Free Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice by James Swallow Page A

stubby pylons protruded from the sides of the fuselage at ninety-degree angles, and connected to each was an angular warp drive nacelle, similar to the ones in use across Starfleet in the 2270s. Rising from the upper surface of the hull, offset from the centerline toward the port side, was a large conning tower. An orchard of sensor masts extended upward around it, some of them flexing in the stiff breeze. A registration code—NAR-1337—was visible in large white letters across the tower.
    Tom gestured up at the ship as they approached it. “Say hello to the S.S. Snipe . She may not look like much, but I’m told she’s got it where it counts.”
    Tuvok didn’t reply, his gaze running over the hull of the craft, looking for anything that seemed anomalous. He noted the nubs of military-surplus shield emitters and the shuttered mouth of a photon torpedo launcher. Both were prohibited by Federation shipping regulations on a civilian craft with an NAR registry, but he kept the observation to himself for the moment. Overall, the ship seemed spaceworthy, but her outward appearance had been poorly maintained. Cosmetic damage from micrometeorites and radiation scarredthe hull. In many places the Snipe was patched with mismatched sheets of tritanium and ugly retrofits.
    They passed under the starboard warp nacelle and a platform came away from the hull over their heads, dropping like an elevator to the rain-slick ground. A large humanoid male rode the platform down, leaning on a support rod, scowling at the inclement weather as if it were somehow personally spiting him.
    Tom raised a hand and nodded a greeting. “You came to meet us, Khob. I’m touched.”
    The other being snorted. Dappled skin the color of sand pulled tight around his broad face. Tuvok saw his glittering eyes and recognized his species as Suliban. Much taller than the Vulcan and broader across the chest, Khob had an endomorphic physique more suited to manual labor on some heavy-gravity world than to a clandestine mission. He was doubtless some kind of aberration among his race; Suliban were more typically of slighter build.
    He stepped off the elevator and waved a tricorder over Tuvok. “Hold still,” he rumbled. “Won’t take a second.”
    â€œI am carrying no weapons or concealed devices,” Tuvok told him.
    Khob’s face shifted, showing disappointment. “Not looking for guns. Making sure you’re not sick. Not carrying any viral vectors.”
    â€œThis big fellow is our medic,” Tom explained. “Another contractor, like me.”
    â€œClean,” Khob reported, as the tricorder beeped. He stepped back onto the elevator, beckoning them after him. “Time to go. Place is too damp for me.”
    â€œWe’ve only been here a day,” noted Tom.
    â€œDay too long,” corrected Khob. “Ferengi may like it. I don’t.”
    â€œThere are Ferengi on this ship?” asked Tuvok.
    Tom nodded. “Just the one. Another one of yours, actually.”
    Tuvok didn’t immediately follow the other Riker’s meaning at first, but then the platform rose back into the Snipe ’s cavernous cargo bay and the first face he saw had the distinctive ridged nose, pronounced forehead, and wide ears of a Ferenginar native.
    â€œCommander Tuvok?” The Ferengi offered a handshake, then seemed to realize that was incorrect protocol for greeting a Vulcan. He gave a crooked smile. “Oh. Hello there, sir. I’m Nog.” He tapped at the civilian jacket he was wearing, at the spot where a Starfleet combadge would have sat on a uniform tunic. “Lieutenant Commander Nog from Deep Space Nine.”
    â€œIndeed?” Tuvok considered this. “You were also summoned for this operation?”
    â€œI was pulled from my engineering posting a few days after . . . after the incident.” His smile faded as he remembered the moment, and Tuvok guessed