Unification - Jeri Taylor [29]
“I’m not accustomed to losing things, Commander,” he said resolutely. “I‘11 find your ship for you.” He began to work the keys with furious intent. “I have the T’Pau cross-referenced in four different directories.”
“When it was brought here, was it stripped of materiel—armament, sensors?” This was from the dark one with the instrument on his eyes.
“Of course,” said Dokachin, still working to locate the missing ship.
“Can you tell us what happened to its navigational deflector?”
Klim looked at the monitor. He had accessed a processing file on the T’Pau and was able to determine the disposition of its materiel. “It was routed to the Tripoli, a holding vessel on the outer rim of the shipyard.” The beard jumped in. “It’s not there anymore. What’s left of that deflector is laid out on the floor of our cargo bay.”
Suddenly Klim Dokachin was frightened. Things beyond his control were happening. He had trusted his records, his books, his files, and they were crumbling before him. Until now, if his computer said something was stored somewhere, that’s where it was. There was surety in his system. If that was gone, what else was there? How could he count on anything?
“How can that be?” he breathed weakly.
“Maybe we ought to pay a visit to the Tripoli,” said the beard. Dokachin realized he was afraid to go there.
But of course they did. He gave the coordinates to the helmsman—he tried to make his voice sound as confident as the first time—and they maneuvered their way through the shipyard. Dokachin was silent for a long time, his mind racing to find a rational explanation for the missing ship. But none of the possibilities he constructed held up for very long. It would seem he had made an error. The T’Pau was not in space eighteen-gamma-twelve; it was somewhere else, and he couldn’t imagine how to begin tracking it. Had someone made a logging error? Had some junior computer operator assigned the ship to another space and failed to make the correct entry?
But he himself always checked those entries, just to prevent something like this from happening. He felt himself sinking lower into the chair, the weight of his misery crushing him.
“Mr. Dokachin, I’m sure there’s a reason for this, and we’ll find it.” It was the beautiful woman with her beautiful voice and her beautiful sensitivity. He took refuge in the comfort of her large, dark eyes; it was as though he dared not look away from them. For the first time, he felt like speaking.
“In all the time the Zakdorn have operated this depot, nothing’s ever been lost,” he assured her. “Never.” She nodded sympathetically and he felt better. “I’ll tell you this—somebody will pay. I’ll conduct an investigation. Whoever is responsible—”
“Approaching the coordinates of the Tripoli, sir.” The guttural growl of a formidable Klingon interrupted Dokachin’s discourse. Klim felt himself go queasy, and he was aware that the beard looked in his direction. He tried to appear nonchalant. “On screen,” said the beard. The Tripoli was not in its assigned docking position. Dokachin was devastated. “I do not understand this. This is not possible.” His universe was giving way beneath him. Nothing made sense.
“We beam goods to the Tripoli on a regular schedule,” said Dokachin desperately. “There was a shipment yesterday, and another is set for today. It must be there.” “When is today’s transport?”
“Just over two hours from now. A shipment of deuterium storage tanks.”
The beard considered this for a moment, then turned toward the Conn. “Ensign, align the Enterprise so we’ll appear to be one of the abandoned ships. Mr. La Forge, when we’re in position, shut down engines and all systems except sensors and life support.”
“Aye, sir.”
The beard moved toward a chair that Dokachin assumed was that of command.
“I’m guessing somebody’s going to be here to receive those sensors—and I’d be very interested to see who it is.”
Hearing the man’s quiet authority, Dokachin felt better. He looked at the woman, and she smiled warmly at him. For the first time, he felt a camaraderie with