The Class 11 Shuttle settled on the pad in the open-air landing port. The aft hatch of the shuttle hissed as the craft depressurized and slowly lowered the walking ramp. Captain Michael Angelus stepped into the fresh air as the twilight breeze nipped at his uniform. Waiting for him was Assistant Director Warren Bradburry, a portly man in fine attire who was anxiously awaiting the captain’s arrival.
“Captain Angelus, I’m so pleased you could make it.” Bradburry greeted, stepping forward to extend his hand. Michael shook the man’s hand in return, his empathic senses already feeling him out for information:
[Overwhelmed, Frustrated, Hopeful]
“Well, just glad command was able to reach me in time, I was nearly half a quadrant away when I got the call.” Michael expressed. “I did try to hail the Director several times, to get a heads up on what I was walking into, but received no call back.” He continued, allowing a hint of his irritation to cross his voice.
“I understand, sir. I’d like to offer the deepest apologies on behalf of the director, but the situation has been quite a handful, and it has taken all of our time and effort to try and keep the peace.” Bradburry explained. Michael continued to feel the emotions of the man as he spoke:
[Regretful, Embarrassed]
(“Well, he’s not lying…”) Michael thought to himself. “Understood, if things are as bad as you say, then we should get right to it. Please, lead the way.”
—————————–
The trip across the city was a pleasant journey, as they traveled by an open-topped hovercraft, reminiscent of an old Earth convertible automobile. In the span of 15 minutes, they had crossed from the Landing Port to a Medical Facility in the heart of downtown, passing city highlights like the Federation Baseball Museum & Sports Academy, and Shackleford Observatory. Even this late at night, various other transport vehicles were flying in unified patterns overhead, showcasing a robust city nightlife.
Entering the medical lab, Michael was directed to a turbolift that took them to the 47th floor, down a few winding corridors, and into a nearby operating theater. The only thing that remained was a federation casket, draped in the United Federation of Planets Flag, basked in a single overhead light that only illuminated that section of the room.
Michael approached the casket, a PADD lying atop it, with the service record of the deceased inside. Tapping the screen, the face of a purple-hued Rigelian male, with shoulder-length black hair, and a gold security uniform looked back at him. “Lieutenant Marcus Truellian,” Michael spoke aloud, as if to pay his respects to the officer. “What happened?”
“A sudden Ion storm hit the region. We have shielding, and backups, of course, but even the best technology is not flawless. The Lieutenant was hooked up to an experimental piece of equipment, and unfortunately, when the backups kicked on, it caused a feedback loop that…electrocuted him. For what it is worth, I am told it was instantaneous; he felt no pain in his passing.” Bradburry described.
[Remorse]
“I see. So where lies the problem…” Michael began to ask, and as the words left his lips, the doors to the amphitheater slid open, and the lights in the room came on in response.
“Captain! Finally. I am so sorry, we were told we would have been advised as soon as you arrived, but I guess it’s like our governmental hosts to block us at every avenue we pursue on this planet!” a tall, bald Tiburonian male in a white lab coat announced as he barged into the room to approach the two. “Maybe now, we can cut all of this bureaucratic red tape and return our intellectual property.”
[Agitated, Frustrated, Impatient]
The Scientist’s emotions were radiating from him like a leaking warp core, hot and infectious. Michael pushed the feelings down and extended his hand, “Captain Michael Angelus. USS Dragon. And you are?”
“Uh, Captain, This is…” Bradburry began to introduce, but was cut off by the Tiburonian.
“I am Doctor Igris Langsten of the Daystrom Institute.” He pronounced loudly, cutting off the Deputy Admin with an air of haughty authority. “I have been on site for several months overseeing an experimental project that the Institute has invested much time and resources into, and the City Administration has since blocked our attempts to recover proprietary data they contractually obligated to share!”
“Well, Doctor, as you can tell, it is very late, and I just got off a four-day shuttle ride to get here. So, I suggest we put a pause on negotiations—” Michael began to attempt to defuse, but a strong sense of approaching emotions caught him off guard, freezing him mid-sentence as he looked towards the doors.
[Maternal Grief, Betrayal, Furious]
Her voice echoed through the chamber before her physical form could be seen. “Assurances!” a female Rigelian barked as she entered the amphitheater. “Assured your little project would give my brother new life, not take it! Assured me I would be notified when the mediator arrived! Yet I find you three here, colluding in the shadows over the very corpse of my kindred!” She roared in protest.
“Whoa!” Michael called out, holding his hands up in surrender, “Who is this?!” He leaned over, whispering to Bradburry. “Rutessa Truellian, the Lieutenant’s elder sister, and chairwoman of the Rigelian Trade Commission.” The other human explained.
“Ma’am, My deepest condolences for your loss…” Michael turned to try to defuse the enraged grieving family member, but his words, too, were drowned out by the bellowing of the scientist next to him.
“Mind your place, woman, you’ll get your drivel trinkets as soon as I finally get the access I need to terminate that superfluous program.” Langsten snapped, paying no mind to Michael’s attempt to ease the tension in the room.
Rutessa’s dark eyes narrowed at the Tiburonian, “How DARE you! Purification of my brother’s soul amounts to more than your medial lines of code, you Pompous As—”
“ENOUGH!” Michael bellowed, silencing the scientist and sister in one word. The compounding negative emotions reverberated in the captain, causing him to lose composure for a moment. Yet the proverbial feedback was enough to catch the two off guard and focus their attention on him.
“Ms. Truellian, I am sorry for your loss, but there is no coup going on here. You can check docking control records. I arrived 20 minutes ago from a 96-hour flight. Rest assured that in the morning, I will be doing my due diligence into this matter and helping you find a resolution to your grievances.” Michael spoke with a calculated tone.
“Doctor…” He turned, his tone an octave deeper to express his displeasure. “After I complete my initial assessment of this matter, I will come to you for further follow-up on your complaint. Until then, BOTH parties need to return to your dwellings for the night, and cool off.” he finished with a firm ‘I’m not asking’ tone.
“Very well, Captain.” Lady Truellian hissed.
Doctor Langsten only grunted, but also turned and headed out of the room, right behind the Rigelian dignitary. When both Michael and Bradburry were finally alone once more, he found himself able to exhale deeply once more. “THIS is what you have been dealing with?”
“Honestly, that’s tame compared to how they are during the day.” Bradburry admitted.
Michael turned to set his hand on the casket, “Sorry you had to hear that.”
“Its ok… they’re both pretty worked up over this fiasco.” A voice came from the entrance of the room. Michael spun around in reflex, not hearing the doors open to alert him of a new arrival. Next to the door stood a Rigelian male, wearing a white overshirt and a calm expression
[~~~~~~~~~~~]
Michael had reached out towards the figure, but was not getting any sort of emotional feedback from him. “I’m sorry, if your family, I’ll have to ask you to return to your quarters for the night. I’ll be by in the morning to touch base.” The Betazoid repeated, far calmer than previously.
“Oh, I heard. I just wanted to apologize for my sister. She means well but can be quite the handful.” The Rigelian remarked, stepping forward towards the pair. As the male grew closer, Michael could not help but recognize him from somewhere.
“And here is the proverbial wrench in our gear house…” Bradburry expressed, regarding the Rigelian, with endearment. “Captain, allow me to introduce you to our ‘complication’. No offence.”
“None taken, this whole shitshow has been fubar.” The Rigelian agreed, now side by side with Michael, holding out his hand. Michael took it out of habit, shaking the man’s hand, and hoping physical contact would give him more mental indication of who or what this man was after.
[~~~~~~~~~~~]
Still nothing.
“Nice to meet you, Captain, I’m Lieutenant Marcus Truellian…at least, I think.”
As Michael shook his hand, he couldn’t help but finally notice the Mobile Emitter pinned to the man’s arm.
“Oh…kay…” Michael sputtered in utter confusion.
[To be Continued]
