The Good That Men Do - Andy Mangels [55]
Trip nodded as though he knew what Wungki was talking about. He assumed the Betazoids were some race he’d not yet encountered, though he had no idea why they would be naked at a wedding, nor whether or not he would find a nude Betazoid wedding party distracting.
Wungki’s crew had avoided capture by Enterprise through a sort of bait-and-switch operation. They had apparently been carrying a smaller, decommissioned vessel in their cargo hold, which they set to self-destruct via a remote signal, and then released into space. They had then landed their primary vessel in a large crater in the asteroid field Enterprise was searching, and shut down all unnecessary power, using some form of dampening device to hide their life signs and residual energy emissions. Trip had attempted to learn more about the dampener, but it seemed that the crew wasn’t eager to share their secrets; most of his questions had been rewarded with silence.
Now, with almost three hours having passed since the detonation of the decoy ship, Wungki and his crew finally felt safe enough to power their systems back up and venture out into open space again.
Despite all the excitement he had crammed into this very long day- or perhaps because of it- Trip now found himself sitting on a hard bench in a smelly alcove, on the point of dozing off. With Wungki’s crew manning all the shipboard stations, he had essentially nothing to do other than sit in an alcove, waiting. He had no reports to read, and he was stuck among a crew that wasn’t about to give him access to their computer system, even to look for entertainment.
He awoke with a start when someone shoved him.
“We’re within range of your contact,” one of the more grotesque-looking mercenaries said. “We’ll be beaming you over as soon as he gives us the signal.”
“Oh, thanks,” Trip said, shaking his head to clear the fog away.
Minutes later, after a barely acknowledged good-bye to the mercenaries, he felt a transporter beam shimmer around him for the second time in one day. For an instant, he was amazed at how nonchalantly some people seemed to be using transporters these days; even Enterprise’s crew had come a long way toward trusting the devices over the past four years, when at first they had been used mostly to move parts, tools, or other inanimate material on and off the ship.
He materialized on a small pad in what appeared to be a vessel barely larger than a Starfleet shuttlepod.
A lithe woman, her long black hair pulled back into a ponytail behind her, sat at what appeared to be the ship’s helm, which was crammed into a small cockpit area. Trip’s mind flashed on Malcolm’s warning about women for a moment, until she turned around.
It was not a woman but a man, apparently of Southeast Asian descent. The man stood and approached Trip, moving with an almost sinuous grace.
“Hello,” he said, his voice a deep basso. “I’m Tinh Hoc Phuong, field operations, currently assigned to the Romulan theater of operations. Glad to finally meet you.” He held out his hand. “Welcome aboard the Branson.”
Trip shook the other man’s hand. “Charles Tucker, uh, Commander, Starfleet. But most people just call me Trip.”
Phuong smiled. “Not anymore they don’t.”
Trip was a bit taken aback, but he tried his best to maintain his composure. “Yeah, well, I haven’t quite gotten used to being dead just yet.”
“I disappeared off the sensor grid three years ago,” Phuong said. He gestured to a small alcove to Trip’s right. “You want some coffee, or something to eat? We’ve got a long flight ahead of us.”
“Sure,” Trip said, moving over to the alcove, where he saw shelves bearing various prepackaged foodstuffs, all arranged in an efficient manner. There was also a tiny kitchen area, with a small sink, and a