The four travelers, their sleep interrupted by the early launch, dozed on the couches for several hours. A closet produced plenty of blankets and pillows, and the couches were wide and comfortable. They were awakened by Carlson, who turned on the lights of the cabin. "Sorry to wake you," he said, "but I thought you'd like to know meals are being served in the mess hall. 

"What's on the menu?" Strickland asked, rubbing his eyes. 

"Cheese sandwiches and ronto soup," he replied. McGovern immediately sat up, pulling his blankets off. 

"Mmmmmmmm, ronto soup," he said, his eyes still closed.

Gordon rose on one elbow. "That's kind of a light meal." Carlson shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm sure there will be a more substantial supper before we make landfall." 

Harper looked up from her couch, farther down the bulkhead from McGovern. "What's our ETA at Klendar?"

"Eight hours," Carlson said, "if we keep the present speed." As the purser spoke, two crewmen wandered down the hallway behind him, craning peeks into the cabin. 

The staring continued as the four travelers made their way to the mess hall. Each got a tray with a sandwich and a bowl of steaming, violet soup. Gordon tried a spoonful, and found quite tasty. "It's almost like beef broth," he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. Harper was cutting her sandwich into smaller bites with a plastic knife. McGovern was already halfway through his sandwich. Gordon turned to see Strickland speaking to one of the crew before joining them at their table. 

"What was that all about?" McGovern asked as Strickland sat down with his tray. 

"Well," said Strickland, "I asked what all the staring was about. It seems only half of the crew thinks we're master criminals on our way to the Wayfarer's Auction." He tore his cheese sandwich in half. "The others think we're on a treasure hunt for the Evacado Peach."

"That missing scout ship," Gordon remembered. 

Strickland nodded. "Rumor has it the Peach wasn't on any scouting mission, but was smuggling Romulan defectors out of the empire."

"Defectors..." Harper thought out loud. "Lord knows this would be the time to cut and run, what with the shakeup at the top. Could Starfleet have gotten a ship through this fast?"

McGovern thought about that as he chewed. "Possible. I've done some black ops in my day, and that fits the bill."

Gordon noticed several crew members watching a screen on one bulkhead. It was the Federation News Service. The emblem of the Romulan Star Empire came on the screen. "Federation sources say diplomats from the Romulan Empire are meeting with U.F.P. representatives for treaty negotiations. The Empire is still recovering from recent government shake-ups."

"A shake-up?" Harper asked. "Is that what they call mass murder these days? A shake-up?"

"Business as usual for the Romulans," McGovern muttered. "Warren–what's our schedule from here on?"

"We get off at Anabelska," Strickland said. "From there, we'll hop on board an Emby freighter, which should take us through the Outremer to the Idalya System. That's where we'll be able to get a ship for the last leg to Concordia."

On the news screen, a woman was reading off some figures, and then the picture changed to an urban landscape: quiet, empty buildings and towers. Gordon recognized the city.

"Hey," he said, "that's Baroosh. On Tellar Prime." 

McGovern turned around in his seat to see the screen. "You're right," he said. He pointed to a dark-haired crew member. "Turn that up, will you?" The nearest crewman turned up the volume. 

"...strangely quiet this evening," the female voice-over was saying. "The Downam general strike is in its third day, and all industry on three Tellarite worlds has ground to a halt." Harper and Strickland looked at Gordon and McGovern, not saying anything. 

"Hours ago, the Federation starship USS Haskell arrived to help mediate the situation." The picture changed to dozens of Tellarites waiting in hallways. "Long denied immigration rights, the protesting Downam class is demanding the right to leave Tellar Prime to start new lives on other worlds. So far, hundreds have left the planet, and thousands more await passage..."

"Well," said McGovern, dropping his napkin on his tray, "I'm done. I think I'll go back to the cabin."

"Me, too," said Harper. The others quickly finished their meals and followed the general back down the corridors of the ship. As they passed an open hatch, Gordon suddenly stopped. He nudged the general. They both looked through the hatch into what looked to be a bunk room for the crew. Three pairs of bunk beds lined the walls. Two crewmen were unpacking clothes from their duffel bags. One crew member held up a long, pullover shirt, with wide sleeves and a "v" shaped collar. 

McGovern cleared his throat, getting the crewman's attention. "Excuse me," he said, "but that's not a Gerantan pobo shirt, is it?" 

The crewman smiled proudly. "Yeah! Picked it up in a market north of First City."

Gordon leaned into the hatchway. "You wouldn't know anybody who'd like to buy one of those, do you?"

The crewman's eyes widened. "Do I!"

A half hour later, Gordon and McGovern returned to the cabin. "Where have you guys been?" Strickland asked. McGovern made sure to close the cabin door behind him. The two walked up to a small table and emptied their pockets. Handfuls of metal items clattered across the tabletop. Harper and Strickland looked on in amazement. 

"David," said Harper sternly, "you haven't been gambling again, have you?"

McGovern laughed. "No, we finally sold those shirts we've been carting around ever since Earth. The crew went nuts over them." 

"I think we made some good deals, too," Gordon added. 

"Oh, my word." Harper's fingers ran across the currency on the table: Klingon Darseks, Romunan renays and bars of Ferengi gold-pressed latinum. There were even a couple of coins Harper didn't recognize. "How much is here?" she asked. 

"Well, I'm not so sure about the currency rates," McGovern said, "But I'm pretty sure it's enough to get us to Concordia. What do you think, Warren?"

Strickland stood over the pile of cash, nodding approvingly. "You did good, Dave." He picked up one of the silver Romulan renays. "I haven't seen one of these in a long time." 

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. They came close to the hatch, passed, then faded off into the distance. Harper looked at the others. "We should put this away– divide it evenly between us."

"Don't we get a commission?" McGovern said, his eyes wide in mock surprise. Harper's hand came up and waved for a mock slap across his face. 

***
Light years away, the crew of the USS Nathaniel Haskell had their hands full. Families of Tellarites were camped out in the cargo holds. Still more wandered the corridors and filled the common areas of the ship. Captain Best had put on extra security, but so far no incidents had been reported. The Downam Tellarites were peaceful and calm. Many stood quietly staring for hours on end out the portholes at Tellar Prime far below. The captain stepped out of his quarters and immediately saw two Tellarites directly outside, talking to themselves. 

"Greetings, Captain!" they said cheerfully. Best managed to put on a smile and wave as he hurried down the hallway. Or tried to hurry, as every corridor seemed to have more Tellarites. Some of the crew were even wearing brown scarves around their necks, to show their support for Downam cause. Around a junction corner, a familiar face appeared. 

"Captain Best!" said Commander Washington, edging his way around the Tellarites. "I was just coming to see you."

"Status report, Number One," Best ordered. 

Washington glanced at the figures on his PADD. "We currently have 254 Tellarites on board, Captain. The transporter rooms have been operating all night, and two shuttles have been transferring personnel in shifts. The ship will be at full capacity within the hour." The two officers edged past a female Tellarite and two children and entered a turbo lift. Best breathed a sigh of relief when the doors closed. 

"Bridge!" he ordered. The lift took off. "What about the Dow government on Tellar Prime?"

"Well, sir," Washington said, "they understand the Federation's stand on political asylum, but they're understandably concerned about their entire labor force leaving the planet."

"We can't refuse these people," Best said, waving his hands. "They've been living as second-class citizens their whole lives." 

The turbo lift doors opened onto the bridge of the Haskell. "Captain on the bridge," someone said as the two emerged. 

"Mr. Bailey," Best said to the helmsman. "Plot a course to the Caldonian system. The Federation has negotiated their second moon to be a safe harbor for the Downam until this crisis can be resolved." Best sat down heavily in his command chair. He shook his head. "I'd sure like to know what started this fiasco."

"It... seems to have something to do with Admiral Harper and her party..." Washington began. 

"Harper!" Best spat. "You mean McGovern and those old farts?"

"I don't have the full story yet, sir," Washington said, "but the Tellarites on board keep talking about them. Apparently, they were present when the uprising started, and they seem to have been ... influential." 

"Great. That's just great," Best said. "I thought they were going to Vulcan. What the hell were they doing on Tellar Prime?" 

"I don't know, sir."

"Probably got lost... Bunch of old troublemakers, that's what they are. Get me a full report on what happened to start this mess, so that I'll have something to tell the government representatives when they arrive." Washington cleared his throat. 

"Um...five senators are waiting for you in your ready room, sir," Washington said. 

Best glared at Washington. His eyes narrowed to thin, angry slots. "Of course they are," he growled. He stood and headed towards his ready room. "Get ready to leave orbit when the last immigrants come on board. Secure all shuttlecraft. And send a message to any Starfleet ships in the Beta Quadrant: watch out for Harper and her gang. They're dangerous!"

***

Dangerous, jagged peaks sped past the observation windows of the Jonathan Jennings as it made its final approach. Gordon winced every time one came close to the ship. Harper's eyes were wary. The steep, sharp mountains of Klendar were anything but a welcome sight. Strickland wished they had chosen another descent path; he turned to say something to McGovern, and saw the old general was not even looking out the windows. Something else had caught McGovern's attention. 

Carlson, the purser, had just unlocked a cabinet in the corridor outside the observation lounge. From inside the cabinet, he was dispensing sidearms to crew members who had lined up down the hallway. One by one, their uniforms in place, they pulled the gunbelts around their waists, buckled them, and then checked their weapons. McGovern's trained eyes told him they were stinger guns, each loaded with hundreds of tiny, painful needles. Harper saw them, too, and watched the dispersal with curiosity. 

Carlson re-locked the cabinet. As he strolled by, McGovern asked, "Expecting trouble?"

"Just a precaution," Carlson smiled. "May I ask your destination when we reach Klendar?"

McGovern turned to Strickland, who answered. "We've got to wait for some cargo coming in from Toren II. When it arrives, we'll be taking off for the Anabelska system." 

Carlson nodded, a serious look on his face. "It would be best if you stayed inside the spaceport, and in plain sight." He smiled again. "Just a precaution."

Carlson left, but the travelers felt no relief. "Maybe carrying sidearms wouldn't be such a bad idea," Harper admitted. 

Strickland jingled the alien money in his pocket. "That could probably be arranged," he said. 

The mountains disappeared behind them, and the ship appeared high over a wide valley. Although cut by ages of erosion, there was no water in sight anywhere in the valley. The descent continued, and the wide, flat geometric shapes of the spaceport came into view. Other ships appeared in the sky above them: small, two-seater craft, with big, threatening guns. The little craft followed the Jennings all the way down, and disappeared only when the ship had touched down on a huge, octagonal concrete pad. 

The travelers heard the hiss of pressurized doors opening, then shouts and the sound of many feet. Below, they could see  uniformed crew members pouring out from under the bow, spreading out into a wide circle around the ship. Weapons drawn, the crew held their positions until someone blew a whistle. "Perimeter secure!" came the cry from below. 

McGovern looked over at the others. "I feel safer already." 

It was much colder on the surface of Klendar when they exited the ship. The flat expanse of the spaceport spread out before them, with patches of dead plants beyond the concrete. In the distance, buildings rose suddenly from the plain like a wall around the landing sites. The air was icy cold, and there was a slight breeze from the west. Above, the sky was baby blue, with just a handful of billowy white clouds for contrast. 

The storage trunk was easier for Gordon to control, without the added weight of the shirts. It followed along beside him like a trained dog. He was wearing his maroon Nogura coat again. The others had their jackets on as well, collars turned up against the wind. 

"Vehicle!" called out one of the armed crewmen. A six-wheeled flatbed truck rolled towards them from the south. Three crewmen took up defensive positions between it and the ship. Harper and the others stood still, watching. The truck slowed down and drove under the shadow of the ship before coming to a stop. The driver killed the engine, then stepped out of the vehicle, arms high. McGovern watched the proceedings with a careful eye. The three crewmen kept their weapons on the driver as two more ran over to the truck. They looked inside the cab, underneath, and checked the driver's credentials. 

"Clear!" 

Everyone relaxed, and lowered their weapons. One of the crewmen looked up at the ship and waved. Harper figured there was probably a camera mounted in the hull. Moments later, the cargo hatches opened up like a giant metal flower. 

"Charming place you found for us, Warren," Harper commented. 

"We shouldn't be here very long," Strickland said as he shouldered his bag. "We'll be seeing more of this the further we get from civilized space."

Above them, machines whined as cargo was winched down to the surface. Carlson appeared alongside the four travelers. "This is your ride to the station," he said, pointing to the truck. He had to speak up over the noise of the machines. "Once you're there, stay inside until you can ship out. Don't talk to anybody, and don't flash any money around."

Strickland nodded his head. "I've been this way before, but thanks."

"Hell of an operation you got here!" shouted McGovern. "Your men are well-trained."

"Thanks!" yelled Carlson over the increasing clamor. "Good luck!" He waved goodbye as the travelers reached the truck. McGovern saluted back. 

There was a step at the rear end of the vehicle, but it was still a steep climb onto the flatbed. There were already several chair-sized crates on the truck for them to sit on. Once the four were on board, the vehicle lurched forward, then turned away from the ship. Gordon squinted at the dust kicked-up by the wheels. In the distance, he could see two more trucks headed towards the ship. 

The spaceport was not as busy as the one they just left on Q'onos. Strickland looked around, and saw only two other ships parked on the expanse. One looked like a Vulcan courier, converted for heavy cargo. The other was far off on the other side, partially hidden by a beacon tower. It looked oddly familiar. 

"I thought there'd be more ships here," Gordon commented. "For that big auction."

"This isn't the only spaceport on Klendar," Strickland replied. "This town is called Rawlin. The auction's probably gonna be at Seever, about fifteen clicks from here." Gordon pulled his cloak closer against the cold.  

"I hope we can get back in space again soon," Harper said. 

"I checked before we started out descent," Strickland said. "Our shipment arrived last night. We just need to pick it up and get it loaded onto a Bolian tanker called the Griffnock. That's what we'll be taking into the Outremer. We should be out of here by this evening."

"Good," said McGovern. "This place makes me uneasy."

"Sure it's not all the guns?" Strickland asked. 

"Guns are one thing," McGovern said. They passed a transport vehicle parked beside a marker light. Two humanoids had the engine compartment open, and were working with oil-soaked hands. "Look at these guys. Look at their eyes. Not angry, not hateful, almost... feral. Like they'd just as soon rip our throats out as look at us. We need to be on our toes here, boys and girls."  

The station came into view. Walls of dull, worn concrete hunched under dark, slate roofs. It reminded Harper of a New England lighthouse, with two Kansas barns on either side. Several dish antennas sprouted off the rooftops. A half-dozen similar flatbed trucks surrounded the building. Short stacks of shuttle-sized shipping containers surrounded the building. 

The vehicle came to a stop in a cloud of grey dust. The air was full with the sound of alien voices, sputtering engines and toneless music. 

The vehicle driver, a stout Trill with long, dirty hair, climbed out of the cab. "This is the station," he said, hooking a thumb back towards the long building. "There's transfer information and ship routes inside. And snacks." 

The four travelers climbed off the back of the truck. A tall, grey creature with a long, scaly tail shambled past them. It wore a bright pink vest and a golden necklace. The creature circled around the back of the truck, looked over its shoulders, and then apparently began to urinate on the ground. 

Harper blinked, and without a word marched into the station. Gordon thought to himself, Welcome to Klendar. The others followed Harper inside, not looking back. The interior of the station was a wide, dark room with a high ceiling. Rows of stone benches filed across the dusty, tile floor. Several waiting passengers gave the group some suspicious looks, then went back to what they were doing. On opposite sides of the room were official-looking counters manned with bored, alien bureaucrats.  

"Right," said Strickland. "I need to find out where our cargo is." He got to thinking of alien customs, negotiation, diplomacy... He might need somebody good at diplomacy to help him. He looked at Harper. "Frannie, you come with me. You guys," he said, pointing to Gordon and McGovern, "get our passage confirmed on the Griffnock. We'll meet back here."

"Check," said McGovern. "Wait, why didn't you want me to go with you?"

Strickland suddenly had a mental image of McGovern arguing with customs officials, voices raised, tempers flaring... "Um, because you're too... tall," Strickland said, hooking Harper's arm in his and quickly walking away.  

McGovern shook his head, then started walking towards the scheduling desk, Gordon and the trunk close behind him. The humanoid male in charge of scheduling had tanned skin and slightly pointed ears, and looked to be at least part Romulan. "Are you here for the auction?" the tanned official asked. 

"Just passing through," Gordon said. 

On the other side of the wide station, Harper and Strickland found the storage officer, a husky human with large hands. "Greetings," said Strickland. "My name is Warren Strickland. I have some cargo coming through here, and I was just wanting to check on the status." He recited a string of number that the official used to match up with current shipments on his data screen. 

"Here it is," the large officer reported. "Shipment 3334W-delta from Alpha Centauri by way of Toren II, arrived on the Sarah Marie early this morning, Landing Pad Six.... Shipping out on the Griffnock this afternoon."

"So it hasn't been loaded onto the ship yet?" Harper asked. 

The official shrugged his shoulders and pointed to his screen. "It's on the list," he said. 

Strickland rubbed his chin, visibly concerned. Their cargo had come a long way, and he naturally wanted to be sure everything was intact. "Can I see our merchandise?" 

The official cocked his head towards the nearest exit. "It will be in the holding area. I will have to get security to go with you."

"We'll wait," Strickland said. The official turned and disappeared through a back doorway, presumably to get a security guard. As they stood waiting, a tall figure with long red hair got up from a nearby bench and casually started walking towards them. He wore a long, grimy cloak, and red braids dangled from each temple. One hand reached inside his cloak as he came up behind Harper. 

"Don't make a sound," he whispered in her ear, "or you're dead."

Strickland heard Harper gasp, and turned just in time to see the blaster poking out from the tall man's cloak. "Look," he offered, "if it's money you want–"

"Yes," said Harper, "we have money..."

"Shut up!" the tall man hissed. "Both of you, start walking towards that door–-nice and slow." 

McGovern was able to confirm booking for four people on board the Griffnock, scheduled to depart the spaceport just before sunset. Payment would be upon arrival at the ship. As the general talked to the tanned official, Gordon examined the other travelers in the station, looking for the "feral" eyes McGovern had described. He counted at least five different races among the occupants of the station, sitting alone or in couples on the stone benches. Most of the eyes he could see were either tired, bored or lonely. Or all three. A little bored himself, he glanced across to the other side of the station... and saw Harper and Strickland. Their faces did not look bored at all. 

"General, look," Gordon said without turning around. Gordon watched as the two walked hesitantly towards the exit, followed close behind by someone in a long cloak. They were obviously not leaving willingly. McGovern stepped up beside Gordon. 

"That doesn't look right," he concluded. "Come on–-and put that someplace safe." McGovern pointed at the storage trunk and then began to cross the length of the station. Gordon looked around, helplessly, but there was no place safe to store the unit. Then he had an idea. Adjusting the controls, he ordered the trunk to rise up, higher in the air, until it was far above them, touching the ceiling. 

"That looks safe enough," he said to himself. Locking the settings so the trunk wouldn't fall, he slipped the controller into his coat pocket and followed the general. 

The bright Klendaran sun hitting their faces offset the chilly air as the three moved outside of the station. Both Strickland and Harper walked slowly and cautiously, glancing over their shoulders at their abductor. "Hurry up!" the man ordered. They walked between towering stacks of shipping containers. Scrapes, dents and various scars marked the large metal boxes. "Over there!" the cloaked man pointed. They turned a corner, and faced an empty shipping container, the doors wide open. 

Harper and Strickland stopped at the entrance and looked behind them. "What is it you want?" Harper asked. 

"Get inside!" the man ordered. The two stepped inside. Keeping the blaster pointed at them, he closed both doors with the other. The second one slammed with a loud metallic clang, plunging the interior into darkness. 

Light poked into the container through cracks in the metal. Their eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. "What's going on?" Strickland asked. 

"I think we've been kidnaped," Harper said. From outside the container, they heard an engine start. 

Strickland found Harper's face in the darkness. "Are we moving?" 

Gordon burst through the exit doors with McGovern close behind. The scene outside was bare, an empty canyon of shipping containers. "Where'd they go?" Gordon asked, his eyes squinting at the sunlight. McGovern walked forward carefully, looking for signs on the dusty ground. 

"They went this way," he determined, pointing at a fresh footprint. He took two more steps, then froze in his tracks. "You hear that?"

Gordon stopped and listened. "Sounds like a truck."

"This way!" McGovern said over his shoulder as he walked away, his pace brisk. Around a corner, the ground fell away sharply. It was at least a meter down to the ground. It was a loading dock. 

"Look!" Gordon pointed. Straight ahead, a cargo truck hauling a faded blue shipping container was speeding across the flat landscape. Gordon looked off into the distance. "I think it's heading for that old ship over there." 

McGovern rubbed his chin, deep in thought. "We need some transportation," he said. 

Inside the container, Harper and Strickland struggled to keep their balance as the vehicle bounced and turned beneath them. Abruptly, the vehicle stopped, and the two were pitched forward onto the floor of the container. At the doors, they heard bolts being unlocked. One door suddenly flung open, sunlight flooding into the darkness. "Get out!" a voice cried. They blinked at the sudden light as they climbed out of the container, which they now saw was on the back of a cargo truck. Above them loomed the hull of a ship, battered and patched in many places, strips of white and blue paint peeling and flaking off. A cargo ramp descended from the belly of the ship, resting on the dusty ground. 

"Pompey class... Now I remember this!" Strickland whispered. "I saw this ship back on Q'onon, right before we left..." 

"Turn and face the truck!" barked the man with the gun. "And put your hands behind your back!" Strickland and Harper did as they were told. Strickland watched over his shoulder as the man looped a Klingon constrictor cuff over Harper's hands. It automatically closed tight around her wrists. He repeated the procedure around Strickland's hands. 

"Can't you at least tell us what this is all about?" Harper demanded. 

"Oh, I think you know, Admiral," a different voice said. Harper turned around. A figure was coming down the cargo ramp. In tan trousers, grey shirt and a forest green jacket, the man had short black hair that stood up in spikes. The smile on his face distorted the line of scars across his features. His eyes were gleeful and dangerous. "I think you know perfectly well why you're here." The man reached the bottom of the ramp and stood before Harper. "You remember me, don't you?"

Harper looked hard at the man's sneering face. "No, sorry." 

The man's left eye twitched. "Eleven years ago. The planet Kestralyn. Sound familiar?"

Harper thought. "Afraid not. Were you there?"

"I went to prison there for seven years!" the man shouted. "Seven years! All because of your testimony!"

Harper's eyes widened. "Ah! All right, all right... Don't tell me... Rokar. Rokar Meg. That was you," she said, suddenly remembering. 

"You know this guys?" Strickland asked. Harper nodded. 

"I testified at his trial," she said. "I was on shore leave, planetside, having lunch, and I witnessed his crime." Her face grew serious. "But of course you went to prison. You were guilty. You killed that poor old Vulcan."

"It was self defense!" Rokar yelled. 

"You shot him in the back," Harper said. "Seven times." 

"He cheated me!"

"You set his body on fire."

"That was an accident!" Rokar said, pointing his finger in Harper's face. "I spent seven years in the ore mines of Kestralyn, and it was your fault!"

"Seven?" asked Harper. "Only seven years? You were sentenced to life imprisonment."

"I had other plans," Rokar said, gloating. "Salpen here got me out of prison. And after today, we'll never have to worry about anything again."

"Salpen Meg," Harper said, looking at the tall cloaked man. "Rokar's brother. I remember you from the trial." 

"Rokar," Salpen reminded, "the time?"

"Right." Rokar pulled a blaster from inside his jacket. He pointed it at the two prisoners. "I was just going to kill you, but then Salpen reminded me: we came here to do business. Into the ship, you two. There's deals to be done today ...and old accounts to be settled!" 

Prodded by the two brothers, Harper and Strickland walked up the steep ramp into the ship above. Just before entering the ship, out of the corner of his eye, Strickland saw a the dust trail of a vehicle tearing across the plain. 

The old luggage cart was not very fast, but it was all McGovern could find on short notice. It was flat and low to the ground, with eight rumbling balloon tires. The general squinted against the blowing dust as he drove across the concrete landing pads. Gordon was directly behind him, holding on for dear life. 

"Don't we need some weapons?" Gordon shouted over the engine. 

"No time," cried out McGovern. "We'll just have to improvise. Hang on." McGovern turned sharply and headed down a long runway. It took the little cart behind a stack of shipping containers piled close to the stern of the ship. 

Inside, the brothers led their prisoners up one flight of narrow steps to a large, open space. It had been made by tearing out floors and bulkheads from inside the ship. Piles of metal, pipes, conduits and cables littered the floor. 

"You two, over there and sit down," Rokar ordered. The two prisoners had to step over trash broken shards of plastic sheeting to get to their assigned space. Luckily, there was an empty crate for them to sit on. 

The center of the space had been cleared out for a small, white globe sitting on a thin pedestal about one meter high. "Almost time," Salpen said, looking at his timepiece. He took position standing at the hatchway to the area, sidearm close by. "Ten seconds." 

Rokar holstered his weapon and took position in front of some damaged machinery set into the far wall. From the lighting, she couldn't quite identify it. Rokar faced the white globe, adjusting his clothes and running his finger through his disorderly hair. "Showtime," he smiled. 

The globe suddenly shone with a bright, white light. A beam of light went straight up. Across the broken ceiling, images began to appear in a circle above the globe. The circle expanded, widening to cover the whole ceiling. The light worked its way down the walls, enveloping everyone present, and like a curtain opening up Harper and Strickland found themselves in another place. 

It was a meeting hall of some sort, with a domed roof and a ring of spotlights above them.  Aliens from a dozen different races were seated in bleachers all around them. To the right, an thorny blue creature stood behind a lectern. "Holographic projection," Harper realized. "It's like we're really there."

"Frannie," whispered Strickland. "This is the Wayfarer's Auction. With holograms, the bidders and sellers don't even have to be in the same place." The blue creature got up to speak. 

"And I think we're the next item," Harper said. 

"Everyone, everyone," echoed the creature's translated words, "time for our next auction. On the floor, our next item." The creature pointed to Rokar, and he waved back. 

"Greetings, honorable bidders!" Rokar said, his voice amplified across the great hall. "It is the currency from your various economies that makes this galaxy go ‘round. But there is one area of space where your fortunes are useless: the United Federation of Planets. For over a hundred years, the Federation has eluded your grasp because," he said, glancing at Harper, "as any Starfleet officer will tell you, they have no money." The aliens in attendance sounded their agreement, and grunted their frustrations. 

"But that makes sense!" Rokar continued. "What do you need money for? To buy the food you eat? To buy the clothes you wear? To save up and purchase the home of your dreams? Those are concerns citizens of the Federation do not have to worry about... because they have replicators!" 

A chorus of shouts came from the audience. "The Federation is an aberration among galactic economies! It does not need money to compensate for goods and services. Money is useless in a world where you can just create whatever you want. Workers, tradesmen and businesses are all compensated with replicator credits, depending on the jobs they do. These numbers are added up and then traded in on Federation replicators, which create the food, the clothing, the homes— anything they want!" 

Rokar actually laughed to himself. "Forget transporters, forget phasers, forget all the other glorified technology the Federation has–- the technology they consistently refuse to share! It's the replicator technology that separates the Federation from everyone else in the universe... until today!"

Rokar stepped aside, and suddenly Harper recognized the machinery behind him. "Behold, a working Starfleet replicator! This is a model 33J all-purpose matter synthesizer, capable of creating any food, any spare part, anything you desire. All your wishes, instantly fulfilled." 

"Where the hell did he get that?" Strickland asked. Harper looked sharply at him. 

"That missing scout ship!" she said. "The Evacado Peach. They must have stolen it from the scout!"

"Stop!" cried one spectator, a humanoid with several rows of teeth. "Do you think we are stupid? Federation replicators run on transporter technology–-they rebuild matter into things stored in the transporter buffer memory. That machine is useless without the computers to run it!" 

"Ah," said Rokar, smiling again, "but it does come with the computers!" Rokar pulled open a panel he was standing beside. Beyond, the lights from dozens and dozens of isolinear memory storage units. 

"Frannie!" gasped Strickland. "They didn't steal that from the Peach... This is the Peach! Dammit, I should've seen it before! I thought this was a Pompey class ship, but they just modified the outline and changed the colors! We're on the ship Starfleet's been looking for!"

"But if this is the ship," Harper whispered back, "where's the crew?"

Just then, there was a loud metal clang from below the deck. Rokar gave Salpen an irritated look. Salpen sighed, rolled his eyes, and turned to check it out. "The treasure of the Federation," Rokar said, pointing to the memory boards. "All for the highest bidder!"

The thorny blue creature held up one appendage. "Shall we start the bidding at... one hundred thousand Darseks?" Several members of the audience stood and started shouting bids. 

In the racket that followed, Strickland noticed Salpen had left his position. "Frannie," he motioned. "Our guard is gone."

"That's our exit, then," she whispered back. "Be ready to make a break for it."

"Stop! Stop!" shouted the toothy humanoid again, spreading his clawed hands over the crowd to attract attention. The talking and bidding died down. "I know you, Rokar Meg, scum of a pirate you are!" he growled. "Even if this replicator does work, what if it malfunctions? Only Starfleet personnel are trained to repair it."

"Exactly!" said Rokar, striding over the trash and garbage towards the two prisoners, stopping dramatically in front of Harper. "And that is why this deal includes one genuine Starfleet officer!" This caused a commotion among the bidders as they talked among themselves. "This woman is a real Starfleet officer– she and her mechanic here will be able to fix any problem that comes up with the replicator unit. This is a complete package, my friends, a hell of a deal. Hardware, software and support!" 

Rokar looked straight at the holographic image of the toothy humanoid. He leaned back on one foot, a smug expression on his face. "Does that answer all your questions?"

"All but one," the toothy buyer said. "Who is that?"

Rokar realized someone was standing behind him. He turned just in time to see Gordon's fist smash into his face. Rokar flew backwards, landing hard on the metal deck. Still alert, he pulled his weapon from his holster and pointed it at Gordon. 

"Oh, no, you don't!" McGovern said. In a blur of motion, the general swung a metal pipe at the weapon, knocking it out of Rokar's hand. Rokar started to climb to his feet, but another swing of the pipe brought it right across the pirate's already scarred forehead. He fell flat out on the deck, unconscious. 

Harper's face beamed with a bright smile. "It's really good to see you, Charlie!" Gordon produced a knife and knelt by Harper and Strickland. "Are you guys all right? What's this all about?" he asked, cutting their bonds. 

"It's a long story," Harper said. She looked up at McGovern, who was eyeing the glowing sphere on the pedestal. All around them, the holographic images of the alien bidders were stunned into silence. McGovern adjusted his grip on the pipe. 

"Show's over, folks!" he said. With a powerful swing, he smashed the globe into a thousand glittering pieces. The images surrounding them disappeared, and the interior immediately returned to it's normal, drab appearance. Gordon helped Harper and Strickland to their feet. 

"What happened to the other one?" Strickland asked as his hands were freed. 

Gordon pointed towards the lower deck. "I knocked him out with a hypospray of sedative. Come on, let's get out of here," he said, but Harper shook her head. 

"Not yet," she said. "We need to destroy the replicator and all the data. We can't let that technology get released."

Gordon pointed to Rokar's weapon on the floor. "The blaster!" he said. "We could shoot it."

McGovern picked it up and pointed it at the replicator, but nothing happened. "It must have broke when I hit it," he said, turning it over in his hand. "I might be able to fix it..."

A shower of sparks suddenly erupted over their heads. "Get down!" McGovern ordered as he dove for the floor.  Through the hatchway, he could see Salpen Meg on the narrow steps aiming for another shot. Gordon was on the floor off to the right of the hatchway, out of the line of fire. 

McGovern pointed to the hatch controls on the wall. "Charlie, the door!" McGovern said in a loud whisper. Gordon understood, and hurried on all fours over to the wall. He pressed the control to close the door, which slid across with a grinding hiss. Salpen fired two more shots, which exploded against the doorway just as it closed. Gordon flinched at the explosions but got the door shut. 

McGovern stood up and pressed a series of buttons on the control pad until it beeped. "It's locked, but it won't be locked for long!" He still had Rokar's blaster in the other hand. "If he's using one of these, it'll take him a while." He slipped it into the pocket of his black coat. 

Gordon noticed something on Harper's belt. "Frannie, see if you can use your tricorder to find us another way out of here."

"Good idea," Harper said. For a moment she locked eyes with Gordon. It felt good. She unclipped the tricorder from her belt and began scanning the room. "There!" she said, stopping. "There's an access panel to a corridor right behind that junk." Strickland and McGovern moved some pipes and metal plates out of the way, exposing the access panel. 

McGovern looked around for a tool. "Warren, hand me that support rod," he pointed at the floor. "I'm gonna try to pry this open." Harper continued scanning, but stopped when something on the screen caught her attention. "Un oh."

Strickland looked up. "What? What is it?"

"I'm picking up the other brother on the deck below. It looks like he's going through some arms locker. I'm getting energy readings." She looked at Gordon, a worried look on his face. 

"We really need to leave," he said. He couldn't stand the idea of anything bad happening to her. 

Harper pointed at the replicator. "That still has to go. This ship isn't big enough for a self-destruct code, but we've got to do something."

"I've got an idea," Strickland said suddenly. "Frannie, do you still remember your old Starfleet codes?"

Harper was confused. "Probably. But, all the intel and high channel codes would've been changed by now."

"But not the service codes," he said. He stepped over the unconscious Rokar and moved towards the replicator, putting his hands along the sides of the unit. 

"What are you going to do?" Harper asked. 

Strickland looked at Gordon, a smile inching across his face. "Dave, remember when Charlie's uncle programmed your replicator to fill your apartment with linguini?" 

"Yeah," McGovern said, putting his shoulder into wedging the access panel open. "We talked about it at the wake. What about it?"

"Well," Strickland said, opening a tiny door on the replicator front service panel, "Terry showed me how he did it." Flipping a switch inside the door, the entire front of the unit hinged over to one side, exposing a door-sized array of circuit boards and, wires and crystals. "If we can't destroy it, maybe it can make a diversion for us." 

Harper realized what Strickland was doing. She handed the tricorder to Gordon. "Charlie, keep an eye on what baby brother is doing." 

"Computer," said Strickland, "diagnostic override alpha alpha 33J omega, acknowledge."

The unit beeped approvingly. "Diagnostic mode confirmed," came the reply from the unit. "All systems operational." 

There was a tiny keypad inside the frame. "Frannie," Strickland said, "What's the Starfleet code for manual energy systems override?"

Harper had to think for a moment. "One one zero zero delta delta nine." Strickland typed that into keypad. Instantly, a row of green lights came on. 

Strickland smiled, adjusting settings as he spoke. "Every replicator has a diagnostic mode built into its firmware. It allows the factory to pull any unit off the line for random tests. In diagnostic overclock mode, the machine will complete a designated task, even if it has to siphon all available energy and resources towards completing that task. That energy system override code just gave it access to everything--even the warp engines." He checked the bulk material gauge. The level was low, so it would probably would not work with molecular structures as complex as linguini. Something simpler, maybe...

"Computer," said Strickland, "give me a glass of chilled water." There was a slight hum and a shimmering of light inside the suitcase-sized niche in the unit, and suddenly a glass of water appeared. Strickland retrieved it and took a sip. 

"We need to hurry," Gordon said as he watched the readouts on the tricorder. "He looks like he's putting something together down there. If he stays on that side of the ship, it looks like we'll be able to go around him." 

"One second," Strickland replied. "Now that we know it works. I have to say the right command sequence. Computer," he commanded, closing his eyes, "service code epsilon no fail no fail kappa. Command: ten seconds from my mark, give me fifty thousand liters of chilled water. Service command override omicron. Acknowledge!" 

Lights that Harper had never seen before lit up on the exposed circuit boards of the replicator. The unit began to hum, and on the deck below lights flickered over Salpen Meg's workbench. Gordon could feel the deck plates begin to vibrate beneath his feet. "Command acknowledged," the replicator replied ominously. 

With a grunt, the access panel opened up and fell to McGovern's feet. "We got a back door now," he said. 

"Let's go!" Harper said. Strickland swung the cover panel back onto the replicator. The four lined up to crawl through the tiny access panel to the corridor beyond: Harper first, then Strickland, then Gordon. McGovern went last, pulling the panel closed behind him. Strickland stopped him at the last moment. Sticking his face back into the room, he called out, "Computer... mark!" 

"Ten," replied the replicator. "Nine. Eight..."

Salpen Meg pulled the shoulder strap for the loaded plasma cannon over his head and lifted it from the workbench. It had a hefty, wicked feel to it. With a flip of a switch it came to life with high-pitched whine. He smiled and headed up the port steps to the upper level... completely missing the four travelers as they came down the starboard steps on the opposite side of the ship. McGovern noticed a stack of Romulan renays in a pile on a console; without losing a step, he scooped them into his pocket and kept moving. Trying to keep quiet, they hurried towards the cargo ramp. Strickland counted to himself: Five, four...

Salpen stopped at the landing and braced himself, leveling the heavy weapon at the stubborn door above him. The travelers were just entering the cargo hold as the count went  three ... two... one...

At once, every light on the ship went out. The replicator beeped once, twice-- and then a massive jet of water shot out of the production niche. The wave hit the unconscious Rokar Meg, pushing him across the floor and against the far wall. Awakened, he sputtered and flailed his arms against the torrent. By the time he made it to his feet, the water lever was already up to his knees. 

Running down the ramp, Gordon spotted the luggage cart they'd commandeered. "Over here!" he said. The four climbed aboard, and as soon as McGovern sat down he fired up the batteries. The cart took off zooming across the flat expanse. 

In the darkness of the stairwell, Salpen had accidently flipped the switch turning off power to the cannon. He growled in frustration as he fiddled with the unfamiliar weapon. Inside the room above, the water was up to Rokar's chest as he worked his way over to the replicator. 

"Computer stop!" he cried. "Computer shut down!" Nothing was working. The water continued to shoot out of the unit. Debris and trash floated all around him. Rokar splashed around helplessly, pounding the machine with his fists as the water rose over the level of the niche. Swimming freely, the oncoming surge created a current in the water, pushing him away and into the far wall. 

A familiar sound told Salpen the weapon was active again. By then, his eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the ship. He leveled the cannon at the door and fired. A loud, bright explosion blew away a top quarter of the door– but then a fountain of water spewed from the opening, spraying Salpen and the stairwell. "Rokar!" he yelled. "Can you hear me?"

"Salpen!" cried Rokar, dog-paddling in the rising water. The ceiling was within reach. Salpen aimed the weapon and fired again. This time, the whole door was blown away. A thunderous waterfall came roaring down towards Salpen, who was thrown back by the waves. He pulled himself to his feet and climbed the remaining steps, struggling for hand-holds against the tide. At the doorway, the water was waist-deep and streaming past him. Water continued to shoot out of the replicator. "Rokar?" Salpen cried. 

"Salpen!" Rokar said, floating nearby, water swirling all around them. "Shoot it!"

"What?" his brother replied. 

"Shoot it! Oh, gimmie the damn thing!" Rokar threw himself through the waves and grabbed the weapon from Salpen. Struggling one-handed in the torrent, trying to keep his face above the waves, he aimed the cannon at the replicator and pulled the trigger. 

The four travelers could hear the explosion fifty meters away. "Stop, stop!" said Strickland, patting McGovern on the shoulder. The general stopped their cart, and the four looked back at the ship. The scout ship seemed to shudder. Smoke vented from between a half dozen hull plates-- and then a fountain of water burst through the windows of the bridge. Water squirted out of the engine pylons, and a cascade rushed down the cargo ramp, spilling out onto the dry, thirsty surface. 

McGovern started up the cart again and returned to the station, just as two police shuttles arrived overhead. They stopped the cart just as the husky storage officer appeared from behind some containers. 

"Ah, there you are!" he said. "Your cargo has just been loaded onto the truck. They're taking it out to the ship right now. You can ride along, if you like." 

"Thank you," said Harper politely, wiping a strand of hair from her face. "We would be delighted."

"I'll be just a minute," Gordon said as he rushed inside the station. The storage trunk was still on the ceiling, right where he left it. He brought it down, then drove it outside to the waiting truck. The others were already seated inside, watching water dribble out the lower stern of the stolen ship like an incontinent turtle.

"Man," said McGovern, "that ship had to go..."