walked to the nearest console along the wall, and placing both hands flat on the shelf of the glass control screen, he caved all his weight upon it; leaning against the panel, as if by necessity—releasing the tension and trying to relax. He took another deep breath, slowly this time, and released it audibly before standing again. Still, he remained silent for quite some time.
“Captain…” Tuvok prompted.
Facing the console screens on the wall, Malone answered, “I didn’t kill him, Tuvok.”
“I said no such thing,” the Vulcan replied, “But if V’Nell was killed by someone and not some random event, then we need to interview the rest of the crew.”
“No,” Malone stated resolutely. “We don’t.”
“Captain, this is a ship,” Tuvok began, “A closed environment. There are no escape pods or shuttlecraft on a ship of this size. We are surrounded by nothing but space and stars and dust. And, if your suggestion is true, a murderer.”
“V’Nell was not killed by any of my crew, Tuvok,” Malone spoke softly but clearly to the screens before him, “I can assure you.”
“How?”
Malone turned to face the Vulcan fully.
“Because I was there.”
The USS Katar was originally designed not only as an escort ship, but a tactical one, able to handle itself should the need arise. She was re-tailored for speed and efficiency, and this streamlining enabled Malone to control the ship with a more hands-on feel. The few additional weapons fitted to the Katar were light and unobtrusive; many of the new photon canons were so adeptly integrated into the original design of the ship that they were barely noticeable until you knew they were there. It was an impressive rebuild, and Malone was more than pleased to win her charge when she was complete. The new design afforded him hair-trigger control—when the time called for it—and a more relaxed environment socially, with such a limited crew requirement. He was the perfect captain for what he considered the perfect ship.
Three hours into their flight, Malone was sitting quietly in his captain’s chair on the bridge, absentmindedly fingering the seams of the sewn leather as he contemplated all the possibilities of bringing cloak technology to Starfleet. The questions would come—fast and varied, no doubt—but considering his service record and his branch within Starfleet, he could hardly foresee any backlash from his booty. On the contrary, Malone was likely to get a commendation for the score regardless of his methods on attaining it—a promotion in rank or a new ship. Since Starfleet had been struggling with cloak tech for however long, he was certain his reward would be substantial no matter what it was, but what he was really hoping for—above all else—was simply to retain his rank and keep the Katar to himself with less official interference. It’s true his leash was long already, but he wanted complete freedom every once in a while. This cloak device was exactly what he needed to achieve that goal, not only for the praise and accolades it would undoubtedly—and yet silently—win him, but with cloak of his own installed aboard the Katar, he could not only run free but he could even get lost from time to time. More fun; more daring. With so much to look forward to, it was understandable why Malone was smiling broadly as he fantasized in his chair.
No one else on the ship disturbed him either, not that there were many officers aboard. The Katar was retro-fitted to accommodate a bare bones crew. As opposed to the normal number of roughly forty to fifty officers serving aboard a ship of this size, having any more than a tenth of that amount was now superfluous. As small a ship as she was, the Katar was still quite spacious, especially with such a limited number inside. Therefore, it was easy to see why each person on board was located in a different section of the ship; the bridge was empty, except for the captain and his XO, Tad Mannix, who were each singly preoccupied until the first officer turned from reading the scuffed paperback at his console.
“Dan,” he prompted.
The captain instinctively turned his head to face his XO, but his eyes were still slightly glazed over in thought. “Hmm?”
Mannix had his legs crossed at the ankle and propped up on his darkened console; he lowered them to the floor and spun his seat to face his captain. “I thought you were going to talk to your guest while he was on board,” he asked Malone, widening his eyes as he did so. “Wasn’t that the whole point of even picking him up?”
It took Malone a minute to make the connection. “Oh, right,” he replied. He popped up from his chair and made his way to the door that slid open with a swish before jerkily pivoting a complete turn on one ankle and pointing to his first officer. “Hey, Tad,” he started, “You get a peek at the peach in our cargo bay yet?” He smiled giddily.
Having initially turned back at his captain’s exit, he answered Malone with his nose in the book, “I did.”
There was a brief pause, then Malone raised his eyebrows expectantly, “And?”
“Looks good.”
“Really?? That’s all you got?”
Mannix snickered and closed the book, standing. “No, Dan,” he smiled, “It’s friggin’ great!”
“Yeah,” Malone congratulated himself. He looked down, lost in the pleasure of the moment.
“But it’s a tease—I only wish I could hook the damn thing up myself right now.”
“Yeah,” Malone replied again, this time with less enthusiasm. “But it looks good, right?”
Mannix smiled wide again. “That is what I just said.”
“Alright,” the captain snuffed at the joke.
“I mean, it looks like the real deal to me, but my knowledge of cloak tech is admittedly limited.” Mannix snickered again. “The text, or symbols, or what have you, that are on it certainly don’t help either. But once we get that baby into the right hands at Starfleet…” he trailed off, finishing the sentence with a multitude of possibilities in his mind and nothing more than a very toothy grin.
“That’s the plan, man…” Malone repeated the words markedly to himself, turning slowly to leave with a smile lingering with him as he went. “That is the plan.”
Making his way to the quarters offered to Tuvok, Malone thought it prudent to check in on his other guest—the unexpected one—first, since he would pass his door before Tuvok’s. He stopped in the hallway just before V’Nell’s door and paused to determine what to do with the emerald bottle of Aldebaran whiskey in his hand. Hoping for a hot tale or two from the seasoned Vulcan officer, the drink would pair nicely, and—almost selfishly—Malone aimed to keep the bottle as first intended. He shoved the decanter in the large interior pocket of his indigo jacket, the tip protruding slightly but not glaringly noticeable. Satisfied, he pressed his thumb to the black glass plate to the right of the door, announcing his presence to the occupant inside with a pert, pleasant chime. After a moment, the door glided open, and V’Nell greeted him warily.
“Good evening, Captain.”
“Hi.”
“Is everything alright?”
“Sure, sure. Just passing by and thought I’d see how you were doin’—if you needed anything.”
“I’m fine, Captain, thank you for asking,” V’Nell nodded. The boy motioned towards the door panel inside the room. “If that was all…”
Malone heard something in the tone of the Vulcan’s voice that made him feel uneasy. Impulsively, he raised his hand and gripped the jamb of the door so it wouldn’t close between them. He leaned on that arm to make the gesture seem nonchalant. Inside the room, he noticed the lights were dim—light enough for nearly nothing more than sleeping. He peered at the boy who now wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Everything alright in here?”
“The room is more than adequate,” he began.
Malone cut him off, tersely, “I mean with you—are you alright, son?”
V’Nell craned his neck instantly at the question, his eyes almost cruel with obvious disgust. “I’m quite alright, Captain,” he snipped. Then, almost as quick, his face softened and his mood drained. “And I do not appreciate the slight,” he said blandly.
“Slight?”
“Your question suggested I am distressed in some fashion. I am Vulcan, and therefore void of such expression.” The young man stood taller somehow with the remark.
“Sorry, kid,” Malone grudgingly replied. He raised his palms as he spoke, half-heartedly submitting to stifle the excitement he had unwittingly started. “No offense intended.”
The Vulcan’s eyes darted to Malone’s chest as he caught a glimpse of the bottle glinting underneath his jacket—the gem-like color revealing a stark contrast to the captain’s overall desaturated outfit. Malone looked down and with an unnoticeable sigh, relinquished the glass bottle.
“Would you like a drink?” Malone resignedly asked.
“I would, actually,” answered V’Nell, visibly unstiffening. He stepped aside, allowing the captain to enter the room.
Malone walked over to a small square table secured to the wall directly beneath the implanted replicator and opened the bottle with a silent rip of the sealing wax. “Two empty rocks glasses,” he intoned to the machine. The replicator obeyed the command with a musical whir and within seconds the captain was pouring the smoky jade liquid. He turned to find V’Nell directly behind him waiting patiently and offering no word of conversation. Malone handed him a meagerly filled glass. “Here ya go,” he said. “Enjoy.”
The Vulcan took a sip delicately, his eyes seemingly alight at the taste of the liquor. “Interesting,” he remarked with a discernible curl to one side of his mouth. “I am unfamiliar with this drink.” He sipped again, curiously. “It’s ambiguously sweet and yet disarmingly acrid. What is this?”
“Whiskey,” Malone tipped his glass. He took a deep sip and puckered his lips slightly as he savored the liquid on his tongue. “And damn good, too.” He smiled as he walked past the Vulcan and dropped himself onto the firm crimson couch. He stretched his arms out, elbows slightly bent, and draped them over the back of his seat—a very open and relaxed position. He curled his right arm in to take another drag from his glass and then looked to V’Nell, still standing near the table. “So what’s your story anyway?” He wiggled to a better position, waiting for the Vulcan to talk.
He did not.
“Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s ok by me,” Malone dismissed with a light flick of the wrist. “But we’re drinkin’ a real fine year here, and I’m not one to just suck it down. You could at least take a seat with me.” He nodded his head with a jerk towards the armchair opposite the couch.
V’Nell complied. Slowly, though not reluctantly, he made his way to the proffered seat. Even at the unhurried speed, his robes seemed to drift behind him as he walked, lending a grace to his movements; he seemed to glide when he moved. The visual, combined with the gently relaxing effect of the whiskey beginning to crawl down his spine, was oddly soothing to Malone. The Vulcan grasped the back of the chair with his free hand and stood next to the piece of furniture momentarily as if thinking of a reason not to sit before he committed to the act completely. He sat stiffly in the chair, an arm on each rest, his back rigid. He held the glass in his hand, but did not sip from it again.
“Without coming off as rude,” V’Nell began softly, “I wonder at your part in all this, Captain Malone.”
“My part in what?”
The Vulcan casually answered, “My eventual demise, of course.”
Malone stared blankly, processing the statement. The Vulcan continued with a strange candor.
“You seem to have caught yourself up in all this, and I’m unclear as to how you fit in exactly.”
Malone’s face pinched as he tried to follow the conversation. “Fit into what?” he finally managed to ask.
“I told you. My death.”
“Are you sick or something?”
“No.”
“Then whaddya mean?” Malone could feel himself begin to tighten, irritated.
“My father is an extremely important man, Captain. As an interstellar ambassador of peace, he not only assures the continued longevity and prosperity of our species, but through countless diplomatic meetings, discussions, and negotiations, he has brokered treaties and other agreements throughout our star system. His serene disposition combined with his impeccable logic has made him very successful in all his political endeavors. His name will undoubtedly go down in the annals of Vulcan history.”
Malone sipped his whiskey, listening intently, unsure of where V’Nell was going with this background information.
“All that focus takes its toll,” V’Nell continued. “Vulcans, like any other intelligent species, are not completely void of feeling. The particular methods of concentration utilized to suppress emotions are learned—a rigorous discipline that must be constantly practiced and harnessed all through life. Even the most tenacious of Vulcans can find the ritual and mental self-control difficult to maintain.
“My father’s resolve began to fade, though he showed no sign of this degradation. While he continued to work with an unrelenting vigor, his mental fortitude slowly started to whither. He told no one—it became the first of my father’s many secrets.”
This time, V’Nell swigged his drink, finishing the trifle that remained.
“Secrets?” Malone inquired.
“Secrets,” the Vulcan repeated. “Both dark and varied.”
“I would hardly consider keeping his depression—or whatever it was—to himself a dark secret.”
“No.”
“Private, maybe—“
“Indeed,” the boy hastily agreed. “Privacy became a total prerequisite for my father, an opaque recess he kept hidden behind his very stately outward appearance. A duality was created, and that division festers inside him to this day.”
“Everyone’s dealin’ with somethin’,” was all Malone could muster in response. He inwardly chided himself for the cliché remark. “So, what does this have to do with your imminent death?” He marked the question with a touch of sarcasm.
“As I said, my father is held in the highest esteem, both at home and abroad. His position alone warrants the honor.” He paused, and took a sharp breath as if he had suddenly lost it for a moment. “If it was discovered that my father is now acting on the conflicting impulses that grow inside him, it would be disastrous for him, his career, and for all he’s contributed to the prosperity of Vulcan and countless other civilizations.”
Malone leaned forward and placed his glass on the table between them. “What are these… impulses?” he asked, dryly.
“My father has developed very explicit inclinations—physical proclivities that would be frowned upon most heinously in our society. One evening, when he thought he was alone, I stumbled upon him performing one of these ‘rites’, as he calls them. I was stunned and appalled at the site of this man—my father—in the act of self-mutilation!”
At the thought, V’Nell became visibly shaken, as if he were reliving the experience. Malone grimaced sympathetically.
“I was drawn to the scene by the faint cracking sounds I immediately heard upon entering the house. Curious as it was, I traced the sound cautiously.” V’Nell swallowed before continuing. “He was naked but for a swath of fabric about his waist, standing before a mirror in the darkened corner of his bedchamber. In his hand was a small whip-like object with three tails, each knotted on the end with dark glass blades. There wasn’t much blood by the time I got to him that night, but the numerous scabs and scars I noticed mottling his skin spoke to previous and repeated acts.
“I stood there in shock watching my father squeeze the weapon handle and staring tearfully into his own eyes. When I noticed he was about to strike himself again, I spontaneously leapt into the room to stop him—all that came out of my mouth was the word ‘what’, loud and protracted, even though all I could think of was ‘why?’
“Afterwards, in an unquestionably more settled, nonetheless disoriented state, he explained himself. My father, so restricted by his lack of emotion, began to question his life. No matter how involved and astute he was, he considered himself hollow—drifting through his life blankly and seeing it from afar. When he tried to regain some semblance of feeling again, he found it impossible; his mind, trained and logical, could no longer make those connections. Discouraged, but not defeated, he eventually turned to more drastic measures.”
“Hurting himself?” Malone asked, disbelievingly.
“He told me the pain was his sacrifice that allowed him to feel anything again.”
Malone stood, bringing his glass to the replicator table to be refilled. He mulled the story over in his head as he poured. “So what does all this have to do with your death?” He put the bottle down before he finished filling his glass. “Is he gonna kill you?” he asked solemnly.
“No, Captain,” V’Nell answered softly. “But my death is the logical conclusion to this unfortunate chain of events.”
“Why?” Malone snapped. “Why do you have to die for this?” He took a step closer to the boy, forgetting his drink entirely.
“My father is very adept when it comes to his job. Obviously, he is proficient in keeping his proclivities completely private; no one else knows exactly what he’s been doing, and I only accidentally stumbled upon it. However, there is suspicion. The Vulcan High Council is peppered with many deceptive officials who would jump at the opportunity to assume my father’s position, no matter the cost. My father’s legacy is at stake here; the future accords of my planet likewise hang in the balance. His work is far from over and even though he has his dark side, he is still more than capable to continue it.
“However, while my father can handle the pressure and compensate for it, I am not so adroit. The suspicion exists solely because of me. That makes me a terrible liability.”
Malone watched the boy put two fingers to his temple, obviously pained from the stress of the situation. With a deep sigh, he turned back to the alcohol and resumed filling his glass. “Have another drink,” he said “You could use it more than—“
His sentence was cut short by the stuttered gurgling behind him.
He spun around to see V’Nell convulsing mechanically, the skin of his face darkening as the muscles tensed, engorging with green Vulcan blood. The boy’s one hand dug into the chair’s front arm panel as the other was cramped stiff in a strange grip pressed against the side of his temple and cheek. It was evident he was in pain, but there was something almost controlled about it all. Then his eyes began to bulge, and his jaw clenched hard. The entire event flashed by with terrible speed, the cacophony increasing with tight, measured jerks and stifled hiccups for breath until it culminated into a final, odd jerk when both the boy’s hands released and his head lolled backwards.
Malone straightened himself from the alarmed crouch he had assumed and stood silently staring at the Vulcan, awestruck. After a few minutes, he gradually stepped over to the whiskey still on the square table at the other side of the room. He downed the glass. Curling two fingers around the neck of the bottle with the other hand, he noiselessly made his way to the door, pressed his knuckles to the door pad, and without a backwards glance, left the room and V’Nell’s dead body behind him.
Three hours into their flight, Malone was sitting quietly in his captain’s chair on the bridge, absentmindedly fingering the seams of the sewn leather as he contemplated all the possibilities of bringing cloak technology to Starfleet. The questions would come—fast and varied, no doubt—but considering his service record and his branch within Starfleet, he could hardly foresee any backlash from his booty. On the contrary, Malone was likely to get a commendation for the score regardless of his methods on attaining it—a promotion in rank or a new ship. Since Starfleet had been struggling with cloak tech for however long, he was certain his reward would be substantial no matter what it was, but what he was really hoping for—above all else—was simply to retain his rank and keep the Katar to himself with less official interference. It’s true his leash was long already, but he wanted complete freedom every once in a while. This cloak device was exactly what he needed to achieve that goal, not only for the praise and accolades it would undoubtedly—and yet silently—win him, but with cloak of his own installed aboard the Katar, he could not only run free but he could even get lost from time to time. More fun; more daring. With so much to look forward to, it was understandable why Malone was smiling broadly as he fantasized in his chair.
No one else on the ship disturbed him either, not that there were many officers aboard. The Katar was retro-fitted to accommodate a bare bones crew. As opposed to the normal number of roughly forty to fifty officers serving aboard a ship of this size, having any more than a tenth of that amount was now superfluous. As small a ship as she was, the Katar was still quite spacious, especially with such a limited number inside. Therefore, it was easy to see why each person on board was located in a different section of the ship; the bridge was empty, except for the captain and his XO, Tad Mannix, who were each singly preoccupied until the first officer turned from reading the scuffed paperback at his console.
“Dan,” he prompted.
The captain instinctively turned his head to face his XO, but his eyes were still slightly glazed over in thought. “Hmm?”
Mannix had his legs crossed at the ankle and propped up on his darkened console; he lowered them to the floor and spun his seat to face his captain. “I thought you were going to talk to your guest while he was on board,” he asked Malone, widening his eyes as he did so. “Wasn’t that the whole point of even picking him up?”
It took Malone a minute to make the connection. “Oh, right,” he replied. He popped up from his chair and made his way to the door that slid open with a swish before jerkily pivoting a complete turn on one ankle and pointing to his first officer. “Hey, Tad,” he started, “You get a peek at the peach in our cargo bay yet?” He smiled giddily.
Having initially turned back at his captain’s exit, he answered Malone with his nose in the book, “I did.”
There was a brief pause, then Malone raised his eyebrows expectantly, “And?”
“Looks good.”
“Really?? That’s all you got?”
Mannix snickered and closed the book, standing. “No, Dan,” he smiled, “It’s friggin’ great!”
“Yeah,” Malone congratulated himself. He looked down, lost in the pleasure of the moment.
“But it’s a tease—I only wish I could hook the damn thing up myself right now.”
“Yeah,” Malone replied again, this time with less enthusiasm. “But it looks good, right?”
Mannix smiled wide again. “That is what I just said.”
“Alright,” the captain snuffed at the joke.
“I mean, it looks like the real deal to me, but my knowledge of cloak tech is admittedly limited.” Mannix snickered again. “The text, or symbols, or what have you, that are on it certainly don’t help either. But once we get that baby into the right hands at Starfleet…” he trailed off, finishing the sentence with a multitude of possibilities in his mind and nothing more than a very toothy grin.
“That’s the plan, man…” Malone repeated the words markedly to himself, turning slowly to leave with a smile lingering with him as he went. “That is the plan.”
Making his way to the quarters offered to Tuvok, Malone thought it prudent to check in on his other guest—the unexpected one—first, since he would pass his door before Tuvok’s. He stopped in the hallway just before V’Nell’s door and paused to determine what to do with the emerald bottle of Aldebaran whiskey in his hand. Hoping for a hot tale or two from the seasoned Vulcan officer, the drink would pair nicely, and—almost selfishly—Malone aimed to keep the bottle as first intended. He shoved the decanter in the large interior pocket of his indigo jacket, the tip protruding slightly but not glaringly noticeable. Satisfied, he pressed his thumb to the black glass plate to the right of the door, announcing his presence to the occupant inside with a pert, pleasant chime. After a moment, the door glided open, and V’Nell greeted him warily.
“Good evening, Captain.”
“Hi.”
“Is everything alright?”
“Sure, sure. Just passing by and thought I’d see how you were doin’—if you needed anything.”
“I’m fine, Captain, thank you for asking,” V’Nell nodded. The boy motioned towards the door panel inside the room. “If that was all…”
Malone heard something in the tone of the Vulcan’s voice that made him feel uneasy. Impulsively, he raised his hand and gripped the jamb of the door so it wouldn’t close between them. He leaned on that arm to make the gesture seem nonchalant. Inside the room, he noticed the lights were dim—light enough for nearly nothing more than sleeping. He peered at the boy who now wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Everything alright in here?”
“The room is more than adequate,” he began.
Malone cut him off, tersely, “I mean with you—are you alright, son?”
V’Nell craned his neck instantly at the question, his eyes almost cruel with obvious disgust. “I’m quite alright, Captain,” he snipped. Then, almost as quick, his face softened and his mood drained. “And I do not appreciate the slight,” he said blandly.
“Slight?”
“Your question suggested I am distressed in some fashion. I am Vulcan, and therefore void of such expression.” The young man stood taller somehow with the remark.
“Sorry, kid,” Malone grudgingly replied. He raised his palms as he spoke, half-heartedly submitting to stifle the excitement he had unwittingly started. “No offense intended.”
The Vulcan’s eyes darted to Malone’s chest as he caught a glimpse of the bottle glinting underneath his jacket—the gem-like color revealing a stark contrast to the captain’s overall desaturated outfit. Malone looked down and with an unnoticeable sigh, relinquished the glass bottle.
“Would you like a drink?” Malone resignedly asked.
“I would, actually,” answered V’Nell, visibly unstiffening. He stepped aside, allowing the captain to enter the room.
Malone walked over to a small square table secured to the wall directly beneath the implanted replicator and opened the bottle with a silent rip of the sealing wax. “Two empty rocks glasses,” he intoned to the machine. The replicator obeyed the command with a musical whir and within seconds the captain was pouring the smoky jade liquid. He turned to find V’Nell directly behind him waiting patiently and offering no word of conversation. Malone handed him a meagerly filled glass. “Here ya go,” he said. “Enjoy.”
The Vulcan took a sip delicately, his eyes seemingly alight at the taste of the liquor. “Interesting,” he remarked with a discernible curl to one side of his mouth. “I am unfamiliar with this drink.” He sipped again, curiously. “It’s ambiguously sweet and yet disarmingly acrid. What is this?”
“Whiskey,” Malone tipped his glass. He took a deep sip and puckered his lips slightly as he savored the liquid on his tongue. “And damn good, too.” He smiled as he walked past the Vulcan and dropped himself onto the firm crimson couch. He stretched his arms out, elbows slightly bent, and draped them over the back of his seat—a very open and relaxed position. He curled his right arm in to take another drag from his glass and then looked to V’Nell, still standing near the table. “So what’s your story anyway?” He wiggled to a better position, waiting for the Vulcan to talk.
He did not.
“Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s ok by me,” Malone dismissed with a light flick of the wrist. “But we’re drinkin’ a real fine year here, and I’m not one to just suck it down. You could at least take a seat with me.” He nodded his head with a jerk towards the armchair opposite the couch.
V’Nell complied. Slowly, though not reluctantly, he made his way to the proffered seat. Even at the unhurried speed, his robes seemed to drift behind him as he walked, lending a grace to his movements; he seemed to glide when he moved. The visual, combined with the gently relaxing effect of the whiskey beginning to crawl down his spine, was oddly soothing to Malone. The Vulcan grasped the back of the chair with his free hand and stood next to the piece of furniture momentarily as if thinking of a reason not to sit before he committed to the act completely. He sat stiffly in the chair, an arm on each rest, his back rigid. He held the glass in his hand, but did not sip from it again.
“Without coming off as rude,” V’Nell began softly, “I wonder at your part in all this, Captain Malone.”
“My part in what?”
The Vulcan casually answered, “My eventual demise, of course.”
Malone stared blankly, processing the statement. The Vulcan continued with a strange candor.
“You seem to have caught yourself up in all this, and I’m unclear as to how you fit in exactly.”
Malone’s face pinched as he tried to follow the conversation. “Fit into what?” he finally managed to ask.
“I told you. My death.”
“Are you sick or something?”
“No.”
“Then whaddya mean?” Malone could feel himself begin to tighten, irritated.
“My father is an extremely important man, Captain. As an interstellar ambassador of peace, he not only assures the continued longevity and prosperity of our species, but through countless diplomatic meetings, discussions, and negotiations, he has brokered treaties and other agreements throughout our star system. His serene disposition combined with his impeccable logic has made him very successful in all his political endeavors. His name will undoubtedly go down in the annals of Vulcan history.”
Malone sipped his whiskey, listening intently, unsure of where V’Nell was going with this background information.
“All that focus takes its toll,” V’Nell continued. “Vulcans, like any other intelligent species, are not completely void of feeling. The particular methods of concentration utilized to suppress emotions are learned—a rigorous discipline that must be constantly practiced and harnessed all through life. Even the most tenacious of Vulcans can find the ritual and mental self-control difficult to maintain.
“My father’s resolve began to fade, though he showed no sign of this degradation. While he continued to work with an unrelenting vigor, his mental fortitude slowly started to whither. He told no one—it became the first of my father’s many secrets.”
This time, V’Nell swigged his drink, finishing the trifle that remained.
“Secrets?” Malone inquired.
“Secrets,” the Vulcan repeated. “Both dark and varied.”
“I would hardly consider keeping his depression—or whatever it was—to himself a dark secret.”
“No.”
“Private, maybe—“
“Indeed,” the boy hastily agreed. “Privacy became a total prerequisite for my father, an opaque recess he kept hidden behind his very stately outward appearance. A duality was created, and that division festers inside him to this day.”
“Everyone’s dealin’ with somethin’,” was all Malone could muster in response. He inwardly chided himself for the cliché remark. “So, what does this have to do with your imminent death?” He marked the question with a touch of sarcasm.
“As I said, my father is held in the highest esteem, both at home and abroad. His position alone warrants the honor.” He paused, and took a sharp breath as if he had suddenly lost it for a moment. “If it was discovered that my father is now acting on the conflicting impulses that grow inside him, it would be disastrous for him, his career, and for all he’s contributed to the prosperity of Vulcan and countless other civilizations.”
Malone leaned forward and placed his glass on the table between them. “What are these… impulses?” he asked, dryly.
“My father has developed very explicit inclinations—physical proclivities that would be frowned upon most heinously in our society. One evening, when he thought he was alone, I stumbled upon him performing one of these ‘rites’, as he calls them. I was stunned and appalled at the site of this man—my father—in the act of self-mutilation!”
At the thought, V’Nell became visibly shaken, as if he were reliving the experience. Malone grimaced sympathetically.
“I was drawn to the scene by the faint cracking sounds I immediately heard upon entering the house. Curious as it was, I traced the sound cautiously.” V’Nell swallowed before continuing. “He was naked but for a swath of fabric about his waist, standing before a mirror in the darkened corner of his bedchamber. In his hand was a small whip-like object with three tails, each knotted on the end with dark glass blades. There wasn’t much blood by the time I got to him that night, but the numerous scabs and scars I noticed mottling his skin spoke to previous and repeated acts.
“I stood there in shock watching my father squeeze the weapon handle and staring tearfully into his own eyes. When I noticed he was about to strike himself again, I spontaneously leapt into the room to stop him—all that came out of my mouth was the word ‘what’, loud and protracted, even though all I could think of was ‘why?’
“Afterwards, in an unquestionably more settled, nonetheless disoriented state, he explained himself. My father, so restricted by his lack of emotion, began to question his life. No matter how involved and astute he was, he considered himself hollow—drifting through his life blankly and seeing it from afar. When he tried to regain some semblance of feeling again, he found it impossible; his mind, trained and logical, could no longer make those connections. Discouraged, but not defeated, he eventually turned to more drastic measures.”
“Hurting himself?” Malone asked, disbelievingly.
“He told me the pain was his sacrifice that allowed him to feel anything again.”
Malone stood, bringing his glass to the replicator table to be refilled. He mulled the story over in his head as he poured. “So what does all this have to do with your death?” He put the bottle down before he finished filling his glass. “Is he gonna kill you?” he asked solemnly.
“No, Captain,” V’Nell answered softly. “But my death is the logical conclusion to this unfortunate chain of events.”
“Why?” Malone snapped. “Why do you have to die for this?” He took a step closer to the boy, forgetting his drink entirely.
“My father is very adept when it comes to his job. Obviously, he is proficient in keeping his proclivities completely private; no one else knows exactly what he’s been doing, and I only accidentally stumbled upon it. However, there is suspicion. The Vulcan High Council is peppered with many deceptive officials who would jump at the opportunity to assume my father’s position, no matter the cost. My father’s legacy is at stake here; the future accords of my planet likewise hang in the balance. His work is far from over and even though he has his dark side, he is still more than capable to continue it.
“However, while my father can handle the pressure and compensate for it, I am not so adroit. The suspicion exists solely because of me. That makes me a terrible liability.”
Malone watched the boy put two fingers to his temple, obviously pained from the stress of the situation. With a deep sigh, he turned back to the alcohol and resumed filling his glass. “Have another drink,” he said “You could use it more than—“
His sentence was cut short by the stuttered gurgling behind him.
He spun around to see V’Nell convulsing mechanically, the skin of his face darkening as the muscles tensed, engorging with green Vulcan blood. The boy’s one hand dug into the chair’s front arm panel as the other was cramped stiff in a strange grip pressed against the side of his temple and cheek. It was evident he was in pain, but there was something almost controlled about it all. Then his eyes began to bulge, and his jaw clenched hard. The entire event flashed by with terrible speed, the cacophony increasing with tight, measured jerks and stifled hiccups for breath until it culminated into a final, odd jerk when both the boy’s hands released and his head lolled backwards.
Malone straightened himself from the alarmed crouch he had assumed and stood silently staring at the Vulcan, awestruck. After a few minutes, he gradually stepped over to the whiskey still on the square table at the other side of the room. He downed the glass. Curling two fingers around the neck of the bottle with the other hand, he noiselessly made his way to the door, pressed his knuckles to the door pad, and without a backwards glance, left the room and V’Nell’s dead body behind him.
“I understand now,” Tuvok reacted concisely.
Malone cocked his head forward, glaring fiercely at the Vulcan in disbelief. “Y-You understand?” he spat back. “Well, I’m glad one of us does,” he continued. Pacing the ridged metal floor of the bridge, he stopped abruptly and pointed harshly at the door. “Because I don’t know what the hell happened back there!”
“No, I can see how this could be confusing.”
“Oh! Well thank you for being so sympathetic,” he sarcastically quipped back.
“You simply don’t have all the facts,” replied the Vulcan coolly.
Malone let out an exasperated growl. He followed that with silence, one palm open-faced in a gesture to Tuvok not to speak for the moment. With the other hand, he pinched the bridge of his nose then rubbed his eyes. Visibly drained, he maneuvered the bridge consoles and chairs to reach his own and fell back into his chair with a tired sigh of defeat. He reached down to the base of his chair and—with nothing more than a faint double click from some hidden compartment—produced the liquor bottle and glass featured in his story. He loosely poured himself a dram and swigged before responding.
“Enlighten me,” he groused.
“For a start,” replied Tuvok, nonplussed, “my presence here is not by chance. I do not require transport to the outer colonies.” He stopped, expecting a response from the captain. When he received nothing but an annoyed shrug, he continued.
“I was contacted by Admiral Mereen, your commanding officer, to conduct a covert mission to discover a mole within the Vulcan High Command. The ambassador that requested transport on your ship for V’Nell is that traitor; Jareln is a spy for the Romulan Empire.”
“The Romulans?”
“A while back, one of the treaties Vulcan signed inadvertently came at great expense to the Romulan Empire. The severe disadvantages imposed on their planet’s trade routes and dilithium acquisitions by this agreement drove them to somehow infiltrate the Vulcan government and sabotage it. It is now fair to assume that their target was interstellar relations, considering Jareln’s official appointment within Vulcan High Command.”
“Where does the boy fit into all this? Why was he involved?” Malone thumbed slackly toward the bridge door again.
“Malec was the main liaison for the accord that systematically omitted the Romulans from the trade deal. While I’m certain Malec’s family would somehow come into play as their plan proceeded, I believe Jareln saw an opportunity to expedite the Romulan’s strategy when there were speculations on Malec’s private life.”
Malone leaned forward heavily with his elbows on his knees, the glass and bottle still in his hands. “Yeah, what were those rumors, anyway?” he interrupted.
“Vague and unsubstantiated,” replied Tuvok. “But they centered mainly on V’Nell. The boy was in the public eye quite often—being the stately son to one of the most revered government officials on the planet, his import was undeniable. But he handled the recognition and responsibility skillfully… until a few weeks back. After hearing your story, I now understand why.
“Jareln decided to capitalize on the boy’s sudden uncharacteristic behavior and sociality; V’Nell was discreetly reported as missing three days ago. That’s when I was contacted by Starfleet.”
Malone sat back again, lifting the glass to his lips for another swig of whiskey. “Why was I not in on this?”
“Plausible deniability,” stated the Vulcan. “Your unconventional methods and engaging character are the reasons you were given your commission and why you are regarded so highly in the position. It’s also the reason you can likewise come off as a space pirate of sorts. Your ship, your appearance, even your very non-existence within standard Starfleet files all lend credit to that fact. It was deemed your involvement—or lack thereof—should remain… believable.”
Malone placed the contents of his hands on the deck before he stood upright and huffed loudly. He circled behind his chair and waved his hand dismissively. “Mannix?” he asked. “And my crew?”
“Uninformed.”
He faced Tuvok with a sneer of his lips. Then his eyes lit up, remembering his payment. “What about the cloak?”
“A plant.”
“No,” Malone deflated, turning away.
“It was just as necessary to keep you interested as well as it was for you to perform convincingly. Admiral Mereen recommended the cloaking device, suggesting that it would appeal to your adventurous hungers.”
Malone nodded rhythmically with a snicker, belying the silent annoyance at the successful seduction. He turned back to Tuvok seriously, “What about the boy?” His eyes betrayed his usual indifference.
“As far as I am aware, he was put into your care simply as a diversion; a way for Jareln to keep him hidden until he could blackmail Malec into resigning, or worse.”
“The boy thought he was going to die.”
“I disagree,” Tuvok said. “He knew so.”
“He assumed Jareln would kill him,” Malone suggested.
“And he was likely correct,” Tuvok concurred. “Eventually. But not before discovering his secrets. And that is what V’Nell truly wished to avoid.”
“So he took his own life,” finished Malone, gravely.
“Indeed… in the most remarkable way I have ever known.”
Malone came around to join the Vulcan on the same, lower platform. “Yeah, what the hell happened?” he inquired sincerely and confused by the sudden recollection.
“My own investigation of the body left me with more questions than answers, and I must admit, I would hardly have thought it possible…” he trailed off in thought for a moment.
Malone patiently waited.
“However, your recount confirms an action I have never before heard of in all the history of my people: he committed suicide by performing a mind meld… on himself.”
“Is that possible?!”
“It would appear so,” submitted Tuvok. “A meld primarily involves the sharing of thoughts; the literal melding of minds so that two beings can share of each other equally. Though asexual, it is a very intimate process and must be entered into willingly. There have been instances whereby a meld has been used against someone’s will,” he paused again, gathering himself. “Such a thing is obviously traumatic and perversely invasive emotionally, but equally hurtful physically; the resistance to a probe is materially stressful and can cause serious damage.
“And the body cannot live without the mind. Although quite unthinkable due to the extreme pain, V’Nell’s method of suicide is obviously not impossible. It would take quite some measure of resolve and physical strength to accomplish the task. The struggle he must have endured—both physically and mentally—must have been extraordinary… he, quite literally, tore himself apart.” Tuvok marveled at the thought.
“But why did he do it?” Malone asked, fervent for the answer.
“In V’Nell’s mind, it was the only logical thing to do,” Tuvok impassively replied.
A silence lingered for just a moment as Malone regarded Tuvok with a look of consternation. Then he pressed the com badge hidden under his jacket. It responded with a soft chirp flurry.
“Mannix,” he called.
“Yes, Captain,” he answered quickly, awaiting command.
“You better get up here...”
“Everything alright, Dan?”
“Just make it quick,” he replied. “We’ve got a score to settle.” The first officer countered in the affirmative, and the badges instinctively unlinked.
When Mannix hurriedly entered the bridge, he immediately took his station and prompted for action, “Captain?”
“Turn us around. Reset our course back to Vulcan.”
The XO responded with a questioning look.
“Our peach turned out to be wax fruit… and we’re gonna make the seller choke on it!”
“Aye, Sir,” Mannix replied despairingly.
Malone turned to Tuvok with the Aldebaran bottle in his hand. “Where are you going?” he questioned the Vulcan making his way to the door.
“I thought it prudent to prepare the body before we arrive.”
“V’Nell’s not goin’ anywhere,” replied the Captain, bottle in hand. “I lost one payment today, I’m not losin’ another.”
Tuvok shot back with a curious raise of an eyebrow.
Malone sat back in his chair, one leg haphazardly yet comfortably draped over the armrest, and motioned for the Vulcan to sit with him. “Mannix!” he addressed his first officer, handing him the bottle. “Pour yourself a drink and settle in… now it’s our turn to hear an unbelievable story.”
An Unbelieveable Story is Copyright William Mercado © 2016
Based on Star Trek created by Gene Roddenberry.
Based on Star Trek created by Gene Roddenberry.
