Agents of Influence

by Dayton Ward

  Binnix found a table near the back of the room that allowed them to sit together while keeping watch on the front entrance as well as the hallway leading to where she knew from previous visits the kitchen, storage, and lavatories were located. Another door on the room’s far side led to stairs and, she guessed, either office or living space for the tavern’s proprietor. The bar itself was dimly lit, with recessed lighting playing off the worn wood floor, stone walls, and the haphazard collection of tables, chairs, and stools scattered around the room. All manner of bladed weapons, family crests, and the skulls and hides of various game animals festooned the walls. A large stain discolored the floorboards near their table, and Binnix decided from its shape and size that it likely was caused by a patron meeting some form of unfortunate demise. A fight provoked by a perceived dishonoring of one’s self or family? Perhaps a squabble over a mutual love interest.

  Binnix slid into one of the chairs that provided her a good vantage point, glancing to the bar and seeing Watson waiting for the bartender to fill his order. She heard him ask for two tankards of bloodwine, and the burly, unkempt Klingon behind the bar with a metal disc over his left eye growled something in response. Binnix gave silent thanks for the medication they took that sheltered them from the worst effects of Klingon food and drink. One could not be an undercover agent among an alien people and be dainty about one’s eating habits, after all. She also knew this was a momentary diversion; a test of sorts to see if they were truly being followed.

  They were.

  Two male Klingons, one taller than the other and dressed not in military or law enforcement uniforms but instead simple black leather pants and jackets, entered the tavern. Based on their wardrobe and mannerisms, Binnix guessed them to be with Imperial Intelligence, that branch of the Klingon government tasked with espionage and identifying external and internal threats to the Empire. Imperial Intelligence agents enjoyed tremendous latitude and autonomy while carrying out their duties, often operating above the law and even in defiance of cultural and social customs by which many Klingons defined their lives. They were the walking embodiment of “the ends justifying the means,” earning them mixed measures of respect and disdain from the general populace.

  If they were here, the situation as it pertained to her and Watson was even more dire than she had at first suspected.

  While the taller Klingon made a pointed effort to look everywhere but in her direction, his companion was even less subtle as his gaze lingered on her for longer than the expected one or two seconds. They had to have seen her from outside, looking through the window into the bar just as she and Watson had done. The question now bugging Binnix was whether they were alone or if they might have friends waiting outside, or perhaps entering through a rear door in a bid to trap their quarry.

  Damn.

  With as much casualness as she could muster, Binnix opened her satchel and reached into it, her fingers sliding around the disruptor’s handgrip. By touch alone, she verified the weapon’s power level was set to stun. She did not want to kill anyone unless no other option remained, knowing full well any would-be captors were unlikely to give her similar consideration.

  “You dare show yourself here?”

  The sudden outburst almost made Binnix flinch, and it had the effect of causing nearly everyone else in the tavern to turn their attention to the source of the bellowed question: Phil Watson. Standing at the bar, a tankard of bloodwine in his hand, he jabbed an accusatory finger at the new arrivals.

  “After the dishonor you brought to my house,” he barked in perfect tlhIngan Hol, “you have the audacity to stand before me now? Is this a challenge?” His stance seemed unsteady, as though he had already consumed far too much bloodwine, but Binnix knew it was part of whatever insane attempt at distraction this was supposed to be.

  It seemed to be working, judging by the looks on the faces of the two Klingons, who exchanged glances with each other. Then they scowled at some of the other patrons who for their own reasons appeared to be taking Watson’s side in this sudden, unexpected disagreement. Accusing a Klingon of bringing dishonor upon another individual or family was a bold action, and one that tended to engender automatic support for the person bringing such a challenge, and Watson now was using that to great effect. One Klingon male, obviously intoxicated, rose clumsily from his chair. His entire body swayed as he pointed to one of the new arrivals and uttered something Binnix could not understand or decipher. Whatever he said generated laughter from his companions, and only served to darken the expressions of the two suspicious Klingons. The taller of the two reached into his jacket, his hand emerging with a compact disruptor pistol. That was enough to set off several of the patrons, at least a dozen of whom stood to face the new challenge in their midst.

  Oh, hell.

  Pulling her own disruptor from her satchel, Binnix set the weapon in her lap, out of sight under the table. What the hell were they supposed to do now? Her first instinct was to head for the door at the back of the room, but that was an obvious move she was sure their pursuers were anticipating. They may not have expected the reception Watson had created with his gruff greeting, but if they had any training and experience at all, they would expect to face some kind of attempt to throw them off the chase. Indeed, the shorter Klingon looked to already be putting it together, grabbing his companion’s arm and gesturing toward the back of the tavern.

  At Binnix.

  Wait, she thought. They don’t know about Phil?

  She realized they had not given Watson a second thought even after his brash posturing. Their attention was focused solely on her. Was it possible their information only detailed the actions of a single spy, and Watson and Horst had somehow escaped scrutiny?

  Done bothering with the tavern crowd, the taller Klingon motioned to his companion to follow him. For Binnix, this only confirmed her suspicion that they had to be with Imperial Intelligence, who made a point to avoid identifying themselves in public. Both Klingons were now moving directly toward her, the eyes of the taller one locked on her. There could be no mistaking his intentions.

  Time to go, Binnix decided. Her grip tightened around the disruptor resting in her lap.

  Before she could raise the weapon, a flash of light and the shriek of unleashed energy filled the tavern. A bright crimson disruptor bolt slammed into the tall Klingon’s chest with enough force to drive him into his companion. Both of them were still falling when a second shot struck the shorter Klingon in the head. Both dropped unmoving to the tavern floor.

  Muscles tensing, Binnix turned toward the source of the disruptor fire and her eyes fell upon the barkeep. Still behind the high bar running the length of the room, he held what she recognized was an older model of disruptor once carried by soldiers in the Klingon Defense Force. His lack of a left eye seemed to have no bearing on his marksmanship.

  “Draw a weapon in my bar at your peril,” he snarled, his voice low and raspy.

  Several of the patrons were moving to surround the bodies. Even with a now obstructed view, Binnix could tell the two Klingons were dead. Minding the barkeep’s warning, she returned her disruptor to the satchel. She looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps and saw Watson maneuvering through the gaggle of onlookers.

  “Out the back.”

  Even as he spoke, he divided his attention between the scene at the front of the room and the door offering them escape. Without saying anything she followed him out of the bar and down the short connecting corridor leading to the kitchen and other rooms. The door at the end of the hallway was the only one that mattered, and Watson dropped his shoulder and slammed into it without breaking stride.

  “Wait!”

  Binnix’s warning came an instant before the door swung open to the left and a disruptor bolt punched into the wall just in front of Watson’s head. Only lightning reflexes saved him from taking the shot straight in his face. He jerked himself back through the doorway, fumbling for the disruptor he carried beneath his jacket. Retriev
ing her own weapon, she shifted it to her left hand and crouched low before angling herself so she could lean close to the doorjamb. In the alley behind the tavern, shadows danced along the wall of the building across the narrow passage, giving her an idea of the shooter’s location somewhere to their right. Unless she was turned around from being inside the bar, to the left should be the street on the tavern’s west side, and a chance at escape.

  “We can’t stay here,” she whispered. “I’ll try to draw their fire. Ready?”

  When a still visibly shaken Watson nodded, Binnix brought up her disruptor and after drawing and releasing a deep breath, she leaned through the doorway just enough to use her weapon. Movement among the shadows at least a dozen meters down the alley caught her eye and she angled the disruptor in that direction before firing four shots. She doubted she hit her intended target but she was rewarded with a string of Klingon curses followed by sounds of frantic movement as someone sought better cover.

  That was Watson’s cue, and he pivoted into the doorway and fired three shots of his own. One of them struck a lurking shadow and Binnix heard a grunt of surprise as a large shape fell against the wall of the adjacent building. She waited for signs of more movement. Was the Klingon alone out there?

  Watson stepped into the alley, disruptor held up and aimed ahead of him. No one shot at him, but the sounds of anxious voices echoed off the walls around them.

  “Someone’s coming,” she said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Sounds of running footsteps were coming from the nearby street, leaving Binnix and Watson with the lone option of moving deeper into the alley. Jogging away from the tavern’s rear door, they stepped over trash and other debris littering the ground here, including the unmoving form of a large, unconscious Klingon male. Even in the dim light filtering from the street, Binnix could make out their adversary’s clothing.

  “Same as the others. He must have been their backup.”

  “One of them, anyway,” replied Watson.

  They found an intersection leading to a smaller alley between two buildings. It was darker here, but Binnix was still able to see. So far as she could tell, this passage led to an adjacent street. She recalled what she could of this area, deciding that street could get them to the Riverfront Enclave and their rendezvous with Horst.

  Two figures appeared at the alley’s far end.

  Binnix and Watson froze. Had they been seen? If not, that would last only a few more seconds, as the new arrivals were already heading in their direction. Faint voices from somewhere behind them told her they were about to be hemmed in. Their only choices were to try fighting their way out of this potential death trap, or take the drastic measure of ending their own lives before they could be captured. She was ready to try taking at least a couple of their pursuers with her before deciding on the more extreme course of action, and saw from Watson’s expression that he felt the same way.

  “Make it count?” he asked, as if verifying their unspoken decision.

  “Yeah.”

  Before she could move to engage their newest adversaries, she felt her body seized by the calm, soothing sensation of a transporter beam. The shower of red-yellow energy enveloped her, blocking out her vision, then everything went dark for the briefest of moments. Then the crimson-and-gold curtain shone even brighter before fading altogether. The dark alley was gone, replaced by the dimly lit, and very close, bulkheads of a compact transporter platform.

  “Welcome aboard, spies and saboteurs.”

  Standing before the room’s small, utilitarian transporter console was David Horst. He was broad-shouldered and muscled, his physique barely contained by his leather pants and dark shirt. His smile was wide enough that Binnix thought it might actually break his reconstructed Klingon face.

  “Holy hell, am I glad to see you,” said Watson as he stepped from the platform, dropping both his use of the native Klingon language and any pretense that he was an actual Klingon.

  Binnix echoed the sentiment, and the three of them pulled one another into a warm embrace.

  “You used our transponders to find us?” she asked, also dropping the tlhIngan Hol.

  “Seemed like a good idea. They were going to waste anyway.”

  Horst disengaged from the group hug before gesturing for them to follow him as he led the way from the transporter and down a short corridor until they arrived at a cramped cockpit. It resembled the flight deck of the sort of Klingon civilian transports aboard which Binnix had occasionally found herself over the course of this assignment. Two seats were positioned before a large, curved control console, and when she looked closer she noted various instruments labeled in Klingon text. Beyond the cockpit’s clear canopy, she saw the curve of Qo’noS.

  “Do I want to know where or how you acquired this ship?”

  Shaking his head as he slid into the cockpit’s right seat, Horst said, “Probably not.” Instead of elaborating, he tapped several controls on the console and Binnix noted that the ship immediately broke orbit. Within seconds, Horst brought the ship up to full impulse power.

  “How in the world are you avoiding sensors?” asked Watson.

  Horst shrugged. “I’m not. Instead, our ship’s transponder identifies us as a diplomatic courier ship that’s also in orbit. I simply forged their identity code and made sure planetary traffic sensors recorded us departing. The real ship’s captain’s going to be pissed when he gets boarded because his transponder code’s the same as ours. Whoops.”

  Could it be that simple? Binnix knew if anyone could pull off that sort of insidious wizardry, it was Horst. The man had never met a computer system or other technology he could not bend to his will given sufficient time. His confidence was good enough for her.

  For the first time in nearly a day, she allowed herself to relax and even laughed at Horst’s report. No one said anything else until the transport made the jump to warp speed, and she only breathed easier when he confirmed there were no obvious signs of pursuit.

  “Goodbye, Qo’noS,” she said, to no one in particular.

  Watson snorted as he collapsed into the copilot’s chair. “Good riddance.”

  “We just have to make it to the border,” said Horst. “Get to the border and the Ivratis asteroid field, and if all goes to plan a ship will be waiting for us. Then we’re home free.” He reached up to rub his jaw. “I’ll be more than ready to get rid of all this. I miss my old face.” Glancing to Watson, he smiled. “It looks good on you, though.”

  “Thanks.”

  As the weight of the past several hours seemed to fall from her shoulders, Binnix sagged against the bulkhead behind Watson. After more than three years undercover in the heart of one of the Federation’s most formidable adversaries, it was almost impossible to believe she and her companions were finally going home. They would be debriefed, evaluated, and tested at length, of course, but after that? Surgery to restore them to their former selves and a lengthy vacation, for starters. Beyond that, she had no plans.

  Before any of that could happen, she knew the days ahead would be filled with interviews, examinations, and a good dose of healthy skepticism. She and the others would expend a great deal of energy attempting to convince their masters they remained loyal agents of Starfleet and the Federation and had not been turned by the Empire into sympathizers or traitors.

  Plenty of time for all of that later, she decided. For now, Binnix was just thankful to be heading home. The sooner she was aboard whatever Starfleet ship was being sent to retrieve them, the better she would feel.

  Soon, she assured herself. Home.

  Three

  At first indistinguishable from any of the distant stars matted against the utter blackness of deep space displayed upon the Enterprise bridge’s main viewscreen, Starbase 24 grew larger and more distinct as the starship continued its approach.

  “Dropping to impulse,” reported Hikaru Sulu from where he sat at the bridge’s helm station. The lieutenant’s hands moved with practiced
ease over the console’s array of controls. In response to his instructions, the ship offered a subtle reverberation as it made the transition from faster-than-light speed.

  The effect was slight but James Kirk still noticed it, sensing the shift as the minute vibrations traveled up from the deck plates and into his boots. Seated in his command chair at the center of the bridge, he could not help a small sigh of satisfaction at seeing the deep-space station on the screen. He also took note of the looks of anticipation on the faces of various bridge officers. Everyone on the ship knew what this unscheduled yet still welcome stop meant.

  “Continue on rendezvous course. One half impulse power,” ordered Kirk before glancing over his right shoulder to the communications station. “Lieutenant Uhura, contact traffic control and request docking instructions.”

  “Aye, sir,” replied Uhura. “Requesting instructions now.”

  Even from this distance the station struck an imposing image. It appeared as a smaller, trimmed-down version of far more formidable constructs such as Starfleet’s primary Spacedock facility orbiting Earth. The station consisted of a large, saucer-shaped primary section sitting atop a long, slender secondary hull, which Kirk knew housed the facility’s main power and life-support systems. It was the upper portion that served as home to more than one thousand Starfleet personnel and civilians, along with a varying number of transients who used the base as a way station between points of extended travel. Kirk himself, both as captain of the Enterprise and well before assuming his current assignment, had visited here more than once. Situated as it was near the border separating Federation and Klingon space, the facility also harbored an impressive complement of phaser banks, photon torpedo launchers, and defensive shield generators. Far more than most such bases receive, the enhanced armaments were a concession to harsh lessons learned from costly attacks on similar stations by hostile forces, reinforced by Starbase 24’s relative isolation as well as its proximity to Klingon territory.