by Peter David
He could see how the Vulcan’s bland yet somehow arrogant demeanor might seem a bit unsettling at times. But if Tuvok knew the Kellasian sector as well as he appeared to know it, Crusher would put up with his quirks from morning to night.
“Of course, that begs a question,” Vigo pointed out.
Joseph nodded. “If there’s a third party…who is he? And what does he hope to gain by killing innocent people?”
No one answered him, at first.
Then the Gnalish spoke up. “Arms merchants?” he suggested.
“I mentioned that as a possibility,” said Crusher, “but the First Minister told us he didn’t think so. He seemed to think the incidents involved weapons from all over the galaxy—a wider variety than arms merchants could get their hands on.”
The Vulcan nodded. “Let us dismiss them for the time being.”
“So,” said Simenon, rephrasing the question, “who’s busy killing all those Melacron and Cordracites?”
The six of them exchanged uncomfortable looks.
“Aye, there’s the rub,” the engineer commented cheerfully, as if nothing made him happier than pronouncing doom. “Your Shakespeare did have a way with words—especially violent ones.”
Crusher stroked his chin. “Let’s try another angle. I’m willing to bet that whoever killed the G’aha on Melacron Five wanted to get away as quickly as possible. Let’s call up a list of everyone who left the planet between the time of the assassination and today.”
Joseph provided them with a list on his monitor screen. “Unfortunately, it’s pretty long,” he told the others.
Crusher inspected it and fought back a sigh. “So it is.”
“Exactly what are you hoping to find?” inquired the Gnalish, his crimson eyes bright with curiosity.
Crusher shrugged. “I just thought something might—”
But Tuvok stopped him with a gesture, his eyes locked onto the screen. “Fascinating,” he murmured.
“What is?” Vigo asked him.
The Vulcan pointed to one of the names on the screen. “That is.” Then he looked at Crusher. “I believe I may have something, Commander.”
Crusher smiled. “That’s great. But what is it?”
Tuvok told him.
Chapter Seven
NEARLY TEN HOURS after his away team first beamed down to Debennius II, Picard tapped his communicator badge and contacted the Stargazer.“Two to beam up,” he told Crusher.
“Aye, sir,” said the second officer.
The captain regarded Ben Zoma, noting inwardly that his exec looked as weary and frustrated as he himself felt. It took its toll, sitting in a room full of angry, argumentative people. What’s more, the food offered them by the Benniari had been less than appealing. Neither of them had been driven to eat very much of it.
“I don’t know what I want to do first,” said the first officer, “gorge myself or find someplace quiet to collapse.”
Picard frowned. “Unfortunately, we’re not going to get the opportunity to do either, Gilaad. We need to discuss the progress of our investigative team as soon as we get back.”
Ben Zoma grunted goodnaturedly and turned a weary smile on his superior. “Slavedriver,” he said.
Then they were surrounded by the transporter effect. A moment later, they materialized in the Stargazer’s transporter room.
Glancing at the transporter console, the captain noticed that his chief engineer was working the controls. Simenon’s sharp, lizardlike face split into a grin that showed pointed teeth. What’s more, his tail lashed back and forth in what Picard had come to learn was an expression of eagerness.
“Progress?” the captain asked.
Simenon shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Some,” he replied, almost perverse in his terseness. “We’re all waiting for you and Commander Ben Zoma in your ready room, sir—though I should warn you, none of us is dressed as nicely as the two of you are.”
Picard pulled down on the front of his dress tunic and gestured to the sliding doors. “Lead the way, Mr. Simenon—and be glad I didn’t ask you to beam down as well.”
The engineer hissed to show his amusement. Then, complying with the captain’s command, he made his way out into the corridor and found the nearest turbolift. In less than a minute, the three of them were walking out onto the Stargazer’s bridge.
As Picard turned right and passed the communications station, he nodded to Cadwallader. The young woman smiled and nodded back—and didn’t say a word, vituperative or otherwise. It was good to be out of that damned council chamber, the captain reflected.
The doors to his ready room slid aside for him. Crusher, Tuvok, Greyhorse, Vigo, and Joseph were clustered inside, no doubt discussing some element of their investigation.
“Sir,” said Crusher, turning to acknowledge Picard, “I—”
The captain held up a hand for silence. Then he crossed to the room’s only replicator and punched up two plates full of bread, fruit, and cheese, along with a couple of glasses of sparkling water.
Ben Zoma, who was right behind him, smiled as the orders materialized. “Thanks,” he said. “I don’t think I could have lasted another minute.”
“Think nothing of it,” Picard responded.
Bringing his plate over to his desk, he laid it down on the sleek, black surface and sat down beside it. Then, slicing an apple and a piece of sharp cheddar, he downed them both at a single bite.
At the same time, Ben Zoma dug into his own food. Watching him, the captain believed his exec really couldn’t have lasted another minute.
Picard’s officers waited patiently for their superiors to finish. But the captain didn’t want to wait that long. He signaled for the team to proceed with their report.
As the ranking officer on the assignment, it fell to Crusher to outline their progress. “As far as Culunnh’s theory about a third party goes, sir…we seem to have found some corroborative evidence.”
Picard was interested. “Go on.”
Crusher described the weapons found at the sites of the earlier incidents—and the dearth of weapons found at the later ones. He also spoke of the relative levels of violence.
The captain nodded. “So the First Minister wasn’t too far off base after all, was he?”
“We don’t believe so, sir,” said Crusher.
“What’s more,” Simenon added with a grin, “our friend Mr. Tuvok has come up with a lead as to the identity of the third party.”
Picard turned to the Vulcan. “Tell me more, Ensign.”
Tuvok’s forehead wrinkled. Obviously, he was more than a little discomfited by the Gnalish’s attitude. “Unfortunately,” he said, “it is what you humans might call a long shot.”
“If I may say so,” Joseph chimed in with undisguised eagerness, “it’s better than a long shot, Captain. It’s a legitimate lead.”
With his upturned nose and close-cropped, sandy hair, some people often tended to underestimate Pug Joseph. Picard wasn’t one of them.
Crusher smiled at the security chief. “Maybe we should let the captain decide for himself, Mr. Joseph.”
The chief nodded, chastened. “Whatever you say, sir.”
The captain regarded Tuvok. “Ensign? Is someone going to tell me about this or not?”
The Vulcan’s nostrils flared as he began. “A Melacron named Bin Nedrach was listed as a passenger on an intrasystem transport vessel departing Melacron Five approximately two point four hours after the assassination of the G’aha of Laws and Enforcements.”
Picard turned to Ben Zoma, who was washing down his hastily eaten food with some sparkling water. “That would be the spouse of the female we saw in the council chamber this morning?”
The first officer nodded. “I’d imagine.”
The captain returned his attention to Tuvok. “Go on.”
“At first glance,” said the Vulcan, “it may appear that Nedrach’s departure was merely a coincidence. After all, he had no criminal record. There would be no good
reason to suspect him of wrongdoing.”
“Except?” Picard supplied.
Tuvok remained as deadpan as ever. “Except that fifty-five years ago, when I was visiting this sector for the first time, there was an infamous Melacronai crime clan in existence. It had all but claimed the furthest planet in the system, Debennius Six, controlling who came and went, who was allowed to open and run businesses—everything. It was during this time that Debennius Six became known as ‘the Last Stop to Nowhere.’”
“I see,” said the captain, “but—”
The Vulcan went on as if Picard hadn’t opened his mouth. “One of the clan’s top ‘bosses,’” he noted, “if I am using the term correctly, was an individual named Bin Nedrach.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “The same man who departed Melacron Five on that transport?”
“He would have to have been pretty advanced in years,” Ben Zoma remarked between bites. He glanced at Simenon. “And the Melacronai don’t live as long as some species do.”
“I wondered about the same things,” said the ensign. “Digging a little more deeply into the passenger manifest, I discovered that it was not the Bin Nedrach who had held the Melacronai in an iron grip fifty-five years earlier. It was his grandson.”
Picard was growing more and more interested. So much so, in fact, that he pushed his plate of food aside.
“The fact that Melacronai crime clans place a high value on familial relationships,” Tuvok continued, “and that this younger Bin Nedrach left less than three hours after an assassination, suggests that this may be a worthwhile lead.” He lifted an eyebrow. “And if I may speak frankly, Captain, at the present moment, it is the only lead we have.”
Joseph chuckled, obviously proud of the Vulcan’s deductive abilities. In fact, it seemed to Picard, he couldn’t have been prouder if Tuvok were a long-standing member of the crew.
“What a memory!” said the security chief.
Tuvok glanced at him. “I am a Vulcan, Mr. Joseph. Please do not attribute to skill what is merely the result of genetics.”
“Still,” the chief rejoined, “to remember a name for that long—and to be able to link it to this Bin Nedrach—all I can say, Ensign, is it’s too bad you’re not a security officer. You’d make a damned good one.”
Tuvok appeared to take the compliment in stride. “I will keep that in mind,” he told Joseph.
In the meantime, Picard thought, they had something to go on. It wasn’t a great deal, but it was something.
The captain stroked his chin, mulling over their next step. “Do we know where this Bin Nedrach is now?” he asked.
Joseph shrugged. “We can make a guess, but—”
“I cannot afford to guess,” said Picard. He turned to Crusher and the Vulcan. “Jack, Tuvok—I’m putting you two on this. I want you to go undercover and try to locate Bin Nedrach.”
“And when we find him?” the second officer asked.
The captain shook his head. “Don’t bring him in immediately. One man, even if he is an assassin, could not be doing everything by himself.”
“Someone’s pulling his strings,” Ben Zoma translated.
“That is right,” said Picard. “And that’s the someone I want.”
“Aye, Captain,” Crusher and Tuvok responded at precisely the same time.
The captain saw them glance at each other. They were good men, both of them, he reflected. They would work together just fine, despite the essential differences in their natures.
At least, he hoped so.
“In the meantime,” Picard said, “Commander Ben Zoma and I will continue to monitor the situation on Debennius Two.”
The first officer grunted. “I think Crusher and Tuvok have the easier assignment by far.”
Picard allowed himself a hint of a smile. “We will see about that.” He considered the second officer and the ensign. “Dismissed, gentlemen.” He turned to Simenon, Joseph, Greyhorse, and Vigo. “You too.”
He waited until the six of them had left his ready room through the sliding doors. Then he regarded Ben Zoma. “I know what you’re thinking,” he told his exec. “Tuvok seems like the type who works better on his own.”
Ben Zoma dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. “That may be so, Captain—but we don’t know Tuvok the way we know Jack. We couldn’t very well have sent him out there by himself.”
Picard nodded and pulled his plate closer again. “I suppose not,” he said. And as he sliced another piece of apple for himself, he focused on what lay ahead in the council chamber.
It was midafternoon on Cordra III.
Dar Shabik knew that his face would appear calm and composed if anyone happened to glance in his direction. After all, he had spent many years learning to keep it that way.
Not a twitch of an antenna, nor a dilation of his faceted pupils betrayed him as he hurried through a sea of his fellow Cordracites, looking like any other worker heading home to his family after a long day in the capital city of Kiwanari.
This was the busiest hour. By law, every business shut down at the same time, though opening times were permitted to vary widely. The public transports were always crowded now. No one paid much attention to his fellow commuters. Everyone had one goal—getting home.
Except for Shabik.
He was dressed as the other workers were, in the long black mantlecoat that served a purely decorative function on bodies sealed and protected with a chitinous shell. And like many of the others, he was carrying a small collection of packages.
Many Cordracites purchased foodstuffs from the vendors who set up shop near the major business centers. This was especially true during the harvest season, when fresh fruits and vegetables were at their peak.
Of the three sacks in Shabik’s arms, one was full of the delicious, juicy fruit of the jaami tree. The second contained an assortment of leafy green vegetables; he had been careful to allow their tops to peek out of the bag, allaying any suspicions that might have arisen.
The third bag was full of death.
At a corner he had chosen ahead of time, Shabik stopped and waited for the hover shuttle. There were seven other Cordracites in line ahead of him already, females as well as males, but he wasn’t concerned about securing a place on the vehicle.
He had spent more than a week planning this, accumulating all the information he might need and then some. He knew how many seats were likely to be available on the shuttle this afternoon. He knew when it was likely to arrive at this corner—in another minute at the outside. He even knew the color of the driver’s eyes.
His fellow commuters didn’t need to be concerned with such things. However, Shabik did. Because, in truth, he wasn’t one of them. His actions were dictated by an entirely different agenda.
Twenty seconds after he began waiting for the shuttle, it turned a nearby corner and headed his way. Forty seconds after he began waiting, it stopped and allowed additional passengers to board.
And as luck would have it, there was a seat available for each and every one of them.
Shabik sat down in one of them. Then he leaned back and went over what he had to do. It was simple, really. But then, even simple plans had the potential to go awry.
Less than a minute later, the shuttle began to slow as it approached its next stop. Shabik rose. As the vehicle lurched to a halt and the door opened, he made his way through the thick press of bodies.
In the process, he exaggerated the awkwardness of his packages. Unfortunately, he played his part too well and he got himself wedged between one of the other commuters and a vertical bar.
“Excuse me?” he said pointedly.
“Oh! Terribly sorry,” the female apologized, turning her body so that Shabik could get by.
For an instant, their eyes met and he got a good look at her. She was lovely, her flesh a delicate shade of gray, her eyes as large and as yellow as their world’s magnificent sun.
Pity, Shabik thought. But what he said was “Thank you.�
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As he made his way toward the door, the third package slid down his body and plopped onto the floor of the shuttle. He pretended not to notice, of course. As quickly as he could, he exited and disappeared into the crowd on the street.
But as the shuttle doors slid closed, he heard the female cry out. “Wait!” she said. “You dropped something!”
Shabik looked back again—and again, their eyes met. Silently, he cursed her. If her comment gave him away—
No, he assured himself. It won’t. There won’t be enough time. Turning and picking up his pace a little, but not too much, he buried himself more deeply in the safety of the milling throng.
Shabik didn’t look back at the female or the shuttle, but the muscles beneath his shell were tight in anticipation. Come on, he thought. It should happen any—
Suddenly, there was an explosion.
Like everyone else, he stopped for a moment and watched the shuttle go up in a ball of wild, red flame. He allowed the heat of it to lick at his face like a lover. Then he drew a breath, put the cries of terror behind him and made his way to his private vehicle…
Mission accomplished.
Chapter Eight
“MELACRONAI BEASTS!” RASPED SAMMIS TARV. “Is there no depth to which you will not stoop in your madness?”
On the two-level podium, Picard winced at the Cordracite delegate’s choice of words. They were not the sort he had hoped to hear at the Kellasian Congress’s morning session.
A moment later, the insult was joined by others. It was several cycles before Cabrid Culunnh could get the room silent enough for everyone to understand exactly what had happened.
There had been another terrorist attack. This time it was a bomb, not a political assassination—and it was on Cordra III, not Melacron V. However, the captain reflected, it was essentially the same old story.
His hopes sagged as he scanned the chamber. All he saw were angry faces. Frightened faces. Under the circumstances, he supposed they had a right to feel that way.