by David Mack
“Good.” He leaned forward, toward the comm’s vid sensor, for dramatic effect. “Have a little faith, Konar. I give you my word: Even if your entire operation seems to be in disarray, everything will unfold exactly as I intend. This is chaos by design, a choreographed mayhem years in the making. Don’t screw it up by trying to fix what needs to be broken.”
• • •
Like a shadow at sunset, Konar’s dark mood stretched ahead of him and preceded him inside the lab. Hain felt her supervisor’s aura of angry resignation before she turned to look at him. Something had shaken him. His footsteps were slower than normal, his bearing was robbed of confidence, and in spite of the sanitized quality of communication through Breen vocoders, as he spoke she sensed that his voice lacked its usual conviction.
“We’ve been ordered to move ahead and complete Phase Two,” he said. “Tonight.”
A sick dread turned inside her. “Tonight? Are they out of their minds? Don’t they realize how many non-combatants will be there? We could be talking collateral damage in the dozens. Maybe more—a lot more, if this thing goes wrong.”
He shook his head. “They don’t care. We’ve been ordered to proceed.”
The single-mindedness of the directive felt surreal to her. “Didn’t you explain that—”
“That we have no exit strategy? That friendlies could get caught in the crossfire? That it would take only a few hours to prep an extraction scenario? Yes. Thot Tran doesn’t care.”
It made no sense. “Did he say why we need to move tonight?”
“No, and I’m learning it’s unwise to ask for explanations.” He handed her a data rod. “He also sent new orders, to be carried out in parallel to our current assignment.”
She took the slender cylinder of data crystal from him and plugged it into an input on her console. “Like it’s not hard enough running a high-risk op on an accelerated schedule, now he wants us to—” She lost her train of thought as the new orders scrolled across her center screen. “What is this? Tell me they’re not serious.” She looked back at Konar, who avoided her gaze. “Konar! Have you seen these orders? Do you know what they want us to do?”
“We don’t have any choice.” He had the stooped comportment of a beaten man.
Angry heat warmed her face, and she felt her pulse quicken. “No, no, no. They can’t do this to us. They obviously have no idea what they’re asking for, or they wouldn’t be doing this.”
“I am assured by Thot Tran that he and the domo understand the situation perfectly, and that we are the ones who lack perspective.” She interpreted a crackling of static from Konar’s vocoder as a heavy sigh. “At any rate, we have our orders.”
Hain turned back to her screens of data and absorbed the scope of what was being set in motion. “I don’t understand. This plan ends at asset activation.”
“I know.” Konar sounded tired, implying he’d already had this conversation with Tran.
“But what’s the point? Why power them up without programming? Without guidance?”
Konar stared at the screens. “I don’t know. I asked, but they refused to explain. It seems we’re expected to comply based on nothing more than our trust in the domo’s wisdom.”
“But without programming, we can’t operate the sensor screens. They’ll be radiating all sorts of high-energy particles within minutes of start-up. How are we supposed to mask that?”
“They didn’t say.”
Quaking with frustration, she balled her hands into fists. “This is ridiculous! If we do this, we’ll breach our own security! Starfleet isn’t stupid. They’ll detect these emissions, and they’ll know what they mean.” Her rage intensified as Konar half turned away, ignoring her rant. “We’ve spent years on this project, Konar! No one else understands how much research, how much work went into all of this! We’re on the cusp of some major discoveries, and they’re asking us to throw it all away! For what? What’s so important that it’s worth this?”
He held up a hand to forestall further discussion. “We have our orders. They’re not open to debate. And Thot Tran assures me that actions which look like mistakes are anything but. So unless you want to end up in a labor camp somewhere, I suggest you obey.”
“This isn’t right.” She started keying in sequences to carry out Thot Tran’s second directive. “How am I supposed to do this and run the current op?”
“Let me worry about our team on Orion,” Konar said. “I can coordinate now that Sair’s in position.” He took a seat beside Hain and recomposed his panel’s interface into a configuration he found convenient and comfortable. “And, even though Thot Tran doesn’t care, I have an exit plan that can get Sair out of the crossfire once the main objective is completed.”
The situation remained less than ideal, but Hain knew she was in no position to contest the orders of a thot, especially not one so politically savvy and connected as Tran. What could be so important that it would be worth scuttling one of the SRD’s most cutting-edge projects? After all the years and resources that had been plowed into the study of cybernetics, artificial intelligence, and robotics, why risk exposing the entire program now, after the incorporation of foreign technologies had finally made its most recent discovery viable? She was certain she would never understand the whims of executive power or the moral calculus of the privileged.
There was nothing more for her to do but carry out her orders.
The first part would be simple. A broadcast command on the passive-receiver frequency would trigger the startup circuits on all the remaining assets. Hain keyed up the pulse, checked the channel assignment, then sent it. Moments later, her status screens flooded with pingbacks from worlds throughout the sector as the embedded assets were awakened from their dormant states, empty vessels hungry for a purpose she could not yet provide. At a glance, they all seemed to have activated as planned. Now would come the tedium; one by one, she would have to access their systems and confirm that each one was fully operational—except, of course, for the lack of a mind or any sort of functional programming. She could only assume those things would come later, as they had for the Orion assets.
“All the units are on line,” she told Konar. “Starting benchmark tests.”
He remained intent on the tasks in front of him. “Tell me if you find any anomalies.”
She stole a look at his screens and glimpsed the improvised exit strategy he was writing for Sair. “Do you really think that’ll work?”
“As long as Olar can hold up his end, we can bring them both out in one piece.”
She wasn’t sure she shared his faith in Olar. “And if he can’t?”
“Then Berro will have to make sure no one finds any trace of them in the bank’s wreckage.”
14
La Forge gazed up at a stern visage, a face that looked as if it had been chiseled from dark malachite and cast in a permanent glower of intimidation. Next to it was another much like it, only far less welcoming. “We don’t care if you’ve been sent by the Great Bird of the Galaxy itself,” said Tall-Green-and-Ugly. “You don’t have permission to enter the bank.”
He and Šmrhová held up their Starfleet photo ID cards—documents for which they had rarely had any use, on or off the ship—as if presenting the Orions with proof of their affiliation would change their answer. “We’re from the Enterprise,” La Forge said. “We’ve been tasked with investigating the attempted break-in, and—”
“We don’t care,” said Taller-Greener-and-Uglier. “You have no jurisdiction on the surface of our planet, and even less inside the walls of this bank.”
Their refusals spun up Šmrhová’s temper. “This is a matter of Federation security.”
“No, it’s a matter of bank security, and we’ll conduct our own investigation—without your help.” They pointed away from the main gate, into the sprawl of the capital. “Why don’t you two go back to your embassy, or your ship, or anyplace other than here?”
The jade goliaths turned and walked away, cr
ossing the bridge to the bank as the gates swung closed in front of La Forge and Šmrhová. La Forge sprang forward, hoping to pursue them onto the bridge, only to be hurled backward when he slammed into an invisible force field. He hit the ground hard, landing flat on his back. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, but it hurt far less than the wound to his pride. When the chartreuse spots faded from his vision, he saw Šmrhová’s hand extended to him. He grasped it, and she helped him up. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She shot a look at the dark-suited Orion security guards, who climbed the bank’s front staircase and vanished through its main entrance, then she turned back to face La Forge. “That could have gone better. What’s Plan B?”
He rubbed the ache from the back of his head. “I didn’t know we’d need one.”
“What made you think they’d let us in?”
A shrug. “I don’t know. Their cops had no problem sharing the sensor data from the break-in, so I didn’t think they’d object to letting us inspect the crime scene.”
She reacted with cynical incredulity. “Did you look at the sensor data yourself? It was fairly low-res, and more than a bit limited in bandwidth. It was designed to pick up a narrow range of energy signatures and avoid any details that could be used against the bank.”
“Such as internal structures, or other security features.”
Šmrhová nodded. “Exactly. The thought of us down there with state-of-the-art Starfleet sensor equipment, taking sensor readings of their bank’s secure sublevels, must give them fits. We’re probably lucky they didn’t shoot us just for suggesting it.”
The duo started walking, paralleling the imposing tritanium barricade that ringed the pit surrounding the bank like an empty moat. Eyeing the grand skyscraper beyond the barrier, La Forge couldn’t help but wonder what dark secrets it hid. “So, we’re not getting inside without a good reason or a printed invitation from the president. Where does that leave us?”
“Walking in circles,” she said as they turned the corner.
The night was young but the street was nearly deserted, a fact La Forge found peculiar. Then he noticed a lone figure on the sidewalk ahead of him and Šmrhová—a person with a wiry frame and a hunched posture who walked with the stiff gait of age. Within moments, it was clear the other pedestrian was trying to intercept them rather than pass by.
Before they met, the stranger stopped shy of the closest streetlamp’s pool of light, as if fearing to be exposed, but still he waved to La Forge and Šmrhová. “You’re from Starfleet.”
The two officers stopped, and Šmrhová took the lead. “That’s right.”
“I tried talking to the bank’s security people, but they won’t listen.”
La Forge adjusted the settings on his cybernetic eyes, enhancing his night-spectrum vision and compensating for the streetlamp’s salmon-hued glow. At once, the man’s face was clearly visible. He was an elderly Orion. His pale green face and pate were leathery and lined with fine wrinkles. Unkempt tufts of ashen hair above his ears matched his bushy white eyebrows, and his eyes were a sallow yellow, almost to the point of being colorless. Lowering his voice, La Forge asked, “What’s your name?”
“Pollus.” He glanced at the skyscraper. “Kal Pollus. I’m a custodian at the bank.”
Šmrhová inched toward the man, but he backed away, so she stopped and tried to infuse her voice with a soothing tone. “What did you try to tell the bank’s security people?”
“You understand, I could lose my job for talking to you.”
Trying to assuage the man’s fear, La Forge said, “We can treat this as an anonymous tip. But first we have to know what we’re dealing with. Now, Mister Pollus . . . what did you see?”
“A perimeter breach. On the service level.” He looked over his shoulders, as if fearing the sudden appearance of an eavesdropper. “The boss.”
A bemused glance passed between La Forge and Šmrhová; clearly, neither knew what to make of the man’s cryptic allegation. Once again, La Forge let the security chief lead the investigation. She asked, “What ‘boss’ are you referring to, sir?”
“The chairman!” he snapped, as if it were obvious. “He turned off the alarms and opened the door for someone, let them in. Then he went one way and they went the other.”
Alarmed and intrigued, La Forge asked, “Chairman Kinshal? Did you see who he let inside? Could you identify that person?”
Pollus shook his head. “Wore a hood. Didn’t see the face.” He shot a desperate, imploring look at Šmrhová. “Told them, but they wouldn’t listen! Said I should mind my own business—pay more attention to my work and less to the boss.” He looked back and cupped one hand over a white-knuckled fist. “Then my foreman said I was done for the night. Sent me home, told me he’d dock my pay if I kept making trouble.”
“And you’re positive it was the bank’s chairman?”
The Orion nodded. “Yes. It was definitely Boss Kinshal. I’m sure of it.”
It was too soon for La Forge to say exactly what Pollus had witnessed, but from what the man had described, it had the hallmarks of a conspiracy in the making. One look at Šmrhová’s anxious eyes made it clear to him that she’d arrived at the same conclusion.
She put an edge of command in her tone. “Go home, Mister Pollus. We’ll handle this from here. But for your own safety, forget what you saw, and forget you ever talked to us.”
He signaled his understanding with a curt nod, then he shuffled away with awkward steps, retreating into the night. La Forge and Šmrhová turned back to face the way they’d come, both of them knowing what had to happen next, and how precarious that was going to be.
“Even if we get Bacco’s protection detail to let us in,” Šmrhová noted, “the bank’s security force won’t be happy about us barging into Kinshal’s office.”
“I’m more concerned that without a sensor lock on the guy, he could get away from us. If he slips out of the building when we’re not looking, we might never see him again.”
Šmrhová frowned. “Only one thing to do, then.” She pulled open her jacket to expose the concealed combadge pinned to her shirt. “Time to call in the cavalry.”
• • •
Few indignities Worf had ever suffered compared to the imposition of being ordered to don his Starfleet dress uniform. He had no idea who or what would be flattered by the awkward cut of the off-white jacket with broad gold trim, but he suspected the snug blue-gray vest had been designed to kill by slow suffocation. Even the trousers, which except for gold stripes down the legs had seemed identical to those he wore with his regular duty uniform, felt stiff. He found it impossible to move freely in the clothes without rending them at the seams.
Whoever designed this should be shot, he decided.
To his chagrin, the dress uniform had been designated as mandatory for all officers attending the president’s reception on Orion that evening—and Captain Picard had made clear that attendance, too, was compulsory. As much as Worf would have preferred to remain on the bridge of the Enterprise in the captain’s absence, that had never been an option.
Hoping for even a momentary respite from his uniform’s choke-hold fit, he sneaked his index finger under his jacket’s collar and gave it a gingerly tug away from his throat.
A friendly slap on his back startled him, and he jerked his hand back to his side. Then he saw Glinn Dygan sidle up beside him. The youthful Cardassian beamed with excitement. “What a party! This is really something, isn’t it, Commander?”
Worf glumly scanned the domed rooftop arboretum. Its pathways were dotted with government officials from the Federation and the Gorn Hegemony. At various key junctures stood either tuxedoed-and-eyeshaded protection agents from Federation Security, or members of the Gorn Imperial Guard dressed in silver armor draped with purple silk. “It is . . . something.”
“If someone had told me just a few years ago that one day I’d be attending a reception with the president of the Federation and the Gorn impe
rator, I’d never have believed them.” Dygan did a double take at Worf. “But look who I’m talking to. You killed one Klingon chancellor and all but appointed his successor. This must seem routine to someone like you.”
Many terms less flattering than routine occurred to Worf. He frowned. “No.”
As a young Orion woman passed by carrying a tray of drinks in slender crystal flutes, Dygan snagged two of them with nimble hands and a quick smile. He extended his arm and offered one of the beverages to Worf. “Sir?”
“I am not in the mood.”
Dygan spread his arms in an expansive gesture. “But it’s a party.”
“It is a formal event, and we are here as both Starfleet officers and guests of the president. We cannot afford to impair our judgment.”
His rebuke left the Cardassian looking troubled and confused. After a few moments of awkward deliberation, Dygan put down both drinks on an empty cocktail table behind them. Then he turned to stand beside Worf, facing in the same direction with his hands clasped behind his back. “So . . . if we’re not here to enjoy ourselves . . . why are we here, sir?”
“You can enjoy yourself. Just not too much.” Hoping to end the conversation, he walked away toward one of the buffet tables. Dygan, however, trailed behind him, as if they were bound together on a chain gang. Worf turned and faced him. “What are you doing?”
The younger man blinked and was flummoxed. “Following you.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s just . . . you seem to know what you’re doing, sir.”
Worf was speechless. He couldn’t contradict Dygan’s answer without denigrating himself, and he couldn’t concur without appearing conceited. Instead, he breathed a low sigh, turned, and continued to the buffet table, where he grabbed a plate and started choosing morsels from the gourmet smorgasbord that had been laid out for the event. As before, Dygan was a step behind him, loading up his own plate and apparently using Worf’s to gauge the proper quantities. Confronted by the Klingon’s glare, he simply smiled.