Though Kutal was seething with a blood fury unlike any he had ever felt before, his voice was deathly quiet as he said to BelHoQ, “Seize the port. Find the saboteurs. Kill them. Now.”
“I thought you said we didn’t have time,” BelHoQ replied.
Kutal shot him a murderous glare. “We’ll make the time.”
The Klingon soldiers’ boots were still coated with foul-smelling wet filth as they stormed through the Borzha II spaceport, rounding up anyone and everyone who wasn’t one of their own.
BelHoQ was in charge of the siege, and he orchestrated it with brutal efficiency. His men left no compartment unsearched, no locker unopened. A skeleton crew had been left aboard the Zin’za with the captain, freeing most of the ship’s more than four hundred personnel to place the facility under control.
“Please,” mewed Bohica, the spaceport’s pathetic weakling of an administrator. “There’s no need to hold all these people, is there? The galley staff hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“I’ve eaten in your commissary,” BelHoQ said. “I assure you, they have done many things wrong.”
Scores of civilians were dragged past, kicking, protesting their innocence, and cursing the Klingon troops. There was no way for BelHoQ to know which ones were speaking the truth—at least, not until the beatings commenced. Hidden details would no doubt come to light once more coercive methods of interrogation were initiated. Until then he would let his men continue to gather evidence and segregate the suspects.
So far the search process had consumed nearly four hours of his time. More than eight hundred people lived and worked aboard the spaceport, and few had come willingly when his men had begun rounding them up in the cargo bay for mass detention.
Content to direct the operation from the administrator’s office, BelHoQ was having second thoughts about permitting Bohica to remain as a fair witness to the proceedings. For one thing, the man was an inveterate whiner. “This is outrageous,” Bohica complained, standing in front of what had been, until four hours ago, his own desk. “This was not part of our agreement! If even one of my people is harmed, my world will have to rethink its decision to let you use our port!”
BelHoQ looked up from Krom’s latest report and scowled at Bohica. “Was that supposed to be a threat?” Before the effete Borzhan could answer, BelHoQ picked up the heaviest knick-knack on the man’s desk and threw it at him. The lumpy block of glazed ceramic caromed off Bohica’s broad forehead, knocked his spectacles off his face, and dropped the man unconscious to the deck. BelHoQ waved over two of his soldiers and pointed at the administrator. “Take him below.”
The warriors obeyed without speaking. As they dragged the Borzhan out of his office, Lieutenant Tonar walked in. “We have them, Commander. Three saboteurs.”
He bared his fangs with anticipation. “Where?”
“They were in a secured docking bay, trying to sneak aboard an impounded ship.” He walked to one of the office’s security monitors and switched it to a different internal feed. An image of the docking bay appeared, showing the three prisoners and the heavily armed squad of Klingon troops that had captured them. “We checked their identities,” he said as he walked back to the desk. “All three are wanted criminals who worked for the man who owned that ship.” Tonar handed a printed report to BelHoQ, who looked it over. “Our men found evidence that the suspects have been living aboard the impounded vessel, in scan-shielded hidden compartments under the deck plates.”
“Broon,” said BelHoQ, reading the name of the ship’s proprietor, a reputed arms dealer and interstellar racketeer who had been arrested several weeks earlier for possession of a stolen Imperial Klingon deep-space probe—one that had been deployed to chart the Jinoteur system. “Interesting,” the first officer said, thinking aloud. “It seems that Broon—or perhaps whatever criminal syndicate he works for—has an interest in the Jinoteur system. And they feel strongly enough about it to risk sabotaging our ship.” He cast a pointed stare at Tonar. “We have linked them directly to the sabotage, yes?”
“Yes, sir,” Tonar said. “A search of their ship uncovered several spare parts like the ones used to damage our sensor array—including some in the process of being disguised and a few failed pieces that look like early attempts.”
BelHoQ nodded with satisfaction. Hard evidence and solid indication of premeditated action. He couldn’t have asked for more, especially in so short a time. “Well done,” he said.
“Do you or the captain wish to question them?” asked Tonar.
“No,” he replied. “We’ve lost enough time as it is. File a complete report—and make sure you record the execution.”
The distant shrieks of disruptors echoed in the corridors.
“Sounds like Broon’s boys just got dusted,” said Delmark, a nondescript Orion man with dark hair, a lean physique, and a complexion of an especially deep hue of green.
His two comrades walked with him in a corridor above the hangar deck. Tarris, an Elasian woman with caramel-colored skin and snow-white hair, asked, “What if the Klingons keep investigating?” Her large, almond-shaped eyes harbored anxiety. “It won’t take a genius to realize those three couldn’t have accessed the station’s sewage-treatment system.”
“The Klingons won’t even think of that,” said Laëchem, a fair-haired Zibalian man with brilliant indigo and vermilion facial tattoos. “They have someone to blame, and now they have a schedule to keep. As long as we don’t hit them again, we should be in the clear.”
Delmark nodded. “I agree. It’s time to lay low.” Glancing out an observation window at the Klingon battle cruiser Zin’za, he added, “How long do you think it’ll take them to swab out the lower decks?”
“Weeks,” Laëchem said with a smirk.
All three accomplices chuckled. They stifled their mirth as a squad of Klingon warriors double-timed past them, on their way back to the ship. Tarris remarked, “Looks like they’re almost ready to go.” She checked her chrono. “Only eleven hours late…. Ganz won’t be happy about that.”
“It’s the best we can do,” Delmark said. “Besides, I think he’ll forgive us when he hears that one of his biggest rivals is both down for the count and taking the heat for our handiwork.”
Much to Captain Kutal’s relief, the Zin’za cleared moorings without further incident and navigated swiftly clear of commercial traffic in the Borzha system. Less than an hour after BelHoQ had imposed a much-deserved death sentence on the saboteurs, the Klingon warship was hurtling through space at maximum warp toward Jinoteur.
A disgusting reek permeated every compartment. Officers throughout the ship were much more vigilant than usual for any sign of insubordination. Any error, no matter how slight, by enlisted personnel would be sufficient excuse to put someone on a punishment detail. On every deck, teams of grumbling enlisted men moved about on all fours—scraping, scooping, scrubbing, spraying one menIqam at a time in what seemed like a futile effort to cleanse the ship of its repugnant stench.
The officers, at least, had the benefit of raiding the medical supplies for help. Each of the senior officers wore a smear of white ointment under his nose. The sharply medicinal salve was used by the ship’s surgeon principally for blocking the smell of decay while he performed autopsies. Now that the interior of the Zin’za smelled like something that had crawled up the back end of a targ and died, the ointment had become the most popular substance on the ship.
As successful as the salve was in blocking the ship’s pervasive stink, it also obliterated desirable odors. As Kutal and several of his top officers sat down in the mess hall, he expected his evening meal to lack much of its normal flavor.
Then the food slots opened, the officers saw their meals, and in unison Kutal and his men howled with rage.