The Entropy Effect

Snnanagfashtalli and Jenniver Aristeides had been obvious choices for the team. Jenniver towered over even Barry al Auriga. She was like a steel statue. Flynn had, at first, thought Aristeides the most grotesquely ugly human creature she had ever seen, but after a few weeks she began to feel that the quiet woman had a strange, stony, sculptural beauty.

Snnanagfashtalli was the only truly vicious member of the team. After seeing her in action the day before, Flynn had decided to use her only on assignments when she was sure nothing would happen, or when she was certain something would. Snarl did not attack for no reason, and she attacked ferociously when she had cause, but she was not good in the middle ground when restraint and discipline were called for. She possessed neither. Under stress she was more likely to use her ruby fangs than her phaser.

Maximo Alisaunder Arrunja, the last member of the team, had a talent for blending into crowds. He was a craggy-faced, graying, middle-aged man. When he decided not to blend, he emanated the most chillingly dangerous aura of anyone Flynn had ever met. She had seen him break up an incipient fistfight between two irritable crew members: he never had to lay a finger on either of them, he did not even have to threaten them. They surrendered out of pure irrational terror at what he might do.

Flynn glanced at Captain Kirk. “I hope the security force is adequate, sir.”

“Yes, Commander Flynn,” he said, so poker-faced that she knew her assessment of the situation was not far wrong.

Flynn glanced at al Auriga. “All set, Barry?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said softly.

Then, after half a beat, Jenniver Aristeides said, “If we’re waiting for a troop of Klingons.”

She just barely smiled. Max laughed, the sound like a growl, Neon made an eerie, tinkling, wind-chime noise, Barry giggled, and Snarl glanced from face to face, rumbling low in her throat, wondering if it were she who was being laughed at. Along with restraint and discipline, Snarl also lacked a sense of humor.

“I appreciate all of you a very great deal,” Flynn said. Snarl raised her ears and smoothed her hackles and glided silently to her position by the transporter.

“Captain Kirk,” Mr. Spock said, in a tone Flynn would have called very near distress, if anyone had asked her. “Captain Kirk, Dr. Mordreaux is an elderly academic. This . .. this .. . guerrilla strike force is

hardly necessary.”

“Come now, Mr. Spock—we want Ian Braithewaite to see that we’re taking him seriously, don’t we?”

Spock’s gaze moved from Kirk, to Flynn, and across the security group. He looked at the ceiling for a long moment.

“As you wish, Captain.”

The transporter signalled ready, and a moment later the prisoner and Aleph Prime’s chief prosecutor materialized. Flynn’s quintet put their phaser rifles at ready, and she rested her hand easily on the butt of her holstered phaser pistol.

Why—he’s drugged, Flynn thought, as soon as Mordreaux solidified. The blank expression and unfocussed gaze allowed no other interpretation. In addition, the prisoner wore energy-cuffs on his wrists, and a set of inertial-resistance leg restraints that would permit him to walk, but which would snap short and trip him if he overcame the drugs long enough to try to run. It was all as old-fashioned as a set of iron chains, as unnecessary and as humiliating. Mordreaux was in no shape to notice humiliation. Flynn glanced at Spock, but his face remained impassive; he had apparently expended any outburst on the guerrilla strike force.

Braithewaite bounded down from the platform, glanced briefly at the security team, and nodded to Kirk. “Great,” he said. “Where’s the detention cell?”

“Mr. Braithewaite,” Kirk said, “I’m taking the Enterprise out of orbit immediately. There’s no time for you to look around, nor any need.”

“But Captain—I’m going to Rehab Seven with you.”

‘That’s impossible.”

“It’s orders, Captain.” He handed Kirk a subspace transmission form. Kirk scanned it, frowning.

“You’ll be on your own getting back, and as you pointed out yourself there aren’t many official ships.”

“I know, Captain,” Ian Braithewaite said. His expression turned somber and thoughtful. “After what’s happened—this trial, and Lee, and . .. well, I need some time by myself. To think some things out. I’ve arranged for a single-ship; I’m going to sail back.” He glanced down at Kirk. “I’ll do my best to stay out of your hair till we get to Rehab Seven, and you won’t have to worry about me afterward.”

He hurried after the security team and his prisoner. Kirk paused a moment, feeling rather nonplussed at being told not to worry about someone who proposed to fly all the way across a star system, all alone, in a tiny, fragile, unpowered sailboat. Shaking his head, he followed the others out of the transporter room.