Inspection

Attention, Icelandic Troll, stand by for customs inspection.

First Officer Stevenson and I were on the bridge, and our eyes flew open. We’d just docked at Upabove Station, preparing to bring on supplies and such. Our salvage bay was empty, so a customs inspection wasn’t something we’d normally be dealing with. Technically, stations could inspect civilian ships anytime they wanted, but it was unusual. Sometimes they were dealing with a rash of smugglers and just made an all-out effort to find them.

It’s also possible that the Captain’s current Space Bunny was a “person of interest,” although it’d be odd to send a customs inspector after her.

Compounding the problem was the fact that Troll was carrying some less-than-regulation equipment. Our jury-rigged shield generator was ex-Starfleet, and absolutely not intended for civilian use. The Starfleet medical unit welded onto our side was also… well, Starfleet, and not intended for civilian use. The emplaced megaphaser that I’d incorporated into a modified docking collar for our skiff was absolutely contraband, and a close inspection would reveal that the power conduits supplying the skiff were way oversized.

“Acknowledge, Upabove,” I replied, trying to sound bored. I cut the channel, and triggered the shipwide circuit. “Customs inspection, everyone. Plan Zed. Do it. Do it now.”

The inspector arrived via the auxiliary dock that connected directly to the back of the bridge module. That passageway also led to the aft engineering spaces, and it was our most common docking point. The rest of the Troll was basically a giant box, without any hard points to dock to.

“Good morning,” the inspector said, strolling onto the bridge. I mentally slapped myself for not cutting our artificial gravity before he boarded. He was a short, stout, beige-skinned… man, I presume, with deep skin folds all over his face. His head was covered with sparse, bristly black hair, although its primary feature was a… generously sized mouth that was, at present, easily conveying a “displeased” attitude. “I am Inspector Tr’gat. To whom is in charge of this vessel?”

Cool, Standard as a second language. “I am,” Stevenson answered, stepping toward him but not offering a hand to shake. “First Officer Shandra Stevenson.”

“You have no Captain?” Tr’gat asked in a somewhat gurgly voice.

“We do,” Stevenson said, “but he’s otherwise engaged, and I’ll be available to you for your inspection. Shall we start with the salvage bay?”

“No,” he said. “Thank you, what was your name? Jennifer. No, our scans already confirm that your salvage bay is empty. Why do you have a Starfleet emergency medical bay attached to your hull?” he asked.

I knew someone would notice that, one day. “It’s Stevenson,” she repeated, “and we frequently conduct rescue operations under contract to Starfleet. It became more efficient to have a permanent facility for our staff medic to work from.”

“We will inspect that at present,” Tr’gat said. He turned toward the engineering space. “For now, will Jennifer please show me your engineering?”

“Stevenson,” she said firmly. “Like it says on my uniform. And, of course. Right this way.”

I tagged along. Adam, our other Stevenson, was in a pair of greasy red ship’s coveralls, working through a preventative maintenance routine on the salvage bay door mechanism. “This is our Chief Engineer,” Shandra said. “This is Inspector Tr’gat.”

“Hi!” Adam said brightly. He stood, wiped a hand on his pant leg, and held it out to the inspector. The inspector looked at it like it might be radioactive, and made no move to reciprocate. “Seems fine,” he said. “You have weapons?”

“No,” Adam said, lowering his hand. “Our salvage bay has a standard short-range phaser array for cutting up wrecks, but unless you’re really close and really patient, it’s not much of a weapon.”

“Fine. Will the Jennifer please showing the bridge, now?” Tr’gat asked.

Shandra just sighed. “Right this way.” We walked back along the corridor to the bridge.

Tr’gat entered first, and glanced around. His attention was drawn–as I knew it would be–to the shield controls haphazardly bolted to the starboard rear console. “This is defensive shields?” he asked.

Shandra looked at me. “Ah, no,” I said. “It’s a proprietary controller for the salvage bay’s pressor/tractor net. It gives us more granular control over the containment field, and integrates with the ship’s inertial dampers. The basic technology is exactly the same as shield controllers from a few generations back, though.”

He stared at the equipment for a moment, and then made a wet-sounding harumph. “Is fine. Will view medical unit now.”

“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” Shandra asked.

“Medical unit,” he answered.

“Ah.”

We led him down to the ad-hoc hatch we’d created to access the medical bay. “Please be cautious,” she said, “as the unit has its own gravity field, which is perpendicular to the ship’s main field. There’s a zero-g buffer just around the hatch.”

“Acknowledges,” he said shortly. He walked forward, and with a confidence clearly born from experience, flipped into the medical unit. We followed.

Adam, who was also our Chief Medic, was there, in a pair of clean blue coveralls. “Hello!” he said brightly, holding out his hand.

Tr’gat drew up short. “You are Chief Engineer?”

“Nope! I’m the Chief Medic,” Adam said, just as brightly, although he let his hand drop. “We’re twins.”

Tr’gat looked like his brain was doing a soft-reset, and he looked mildly uncomfortable. “Is fine,” he said, glancing around the medical unit’s airlock. “Fine.” He left the unit, and we followed. Challenge one avoided: we had a lot of medical supplied in that unit that, while not strictly illegal, would have been a little difficult to explain to someone like Tr’gat.

We walked through the crew quarters, which comprised the rest of the ship. “Where is access to small shuttle?” he asked, stopping in the middle of the corridor. This was the big challenge. We couldn’t let him see Little Troll.

“That’s actually the Captain’s private skiff,” Shandra said, “and it’s only accessible through his quarters.”

“Jennifer will show.”

“I will not,” she said firmly, “because the Captain is in there and has requested privacy. Now, you’ve not indicated what it is you’re looking for, but as all we are doing is bringing supplies on board, not offloading anything, I don’t see where Customs has a role–”

“Then you will show,” he said, pointing at me, “or docking privileges revoked.”

I looked at Shan. She shrugged. I pointed to the door of Captain Ryan’s quarters. Tr’gat stalked over, and touched the door chime. A moment later, the door slid open. Captain Ryan was standing there, clothed in nothing but what God gave him and a fine sheen of sweat. “WHAT?” he yelled. “I told you I was busy!!”

Tr’gat took a firm step backwards. In an attempt to not look at Buzz’s naked glory, the inspector’s eyes slid sideways, into Ryan’s cabin. I was standing right behind Tr’gat, and I’m sure he must have seen what I saw. Buzz’ current Space Bunny was… well, they’d clearly been busy, and it had clearly involved… equipment. She smiled at us. I offered a small wave. Buzz scratched his balls.

“Is… is fine. Inspection complete,” Tr’gat said, turning away. Buzz smirked and closed the door. We followed the inspector back to the upper hull. “Tribbles,” he said, as he was clambering through the docking gangway. “Tribble problem on station. Ships always bringing them, them always sneaking off. Scans inconclusive.”

“Ah,” Shandra said. “Well, certainly no tribbles here.”

“We hate the things,” I added helpfully.

Tr’gat turned to close the docking hatchway, pointed at us, and said, “Captain not to arrive on station.” He dogged the hatch shut.

Shandra and I both slumped against the wall. “Thank God,” she said. She toggled her intercom. “All clear, everyone. Good job. Captain, that was–I’m going to go with inspired.”

A moment passed. Then, “what was? And who was that?”

“That was the inspector,” she replied. “We were doing Plan Zed.”

“Oh,” Ryan said. “I didn’t hear that bit. Sorry. We’ll be done here in a bit, did you guys need to get into the skiff for something?”

We didn’t reply.