Enigma Ship - J. Steven York [1]
On this run, the two ships carried power station components, Cardassian war salvage from abandoned bases now needed to rebuild Cardassia Prime. If Pappy found it ironic that the Federation was paying to ship Cardassian war materials to restore Cardassia, he never would have said so. It was exactly the sort of situation a tramp freighter captain lived for. It was Pappy’s ambition to buy the Vulpecula from Captain Rivers one of these days. His share of profits from this run would be one more step in that direction.
If they ever got to Cardassia.
“Vulpecula to Lincoln. How long are we going to be delayed this time?”
One of the secondary viewscreens cleared, and the angular features of a human Starfleet officer appeared. “This is Captain Newport. Shouldn’t you be addressing that question to the Arch-Merchant?”
Pappy grinned, he hoped not too much. “Since it’s my guess your engineers will be doing the repair work, I thought you’d know best.”
Newport chuckled. “My chief engineer is putting together a repair party right now. We should know more after they beam over. Tell me, why is it—” He hesitated. “How to put this politely?”
“I won’t make you ask the question, Captain. The Arch-Merchant is a corporate ship. She looks clean and sharp for the stockholders, but she’s lucky to make it out of orbit without shedding a nacelle. We’re a tramp, and independent. Our ship looks like the rattletrap she is, but we keep the important systems in top shape, appearances be damned. Most of the time, we’re all we’ve got out here.”
Newport nodded. “Well, thanks for being the less troublesome part of this mission.” He glanced to one side. “Looks like the Arch-Merchant managed to plug the plasma leak on their own. Uncommonly resourceful of them. Now if we can just—”
The screen went blank. No static, no interference, no sign of a problem on the Federation ship. It just went blank. Startled, Pappy glanced up at the main viewer. He could see the Arch-Merchant‘s plasma cloud, a tiny smudge against the darkness, glowing in reflecting starlight, but the Lincoln was gone.
He slammed the intercom panel. “Condition red, all crew to emergency stations. Possible hostiles incoming!” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “Captain to the bridge.”
He knew the result of that last command: the captain would at least attempt to sober up first. If he was lucky, he might see her on the bridge in an hour or so.
He hailed the Arch-Merchant. “Did you see what happened to the Lincoln?”
The reply was audio only and crackled with static. The voice was high, tinged with incipient panic. “No, Vulpecula, our sensors are down too. Are we under attack? We can’t see anything. We’re dead in space! Don’t leave us!”
“I’m not leaving anybody, but I’m busy here. Save your questions and send out a distress call for me, will you?” Pappy closed the channel and turned his attention to the sensor screens. No hostiles, no radiation or debris, no cosmic storms, nothing that would account for the Lincoln‘s disappearance.
He reviewed his own sensor logs, replaying the event. The Lincoln vanished, without violence or explosion. He slowed down the replay, then slowed it again. He squinted. The Lincoln didn’t just vanish. It was as though it had run into an invisible rift in space and been swallowed. A wormhole? He shook his head. He should have picked something up on sensors.
He heard the bridge doors slide open. The Vulpecula was highly automated, and the tiny bridge had only two stations. The second was staffed only during shift changeovers or critical operations such as docking. Or during emergencies, so he wasn’t surprised to hear someone slide into the seat behind him. He was surprised to catch a strong odor of Saurian brandy.
Turning his head, he caught the captain’s eye. “Carry on, Pappy. I took a handful of stims, but she’s still your ship