Banned From Argo, Chapter Three

 

3.

 

            Our Engineer would yield to none at putting down the brew.

            He outdrank seven space-marines and a demolition crew.

            The navigator didn’t win, but he outdrank almost all,

            And now they’ve got a shuttlecraft on the roof of City Hall.

 

            “Take ‘er oot, Mister Chekov,” said Scott.  “I’ve done enou’ work today.”

            “Right, Mistair Scott.”  Chekov touched the controls delicately and watched as the docking bay of the Enterpriseslid away from them.  “Now det we heff time, could you plis explain why we’re tekkingk de shuttlecreft instead of chust bimmingk down like everyone else?”

            “Three guid reasons.”  Scott ticked them off on his fingers.  “First, oor transporters are due to be inspected and possibly repaired, which means they’d likely be oot o’ commission when we need ‘em.  Second, I’d like t’see a bit o’ the countryside, where local transporters might no’ reach, an’ I dinna see why we should pay tourist rates for aircars when we can use oor own f’r free.  Thirrd…”  He gave Chekov a broad wink.  “I’ve been doin’ a bit o’ tinkerin’ wi’ these engines, an’ I’d like ta test ‘em oot.  Does thot answer yer questions, laddie?”

            “Aye, sair.  Now where shell we set down?”

            “I’ll show ye.”  Scott fiddled briefly with the sensor controls.  A close-up of the city below spread out on the viewscreen like a detailed aerial map.  “There, noo.  D’ye see the spaceport, where the ship-ta-shore craft land?  Ta th’ east set the big ships, an’ ta th’ west lie th’ smaller ones.  We’ll land as close ta yon edge o’ the field as we can.  ‘Tis less distance ta walk.”

            “Walk where, sair?”

            “Look again, lad.  Th’ repair-shops lie in a line along th’ south edge o’ the port.  Th’ line ta th’ west, a’ yon warehooses there, thot’s suppliers f’r th’ yard an’ ships.  Noo look a wee bit behind there, an’ ye’ll see smaller buildin’s.  Yon’s th’ true ‘entertainment district’, an’ no’ the milk-bluided amusements where th’ Argo city elders would send us.”

            “You said you waire on Argo bifore.”

            “Aye, lad: once, years ago; but I doobt th’ place has changed much.  I made th’ mistake o’ wanderin’ inta th’ city proper.”  He made a disgusted face.  “Aye, an’ proper ‘twas!  So proper, ye couldna find a joy-hoose nor bar whot served unwatered drinks nor aught else but th’ opera hoose an’  th’ ballgame arena.  It took me five days ta learn where th’ real fun was.”

            “Es prissy es thet?”

            “Worse!  They dinna even allow holo-virt parlors, an’ e’en th’ videos be censored t’ a fare-thee-well.”

            “Not ellow holo-firts?!”

            “Aye.  Some years ago they decided thot th’ youngsters were spendin’ too much o’ their time adventurin’ in ‘em.  No’ thot I blame the bairns; their lives be so dull, they’d do anythin’ t’escape.”

            “So what do the cheeldren do now?”

            “Och, they’ve invented fun o’ their own.”  Scott laid a finger beside his nose and winked.  “I hear there’s a marvelous undergroond network o’ computer games an’ message services.  I’ll be tappin’ inta it, once we land.”

            He flicked the viewscreen back to normal, and judged the distance to the port.

            “Hmm.  Ye do th’ flyin’, lad,” Scott decided, reaching for the communications console.  “I’ll see if I canna get us a berth entirely by computer-link, an’ no’ hafta speak t’an Argo official at a’.”

            Twenty minutes later, the shuttlecraft settled to a feather-light landing in Berth 103, on the westernmost edge of the landing field.  Scott left Chekov to handle the routine shutdown and lockup chores, grabbed his luggage and got out.  The first thing he did was head toward the nearest warehouse, looking for a public computer outlet.

            By the time Chekov caught up to him, he was drumming his fingers on the now-blank screen and frowning thoughtfully.

            “So, where do we go next, Mistair Scott,” Chekov asked.  “Eh, is sometink wrong?”

            “Aye.”  Scott took Chekov by the elbow and led him, at a discreet but fast walk, further into the warehouse district.  “’Tis guid ta know thot even on Argo th’ youngsters ha’ th’ wit ta question whot they’re told, an’ learn more thon they’re taught.”

            “You’fe talked to friends in the computair undairground?”

            “They ca’ it th’ Undernet.  Aye, an’ a fine tale ‘tis, too.”  Scott glanced casually over his shoulder, making sure they weren’t followed.   “Th’ bairns ha’ hacked inta th’ police computer system, an’ they’ve foond oot thot th’ portside entertainment district is ta be raided, wi’in an oor or less.  ‘Tis th’ orders o’ th’ planetary governor, if ye please.”

            “Redded?  But why?”

            “There be two schools o’ thought aboot it.  Th’ one says, yon governor wants ta clean oop th’ district before th’ Enterprisecrew can find it an’ spend oor money there.  T’other says, yon businesses havna been payin’ enou’ protection money ta suit him.  Ma guess is, there’s truth in both theories.”

            “Cen we warn the pipple there?”

            “A’ready done, lad.  Everyone who’s there has gotten th’ word, grabbed their money an’ departed.”

            “So much for our shore leafe!  Where shell we go now?”

            “Ta where everyone else has gone, lad.”   Scott grinned, heading toward a large, dilapidated-looking warehouse.  “Ta th’ bolt-hole.  Ye dinna believe, do ye, thot th’ governor hasna pulled this trick before?  Nor thot the locals havna made plans f’r more o’ th’ same?”

  

                                                            *           *           *

 

            The warehouse had no visible windows, only two large doors and several small ones.  Scott’s practiced eye picked out the tiny lenses of security cameras peeping from under the eaves.  In front of the building stood a weathered signpost, but no sign hung from it.  Scott pointed to the hole drilled through the post, and the large rusty bolt driven through it.

            “Th’ Bolt-Hole, as I said.”

            Scott led the way to one of the smaller doors, knocked twice, waited, and then knocked three times more.  The door swung open soundlessly, revealing only a short windowless corridor with another door at the far end.  Alerted now, Chekov thought to look up – and noticed the tiny glass eyes of a sensor array peering down at them.  He smiled and waved.

            The first door closed behind them, and the second opened ahead.  Scott and Chekov stepped through, into a sea of noise, fumes and shadows.

            The revealed room was enormous, taking up at least half the volume of the warehouse by itself.  On the back wall stood a long, long bar, stocked with every bottle and glass imaginable, and crowded with customers of just about the same description.  Along the front wall stood a bank of stages, most of them displaying music holovids, some of them designed for live acts.  In between lay a quarter-acre of tables and chairs, also crowded.  It was difficult to see just how crowded, because the lighting was low and the air full of assorted smokes.  The overhead-suction fans labored mightily, but still couldn’t keep up with the customers.

            Chekov tried hard not to stare, but he would have tripped several times – over his own feet and those of other patrons – if Scott hadn’t kept a reliable grip on his arm.  Like a tug towing a freighter, Scott steered them straight and true toward the bar.

            “Pardon me.  ‘Scuse me…” Scott recited, politely taking space against the bar between what looked like a drunken Tellarite and a sober Andorian.  “Och, it looks like everra-one an’ his uncle’s here a’ready.”

            “Where else should we go?” growled the Andorian.  “Haven’t you heard?  The SP’s raiding the pleasure-zone.”

            “Aye, I’ve heard, an’ I’d like ta know why.”

            “Righteousness and money,” the Andorian laughed, showing fang.  “A bad combination.”

            “What rotten luck,” Chekov grumbled.  “Dey chose to clin op de plece chust es our ship comes in.”

            “You from Enterprise?”  The Tellarite roused from his stupor enough to glare.  “Is your fault they shut down joy-houses!”

            “It’s us dey rob, you min!” Chekov snapped back.  “Four hundred and t’airty-fife crew mins a lot uff money the fun pleces don’t gat.  Instead, you can bat, de Argos plen to gouge us good.”

            “Just so,” added the Andorian.  “How many clean, wholesome ballgames and ballets can you watch, at thirty creds a ticket?”

            “T’airty creds?!”

            “Not to mention, at least five creds per drink.”

            “Fife creds!”

            “That just for low-alcohol beer,” snorted the Tellarite.  “Wine, seven creds.  Fancy drinks, ten.”

            “Aaaaagh!” Chekov howled.  “Mistair Scott, greb de bartender, quick, bifore de good stuff is all gone!”

            A hard-worked barmaid trotted up just then to take their orders.  Predictably, they asked for Earth Scotch and Stolichnaya vodka.  “Also,” Scott added, looking over the rest of the room, “I believe we’ll take yon table there.”

            They managed to get their drinks and grab seats at the table before anyone could beat them to it.  The entry door had opened several more times since their arrival, and the bar was growing more crowded still.  Despite the loud music from the holovids, it was too easy to overhear the talk of the crowds at the nearer tables, and the general mood was decidedly ugly.  Now that Chekov’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he could see that the drinkers at the next table were a gang of Andorian mercenaries in marine uniforms.

            “I can’t believe they went after Hokhblatt’s place,” one of them was snarling.  “She paid her taxes, bribes, contributions to damn-near everything.  Everyone knows that you can’t milk an althegar if you butcher it for meat!”

            “The governor wants big money right now,” reflected another.  “My third littermate’s engineer

says the dirty little politician needs campaign funds, and wants to break up the Merchant party.”

            “Why?” grumbled a third.  “They bring in good money, don’t they?”

            “Yes,” said the second, “But they’re the ones who want to end the Propriety laws, bring in more spacer-trade, and they’re the ones who forced the upcoming special election after that scandal with the maid in the governor’s coat-closet.  He’ll need to buy lots of votes to keep his fat rump on the governor’s chair.  So: raid the space-trade merchants, and snare two nithgar with one net.”

            “Arrh,” growled a fourth, around his tankard of what looked like Romulan ale, “I say, let’s give him a scandal he’ll never live down.”

            “What do you have in mind?” asked the fifth.

            “Aha, wreck the place!” laughed the sixth, showing fangs.

            “Loot and trash Proper Town, you mean?” bleared the seventh.

            “Now that would be thought on,” murmured the first.  “Where would we start, and how would we get there?”

            Scott and Chekov looked at each other.

            “Should we get out uff here?” Chekov asked.

            “Na, na, keep yer seat, lad.”  Scott eyed his drink.  “Lorrd knows, if we gi’e up oor seats, we may no’ find ithers, an’ I hate ta drink standin’ up.  …Still, I think we’d best nurse oor drinks slowly, an’ order ‘em wi’ lots o’ ice hereafter, just in case.”

            Right then, the music stopped briefly to change discs.  In the relative quiet, Chekov noticed the crowd at the table on his other side.

            The drinkers were a very mixed bag: one Horta, needing no chair, but towering over the table even as he sat on the floor; one Human from an obviously heavy-gravity planet; one Klingon-something with muscles like a bull; one creature that had to be a cross between a Vulcan or Romulan and an Andorian, and it was anyone’s guess how that had happened.  All of them wore civilian uniforms with the logo “Skoov’s Demolitions” emblazoned on the back.  They all looked distinctly angry.

            Also at the table, gulping up a tall glass of what looked like Sangria, was a young Human woman wearing a satin jumpsuit that looked sprayed on, tons of jangly jewelry, odd puffs of lace here and there, and enough face-paint to equip a whole theatrical troupe.  Her mascara was tear-streaked, which looked oddly fetching, and she was animatedly telling a story to the four rapt demolishers.

            “—barely had time to grab our clothes and things.  Maryanne had to leave her teddy-bear collection behind, and it just broke her heart.  What would the badges do with a teddy-bear collection, anyway?”

            “Sell it,” rumbled the Horta.  “You can sell anything on this planet, if you know where.”

            “Right.  Thieves’ Market, on Greenmarket Boulevard.”  The girl rolled her eyes.  “Poor Maryanne!”

            Scott’s ears pricked up at that, and an odd gleam came into his eye.  “Eh, lass,” he said, bending closer to her table, “I’m always willin’ ta help a lady in distress.  Tell me where I can find yon market, an’ Miss Maryanne as weel, an’ I’ll be happy ta help her buy back her teddy-bears.”

            “Oh, would you?” she gushed.

            “Coordinates 34.28, city grid,” said the Vulcanoid/Andorian demolisher.  “We all know it by heart.”

            “Couldn’t survive without it,” said the heavy-world Human.  “It’s the only place on the planet where you can find anything you want at anything like a reasonable price.”

            “Anythin’?” Scott repeated, a wicked grin spreading across his face.  “Such as…itchin’ powder, or stink-bombs, or chemicals for makin’ ‘em, or odd electronic parts?”

            “True,” said the Klingon/half-breed, giving him an odd look.  “Just what are you planning?”

            Instead of answering directly, Scott leaned toward the other table.  “Eh, lads,” he called to the plotting Andorians, “Would ye like ta get some revenge on th’ Argo government, wi’ none bein’ th’ wiser as ta who’s done it?”

            The Andorian marines looked at each other, then swung their antennae toward him.  “Oh, yessss!” they all hissed together.

            “Mistair Scott, what are you doingk?” Chekov whispered frantically.

            “Patience, laddie, an’ learn,” Scott grinned, then turned back to the marines.  “Firrst, y’know th’ kids o’ the Undernet ha’ a’ready hacked inta th’ police computer-system, an’ ‘twouldna take much ta plant some misleadin’ messages there…”

            “Yes?  Yes?”  The inhabitants of both tables leaned toward him, hanging on his every word.

            “Ach, this is goin’ ta take some time t’explain.  Let’s a’ order anither round o’ these decent drinks.  Yo, barmaid!”

 

                                                            *           *           *

 

            It was well after dark when Scott and Chekov came strolling out of the Bolt-Hole and headed back to the landing-field.  They were walking slowly, but not staggering – at least, not much.

            “I still dun’t understend why dey didn’t cetch on,” Chekov hiccupped.  “Dun’t dey know det Nova brend drinks are non-elcoholic?”

            “No’ likely, m’lad.  Yon marines are non-Starfleet;  they’d had little opportunity ta run inta th’ stuff.  Anyway, by th’ time we started orderin’ thot, they were too far doon their own drinks ta notice.”

            “So we left them snoring undair the tebbles.  Ef course, dis will edd considerably to your riputetion, you know.  But why do it in de first plece?”

            “Ta keep yon wee laddies from goin’ inta Proper Toon an’ doin’ serious damage,” Scott grinned.  “Aye, they’ll ha’ their fun, an’ embarrass th’ local governor an’ badges an a’ – if they remember any o’ this when they sober up – but ‘twill be harmless mischief instead o’ real damage.”

            “Mistair Scott, you are a chenius.”  Chekov heaved a huge sigh.  “Now if unly dere was still a nice choy-house where we could spind de night…”

            “Did ye no’ hear me wangle fro’ the lady th’ address o’ th’ respectable place where her not-so-respectable friends be stayin’?  ‘Tis th’ Hotel Avalon, as I might ha’ guessed.  I’ll warrant, we can get a bit o’ discreet fun…  Hey, wha’s thot?”

            Ahead of them, light-beams flashed.  Running, struggling silhouettes flickered against the lights.  Voices echoed: shouting, cursing, and bellowing in pain.

            “Guid Lorrd, they’re raidin’ th’ parked ships!  Come on!”

            Scott dived into the nearest shadow and ran toward the field in its concealment, Chekov stumbling after him.

            “Dey cen’t do det!” Chekov panted.  “Starflit would nefer ellow eet!”

            “Nay, but they might claim search-rights on th’ civilian ships – an’ they can a’ways say later thot they couldna tell a fleet shuttlecraft in th’ dark.  Here, noo.  We’ll hafta wait fer oor chance, then dash for it.”

            The battle seemed to be centered on a middle-sized Caitian runabout, some three berths down.  Unfortunately, only a single small flitter stood between the Caitian and the shuttlecraft, offering little cover.  On the other hand, the battle was a lively one, drawing everyone’s attention.  About half a dozen Argo Port Shore Police were trying to board the Caitian ship, armed with clubs and small stunners; the five furred and fanged Caitians, with their catlike speed and agility – armed only with their natural weapons – were giving as good as they got.  One of the SPs was crawling away, howling over a scratched arm.  One of the Caitian crew slumped beside his ship, trying to shake off the effects of a near miss from a stun-beam. 

            “They’re preoccupied,” Scott whispered, “An’ ‘tis only twenty meters or so ta th’ ship.  Let’s go.”

            Scott and Chekov bolted for the shuttlecraft, trying not to make noise, hoping nobody looked their way.  Chekov devoutly hoped that anyone noticing them would see nothing suspicious about a pair of uniformed Humans running toward a fight instead of away from it.  They managed to reach the shuttlecraft’s flank without attracting attention.

            “Now dere’s unly de little problem uff gittingk inside,” Chekov whispered.

            “Here’s th’ hatch.  I’ll get ‘er open, ye jump inside an’ grab th’ controls.  I’ll be right after ye.”  Scott furiously poked buttons on his communicator.

            The shuttlecraft’s near hatch obligingly swung open.  The hiss of its hydraulics sounded horrendously loud.

            Chekov obediently leaped through the door and scrambled into the far seat.  Scott climbed in after him, not two steps behind.

            “We’ve no’ been spotted yet,” Scott panted, jabbing buttons to close the hatch.  “Once we start up th’ engines, though, they’re boond ta notice.”

            “Too lett for dem!”  Chekov gleefully slapped the control panel.

            No one could mistake the sound of the warming engines, nor the growing lights from the little ship’s nacelles.

            The wounded SP stopped wailing about his clawed arm, picked up his club and ran to the shuttlecraft.  He yelled at whoever was inside, and banged his club on the nearest porthole. Chekov favored him with an ancient Earth hand-sign that only made the badge-man yell and bang louder.

            “Up, lad!  Get ‘er up fast!” shouted Scott.

            “The enchines aren’t complitly warmed,” Chekov worried.

            “They’ll take th’ strain.  Lift!”

            Chekov dutifully punched more buttons.  The sound of the engines changed, whining angrily.

            Now the noise distracted the attention of the other SPs.  Two of them turned around to yell unheard orders at the shuttlecraft.

            This gave the Caitian crew the break they needed.  The crewman on the ground, now recovered, tackled the nearest badge-man and brought him down, thwacking his helmeted head on the pavement.  The other Caitians double-teamed the three SPs in front of them, likewise whacked their heads on the ground, then scrambled for their own hatch.  One of the SPs looked around, saw the Caitians escaping, and shot the last crewman squarely with a stun-beam.  The big cat collapsed in the open hatchway.  Before the badges could grab him, his fellow crewmen took his arms and hauled him through the hatch.  The SP’s attempt to climb after him was met with a decisive kick that threw him back onto the ground.  The hatch clanged shut, and the Caitian ship’s engines began to rumble.

            Meanwhile, the shuttlecraft started to lift.

            “Too slow,” Scott muttered.

            “Too coldt,” Chekov explained.

            The chief of the SP squad whipped his head about, glaring furiously at both escaping ships.  Seeing that the shuttlecraft was more likely to get away clean, he pulled out a heavier phaser than his men had been using, clicked the selector hard over, and fired.

            The glare nearly blinded Scott and Chekov.  Red alarm-lights flashed on the control board.

            “Och, asthore!  Yon’s no stun-beam!” Scott roared.

            “She’s liftingk!” Chekov yelled.  “Fife miters, tin, twinty…”

            “Pity we didna think ta turn on the shields.”

            “…forty, fifty…  We’re out uff renge.”

            “Look ye there; yon Caitian made no such mistake.”

            Sure enough, the Caitian ship was rising.  The red-faced SP squad leader was firing at it, but the beam deflected off the Caitian’s shields in a halo of blue light.

            “Go, pretty-kitties!  Go!” Scott cheered.

            “Sefenty-fife…  Mistair Scott, de controls are sluggish.”

            “Whot’s she up ta?”

            The Caitian ship had stopped lifting at almost exactly twenty meters.  As Scott watched, entranced, she moved forward and right in a sharp curve.

            “Begod, she’s goin’ ta buzz ‘em!”

            Sure enough, the Caitian swooped back toward the fist-shaking mass of SPs, picking up speed as she came.  The badge-men, suddenly realizing their danger, had the sense to scatter.  Even so, the backwash from the low-flying runabout knocked them off their feet and sent them skidding down the concrete in half a dozen directions, collecting scrapes and bruises, shedding their clubs, communicators and sidearms.  The Caitian swung about again, in a wider arc.

            “She’s huntin’!” Scott whooped.  “She’s lookin’ fer more badges ta knock doon!”

            On the console, unnoticed, another red warning-light came on.

            “Which wey, Mistair Scott?”

            “Och, back ta th’ Enterprise.  We’d best see whot damage yon shot did, an’ I should file a report while th’ memory’s still fresh.”

            “Eh, Mistair Scott, I t’ink you’d bitter heff a look et de board.”

            Scott looked at the winking lights, and chewed his lip.  “Oops,” was all he said.

            “Mistair Scott, I’m heffing trouble wit’ steering.”

            “Gi’e me th’ controls.”  Scott jabbed more buttons.  “Aye, I’d better put ‘er on manual...”

            “We’re loosingk eltitude!”

            “I know, I know!  An’ th’ steerin’s way off…  Och, I dinna think we’ll make it ta th’ Enterprise.”

            “But where cen we lend?  Not et de speceport!”

            “A park, a groondcar parkin’ lot, anythin’ big enou’…”

            Scott wrestled with the controls, but the wounded shuttlecraft continued to sink.  Worse, her rubbery steering had pointed her nose toward the downtown section of Argo Port City.  Nothing lay ahead but large, tall buildings.

            “Oh, hell!” Scott groaned.  “Just gi’e me anythin’ wi’ a flat roof!”

            Bright-lit buildings flowed under them, disturbingly close, all narrow and pointy of roof.  The alarm-speaker on the console bleeped plaintively.

            “We’re comingk down!  Try for a strit, et list!”

            Scott was considering that when he saw, right ahead, the answer to his prayers.  It was a big, sturdy building, heavy with elaborate stonework – and it had a big, wide, blessedly flat roof.

            “There, ma bairn…” Scott crooned to the laboring ship, “Only a wee few meters more.  Retros… Easy, easy noo…”

            “Bozhemoi, we’re goingk to mek it!”

            The shuttlecraft hovered, coughed, dropped lower, and settled with an audible groan of relief on the tiled stone surface.  The roof creaked alarmingly under her weight, but held.

            With a silent prayer of gratitude, Scott turned the engines off.

            “We’re alife!” Chekov panted.  “I rilly wish I hed a drink right now.”

            “Weel, we’d best report in.”  Scott sighed, and punched the comm-board.

            The voice that answered him, somewhat to his surprise, was Yeoman Rand’s.  Apparently she was in the transporter room, and monitoring ship-to-shore calls as well.  Scott explained the situation briefly, leaving out the embarrassing details.

            “Before we beam up, lass,” he finished, “Can ye gi’e me oor coordinates?  I confess, I dinna know where we are.”

            There was a long pause, then an odd sound that might have been a smothered giggle.  When Rand’s voice came back on, it was calm and perfectly controlled.

            “Sir,” she said, “There’ll be no problem getting your coordinates.  You’re precisely on top of the Argo Port City Hall.”

            “Oh, bluidy hell!” was all Scott said.