The Operative (A Star Trek novel)

Chapter Eight

A freighter, pitted and dirty, plies a little-used trade route, a tiny speck in the great void of interstellar space, skirting the Klingon Neutral Zone. It is little more than a small, discoid hull propelled by a single warp nacelle affixed to its top surface by a stubby strut. Beneath the saucer, a large, flat pad mates to a boxy, featureless cargo pod. The pod's white, pristine newness is in stark contrast to the freighter's dingy gray. Aft of the first pod, others, linked by thick umbilicals, trail off into the distance like links of sausage.

Bayou Milieu is the ship's rather cryptic name. She is a rarity in these days of great trading conglomerates and Starfleet freighters. This ship is owned by a single extended family. It is the best of their tiny fleet, the major source of their income.

At the moment, the captain, the family's eldest (and adopted) daughter, is in her cabin. Genevieve Montenegro's small room is unkempt. Clothes lie about on the floor as if a closet has exploded. Most flat surfaces have surrendered to an overwhelming clutter of papers and personal knickknacks. On the nightstand by the narrow bunk is a nearly empty bottle of Romulan ale. Other bottles, some of less illegal liquors, lie in a heap beside the bed.

On the bed's rumpled covers, a middle-aged, stocky woman, dressed only in her underwear, snores exuberantly. Montenegro is not a particularly handsome woman, but, were her mouth closed and she awake, she would be imposing. Most of her bulk seems to be muscle, and her lined face shows a daunting hardness; apparently the lines are not from laughter. Even in sleep, she frowns.

Bayou's crew consists mostly of men and women who have either been kicked out of Starfleet or could never have gotten in in the first place. Bayou's owners can't afford to pay the kind of prices that would bring choice crew running. They are, on the whole, a tough lot.

Nevertheless, they are almost to a person afraid of Montenegro. She is strong and, when riled, dangerous and unpredictable. More than once, she has cowed violent, fierce crewmen, some much larger than herself; once she put down a mutiny by force, just her and a couple of loyal officers. She demands obedience, and gets it.

The intercom whistles. No response. It whistles again.

"Bridge to Captain," a surly male voice says, impatience or natural inclination making it almost a sneer. It repeats itself, more loudly.

On the third attempt, she rouses herself and slaps a button beside the intercom.

"Yeah?" she growls, a mixture of grogginess, hangover, and annoyance coloring her voice. "What is it, Holman? It better be good."

"Sorry to disturb you, Cap'n," he lies, obviously. "But we're being hailed. And you're being asked for by name."

Holman is new, and sneaky. He's been told by the others about her temper, yet seems to find great amusement in constantly walking the line of insubordination. Nothing overt, mind you, nothing she can legitimately call him on, but just enough to annoy her.

Possibly a death wish. That's Montenegro's opinion.

"Out here? In this God-forsaken bit of nowhere? Who is it?"

For a second, Holman doesn't reply. Something in his captain's voice gives him pause, something he has never heard there before: fear.

"The hail comes from a ship claiming to be the Federation starship Enterprise. She's matching our velocity now."

She releases a pent-up breath; it probably isn't the thing she most worries about these days. Most likely, he hasn't found her at last. Still, she has a sinking feeling in her stomach.

She's an honest business person. Mostly.

Hell, by the standards of most of the other independents, I'm a saint, she thinks.