STAR TREK: The Lost Era - 2336 - Well of Souls

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “Then I’ll make sure Starfleet sends patrols through this part of space on a regular basis. Be bad for business, all those official-looking ships out there.”

  “They have no jurisdiction. They have no, what do you call it? Probable cause.”

  “No one’s talking about a search. This is out-and-out harassment.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Sure we can. It’s free space, right? You’re not Federation, thank God, so who are you going to complain to? So, do we have a deal?”

  Qadir settled back upon his pillows and considered. A wise move, Garrett thought, because the man had a lot to lose. Mahfouz Qadir’s house, with its grilled screened windows and lush tapestries and thick marble walls, was located on a black basalt promontory that jutted out into the Galldean Sea, Qadir’s riyad—his garden where they were now—was tucked in an open courtyard that was shaded by orange, cypress, and lemon trees. In the center, squatting beneath the shade of a vaulted Earth-style Moroccan gazebo, was a low divan of green silk with a carved bloodwood frame so dark it was almost black, and on the divan, tucked amongst pillows of gold and iridescent peacock blue, sprawled Mahfouz Qadir.

  He was not, Garrett had decided, an attractive man. His skin was sallow, and he had too much flesh on a frame that was much too small. She thought it likely that the man hadn’t seen his own feet for over a decade. His face was very round, with jowls that substituted for a neck, and his lips were small, with a pronounced cupid’s bow. But if he had the face of fat cherub, his eyes were those of a Donoor rat: like shiny black marbles.

  Those eyes gave her a shrewd look. “Very well,” Qadir announced. “I accept. But I want a retainer. How else am I to judge that my information is worth the price?”

  “All right. Two words.” She held up first one finger, then a second. “Talma Pren.”

  Qadir’s rat’s eyes narrowed. “Done.”

  “Where’s Dalal?” Halak said.

  Qadir steepled his pudgy fingers together. “As I said, I am not responsible for every woman on the planet, but,” he held up a hand, palm out, as Halak took a step forward, “it so happens that I do know of a case very similar to what you have described. I am afraid, however, that the woman in question is dead.”

  Halak’s voice came as an astonished whisper. “Dead?”

  “Yes. It appears that someone broke into her home and murdered her. The apartment was ransacked, some valuables taken, the perpetrators not apprehended,” he waved a hand, and his jeweled rings sparkled, “and that is all.”

  For a moment, Halak didn’t move. Then he started forward. “That’s all? That’s all?”

  “Commander!” Garrett put a restraining hand on Halak’s arm. Halak’s arm was stiff and rigid as iron beneath her hand, but she felt him tremble, and she heard the harsh rasp of his breath. “Back down, mister.”

  Halak gave her a quick nod then looked back at Qadir. Hatred blazed in his eyes. “What about Arava?” Halak asked, his voice thick with emotion. “Where is Arava? Where is Klar? Are they dead, too?”

  Qadir, who hadn’t flinched a muscle during all of this, gazed up with an expression of calm serenity. “No. They’re safe.”

  “I don’t believe you. I can’t find them.”

  “I said they were safe. I did not say that they were easily located.”

  “Where are they?”

  Qadir inhaled deeply, sighed. In the silence, Garrett heard the lazy drone of a fly.

  “A question,” said Qadir and then, in a quick aside to Garrett, “Just one.”

  Garrett gave a miniscule nod. Qadir trained his gaze on Halak. “If I tell you, what will you do?”

  “I take her as far away from here as I can, as quickly as I can.”

  “And she does not come back, correct?” Qadir zeroed in on Halak. “More importantly, you do not return, yes?”

  “Not in a million years.”

  “You relinquish all claims?”

  Halak’s eyes slid quickly to Garret then back to Qadir. “Whatever deals you made, you made with my father. I am not my father’s son, not in that way.”

  “Yes,” said Qadir, his oily tone faintly derisive, “you’re reborn, in Starfleet now. Found yourself a new family, eh? Cleaner? More to your liking?”

  When Halak didn’t answer, Qadir’s pink lips puckered. “Well, I suspect that once Starfleet knows everything there is to know about you, they might not want you for a son. Every family exacts its own price for loyalty.”

  “But that’s my problem, isn’t it? Not yours. Now, I’ve answered your questions. You answer mine.”

  Qadir studied Halak for another brief moment. Then he gave a backhanded wave of dismissal. “I’ll have her brought here. Take her, and welcome to her.”

  “And the boy.”

  “Yes, of course, of course. But, you,” Qadir flicked a jeweled index finger at Garrett, “she won’t be as useful as you think. Her information is obsolete.”

  “That’s not for me to decide, and I really don’t care,” said Garrett.

  “Then we both don’t.” Qadir gave a good-natured shrug. “And now, information, yes?”

  Garrett turned to Halak. “Wait outside.” When he hesitated, she said, “Go. I’ll be right with you.”

  Qadir’s eyes followed Halak as he walked out of the courtyard and disappeared into the house. “A difficult man. You’ll have your hands full, Captain, presuming he’s allowed to remain on duty, eh? Assuming he’s not court-martialed, sent to prison?”

  “Stop fishing.” Garrett did not return the smile. “Whatever happens, I’m sure you’ll be one of the first to know.”

  “Eyes and ears, Captain,” said Qadir. “You know, there’s a fascinating bit of Earth history I learned the other day. Did you know that Queen Elizabeth I had a most advanced spy network? Sir Francis Walsingham ran it, and legend has it that his network was so extensive and advanced it was the envy of its day. And everyone knew it, you see, that he was Elizabeth’s eyes and ears; that someone was always listening for her, watching. So when some court painter did Elizabeth’s portrait, he incorporated the most ingenious thing, a bit of code. She wears a beautiful orange mantle and if you look very carefully, you see that he’s painted tiny embroidered eyes and ears all over the cloak. Eyes and ears, Captain,” Qadir touched a finger to the corner of one of his bright, black eyes and then to the lobe of his ear, “eyes and ears.”

  “Then let’s talk about one of your spies, shall we? Talma Pren.”

  Qadir reclined on his gold and peacock blue pillows, like a child settling in for a good story. “Yes, what of Talma? Do you know I can’t find that girl anywhere? You can be sure, I’m going to give her a talking to.”

  “That’s going to be a little hard. She’s dead,” said Garrett, and saw the genuine surprise in Qadir’s eyes. Gotcha. “Incinerated in a stolen Vulcan warpshuttle. Would you like to know how and why?”

  “Please.”

  “It goes like this, Qadir. Talma worked for you, a middleman I’m guessing, someone who ran interference between your mercenaries and the organization itself. So she’d be privy to a lot of information, know about your distribution corridors, where you’re getting arms and to whom you’re selling them, how you network red ice, things like that.”

  “I run a legitimate business, dealing in antiques and archaeological oddities. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Garrett lifted an eyebrow. “I’m not bugged, if that’s what you’re worried about. Besides, you said it: The Federation has no jurisdiction here. Anyway, I’ll bet you that Talma Pren looked around at all this,” she motioned to include Qadir’s house, the riyad, “and wanted more. As you said, every family has its price, and I guess you weren’t paying her enough. Then along comes Laura Burke ...”

  “Burke, Laura Burke,” Qadir said, a pudgy finger to his lips. “Who is this Burke?”

  “Save it.” Garrett tone was caustic. “You have eyes and ears; don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
<
br />   “And what if I did?”

  “You’re a businessman, Qadir. You know what would happen if word got out that, somehow, you let a Starfleet Intelligence operative into your organization. So you sent Talma, whom you trusted implicitly, to get rid of her. Only Talma outfoxed you, and she did a number on Starfleet Intelligence, too. She rigged the explosion on Burke’s shuttle, but then she assumed Burke’s identity. Only you would know that Talma had been with Burke, and so you’d assume Talma was dead. It was perfect because when Talma, posing as Burke, showed up again, you’d naturally assume that Talma’s plan had failed and Burke had, somehow, gotten away.”

  “But for what reason?”

  “Talma knew you were after the portal. Hell, she probably arranged it for you,” said Garrett, knowing that Qadir had no way of knowing that the portal did not exist, nor what they’d found beneath the surface of that dead planet. “She knew what was going down. So after Halak showed up and provided a very convenient cover, she knew that all she had to do was pose as an intelligence agent, take Halak, and use him as a middleman. She’d never be directly implicated; Talma Pren’s dead, after all. So she’d get the portal and whatever else your mercenaries found—they’d all die, by the way—and it’s likely that you’d believe the expedition was a failure, and she’d walk away, probably with more than a small fortune.”

  Qadir picked up his gold-rimmed coffee cup, studied its contents for a moment then replaced it without drinking. “That’s a very nice story. But you’ve overlooked one thing. Of what possible use would the portal be for Talma? Talma runs ... ran nothing.”

  “In your organization. It’s so obvious even you must see it, Qadir. Talma worked for the Orion Syndicate, and that’s how she managed to convince Burke that she’d be as good a contact as Arava, except Arava passed information to Starfleet, and Talma played both sides.” She didn’t add that this was the only way Talma Pren could have known about Halak and his forged documentation. Halak’s brother Baatin had given these documents to Halak, and used Orion Syndicate contacts to arrange for Halak’s disappearance.

  “When she was posing as Burke, she mentioned that Orion Syndicate operatives are scattered throughout your organization. I just didn’t put it together until later that she was talking about herself, too.” Garrett gave Qadir a look of mock sympathy. “You’re going to have a really tough time knowing who to trust from now on.” (She didn’t add that Starfleet Intelligence would be all over Qadir’s case like Xanarian fleas.)

  Two high spots of color burned on Qadir’s fleshy cheeks. “A very interesting story,” he said, finally. “Too bad Talma’s dead, and we can’t have a little chat.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Garrett turned to go then stopped. She bent from the waist until her eyes were level with Qadir’s. “Look, I don’t care about you,” she said. “All I care about is my crew. So listen, very carefully. Stay away from Halak. Stay away from my crew.”

  “Or?”

  “You need me to spell it out?” When Qadir didn’t reply, Garrett nodded. “Good, I’m glad we understand each other.” She straightened. “Eyes and ears, Qadir, eyes and ears.

  Someone will be watching. Someone will be listening. So will I. Don’t cross me.”

  She walked away without another word.

  They’d flown in silence for a few moments when Garrett said, “Mind if I ask you something? What really happened at Ryn III?”

  Halak shot a quick glance over his shoulder at Arava, who was seated just behind Garrett, and a young boy whose hand she held. “Arava, why don’t you take Klar aft, get him something to eat? There’s a little replicator further back, and we’ve got another forty-five minutes before we get to the ship. He must be hungry.”

  “I’m not hungry,” said Klar. He had Arava’s dark eyes, but his jaw was square, like Halak’s. “Please, Uncle, can’t I stay up here with you?”

  “Now, come on,” said Arava, unbuckling her harness. “You heard your uncle. He’s a busy man, a Starfleet officer, and that’s his captain there, wants to have a word with him. You’ll have plenty of time to spend with your uncle later on. Come on,” she gave the protesting boy a little push, “let’s go exploring.”

  “It’s just a ship,” Klar said, “and it’s a little ship.”

  Garrett watched them go then turned back to Halak. “Good-looking boy. He’s got her eyes.”

  “And Baatin’s face.”

  “Yours too. Do you think your sister-in-law knew what Talma was up to?”

  “That Talma would kill Burke?” Halak frowned. “Absolutely not. The way she told it, Talma argued that she had more information to give Starfleet than Arava. Talma had worked for the Orion Syndicate and Baatin, and Arava trusted her. So I guess Arava convinced Burke that Talma would be a better witness. Plus, Arava had Klar to worry about. Anyway, the next thing Arava knew, Burke never returned and she didn’t hear from Talma. I don’t know why Qadir let Arava live. Maybe he was playing both sides against the middle—funneling useless information to the Syndicate, and vice versa.” Halak blew out, scrubbed his hands on his thighs. “I don’t think she has anything useful for Starfleet.”

  “We’ll let SI decide that. Now, what about you? Ryn III? I want to know.”

  Halak licked his lips, blew out again. He stared out of the main shuttle window, but Garrett could tell from the look in his eyes that he was staring at a memory.

  “Everything happened the way I said,” Halak began. “Those scouts fired on us. We had to abandon ship. A desperate thing to do, but it was better than nothing ...”

  “Ten hours,” said Strong, his face glistening with sweat. His breathing was labored, although he had more air than Halak and his supply wasn’t dwindling as quickly. But fear also ate oxygen. “It’s been ten hours.”

  “Stop ... talking,” Halak panted. “Using up ... your ... air.” He gulped, his lungs trying to wring more oxygen from air that didn’t have it. The air inside his suit was thick, and he had a roaring headache. Carbon dioxide poisoning, he thought. Headaches, diaphoresis, dyspnea. But not unconsciousness, not the nice quiet exit one would get from carbon monoxide poisoning. They’d pass out eventually, but only after they’d had convulsions, vomiting. So maybe he’d choke on his vomit and suffocate that way. He wasn’t sure which was better.

  Strong gave a weak laugh. “Doesn’t matter. Both of us going to end up like Thex.”

  Halak didn’t have to strength to glance over at the lifeless body of the Andorian. Thex had died within an hour of their beam-out. They’d bled the Andorian’s air, Halak giving Strong most of it because of the damage to Strong’s suit.

  “Still got time,” said Halak. He checked his automatic distress beacon, but the readout was blurry and he had to shake his head to clear it. “Maybe the Barker ...”

  “They’ll never hear it.” Strong spoke in a hopeless monotone. “Too far away.”

  They hung in space, neither one of them speaking. Then Halak stirred. “Have to,” he worked at forming the words, “have to ask you something.”

  Strong’s eyes had been closed, but now he pulled them open. “Chest hurts.”

  “Carbon dioxide, and ... and you’re scared. But, listen,” said Halak. He moved, too abruptly, and had to fight back a wave of nausea. No, no, please, God. When the urge to vomit passed, he said, “Thex said there was a signal. Said it was coming from us. ’Member?”

  Strong grunted. Halak took that as assent. “Why did you fire?”

  “Told you. I thought they were pow ... powering up ...”

  “No, no, the two readings, they’re not even close.” Halak had to stop a moment and gulp air. “You can’t mistake them.”

  Then he said, without knowing that this is what he thought until the words were out of his mouth, “You’re with the Syndicate.”

  “ ’S crazy,” Strong moved his head back and forth. “ ’S crazy.”

  “No, no.” Halak was so dizzy that Strong’s face swam in his vision. “Those were Syndicate ships, not ...
not Ryn scouts. You led them to us with a homing beacon ... that signal, that signal Thex saw.”

  “S’crazy ...”

  “Stop.” Halak grabbed at Strong’s shoulders. Strong’s hands scrabbled at Halak’s, but Halak hung on and gave him a weak shake. “Stop, we’re going to die out here ...”

  “Get away.” Strong batted at Halak’s helmet, tried pushing him away, although the irony of it was, they were tethered together. “Get away.”

  “No, no. I have to know ... I have to know wh ... why.” Then Halak ran out of breath, and he felt himself sinking under a wave of dizziness. “Coward,” he gasped, releasing Strong, “you ... you’re a coward. You’ve killed us, and you don’t have the guts ... the guts to own up ... up to what you’ve done.”

  He heard Strong’s rasping breaths over his comchannel but nothing else. Halak felt a surge of anger and revulsion. He could accept death when it finally came, but to die like this, not knowing what he was dying for ... Maybe it was good Strong had more air. Then Halak could die first, and then Strong could hang here and rot, for all Halak cared.

  He fumbled at his comchannel and was about to switch off when Strong said, “Yes.”

  Halak stopped, his fingers frozen above his comcontrols. “What?”

  “I said yes. Yes, what you said. I ... did that. I did it.”

  “Why?” Halak was too astonished now to feel anger. “Why, in God’s name?”

  “Wasn’t the plan to ... kill anybody. Plan was to capture the shuttle.”

  “Capture the shuttle?” Halak said. “That ... that was all?”

  “Embarrass Starfleet.” Strong licked his lips, took a deep gulp of air. “But then ... they started firing and, see, I knew ... I knew they were going to kill us.”

  “Because the results,” Halak panted, “they’d be the ... the same.”

  “Same questions, if we’re dead as if we’re alive. Only killing us, no witnesses.”

  “No you.” Halak dragged in air. “You were the ... dangerous one. Loose ... loose cannon. So you killed them first.”

  “Backfired, huh?” Strong doubled over in a coughing fit.