by David Mack
Chen considered his demand for all of one-third of a second. “No.”
“You have twenty seconds to—”
“I said, no.”
The Gorn’s nostrils flared. “You are in no position—”
“Stand down,” Chen said, matching the archosaur’s unblinking stare.
Saroz bellowed, “After one of your delegation tried to assassinate our imperator?”
“You can prove that?” Challenging him was a calculated risk; if it backfired, their already ugly situation was going to get much, much worse.
To her relief, Saroz hesitated—not long, but long enough to confirm her suspicion that there was reason to doubt the Gorn’s one-sided version of events. “The Imperial Guard informs us a member of the Federation delegation used a concealed weapon to attack our imperator.”
Elfiki hurried to Chen’s side. “Federation Security says Bacco’s chief of staff opened fire with a phaser at the reception. But the president’s protection agents say Piñiero’s target was unclear—she also opened fire on President Bacco and Starfleet officers.”
“I see.” Armed with the new information, which she knew Saroz had heard over the open channel, Chen faced the Gorn with new resolve. “It sounds as if the situation’s not as clear as you made it out to be, Gith Saroz. I recommend we both stand down and return to our assigned orbits while our people on the surface investigate the attack. I, for one, would rather not start a war based on faulty intelligence. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The Gorn exhaled loudly, flaring his nostrils. A low growl rattled in his throat. Then he answered in a dry rasping voice, “Agreed. We will return to our orbital sector. But be warned, Enterprise—we will be watching you, and your people on the planet.”
“We’ll be keeping our eyes on you, too. Enterprise out.” She looked at Balidemaj and slashed her thumb across her throat. Balidemaj cut the channel before Saroz could ruin the fragile détente. Chen sighed with relief as she turned back toward Elfiki. “Damn, that was close.”
“Closer than you think.” Elfiki lowered her voice. “What I didn’t mention was that one of Piñiero’s shots killed Szamra, the Gorn legislator—and that she escaped from the bank.”
“What about the president?”
The science officer frowned. “She’s all right, just really shaken up. But once the details start coming out, this’ll turn into a bona fide mess. And now that the Atlas is warping out of the system, it’ll be up to us to keep the civilian news media from finding out about it.”
Chen shook her head. “And just like that, I already miss talking with the Gorn.”
15
Tattered veils of smoke lingered between smoldering trees, masking the full extent of the damage to the once-verdant rooftop arboretum. Beverly Crusher strode along the main path, stepping over branches blasted loose from the trees, weaving around debris scattered in the pandemonium that had followed the shooting, and checking on the dozens of medics tending to the wounded and the dead. Nine agents from Bacco’s protection detail had been hit—five fatally—in the wild crossfire during Piñiero’s escape. Four soldiers from the Gorn Imperial Guard had been killed, and seven others had been seriously hurt.
Now the rooftop was swarming with armed security and medical personnel from the Enterprise and the Hastur-zolis, as well as investigators from both ships and the Orions’ civilian police force. President Bacco and Imperator Sozzerozs, along with the surviving members of their respective retinues, had been spirited away to the relative safety of their private suites on the bank’s secured sublevels. The most prominent casualty, unfortunately, was Szamra, whom everyone had been counting on to sway key opinions in the Gorn Imperial Senate. The venerated nizor lay beneath a tablecloth liberated in haste from a nearby buffet table.
Picard stood near the main entrance to the arboretum, answering questions from and offering advice to the bank’s executives and its security director, Akili Kamar. Crusher watched her husband for a moment, torn between gratitude and resentment. If he hadn’t tackled me, she reminded herself, I’d probably have been Piñiero’s first victim. But as much as she wanted to see him as a hero for saving her life, she couldn’t forget that he had chosen to shield her rather than act to stop Piñiero. More damningly, he had saved her instead of protecting the president.
She knew she could rationalize away his actions, if she wanted to. Technically, as Starfleet officers they were sworn to obey the civilian government and uphold its laws, but the life and person of the president were the responsibility of the Protection Detail. It might even be legally proper to argue that Picard’s responsibility as Crusher’s commanding officer was to protect her life and vouchsafe the Enterprise and its crew. But legalisms and sophistry were no longer any comfort to Crusher. There was no undoing what had been done, and even though Picard had made no error and committed no offense against Federation law or his Starfleet oath, he still had shattered her conception of who he was. Instead of a hero . . . she had a husband.
A feather-light touch on her arm made her turn to see the Enterprise’s assistant chief medical officer, Doctor Tropp. The grouchy, middle-aged Denobulan regarded her with the bleary gaze of someone roused from a deep sleep. “We’re done with triage. The ones that are safe to be transported are being moved up to the ships, since we can’t send anyone to the local hospitals without raising red flags for the media.”
“I understand. How many are we still trying to stabilize?”
“Two of Bacco’s agents, and one of the Gorn.” He nodded in the general direction of a team of surgeons, nurses, and technicians from the Enterprise who were huddled over the two critically injured Federation protection agents. “I’d put their odds at about fifty-fifty. Might be a bit higher if you could lend a hand.”
Crusher nodded. “I’ll be there in a minute. Go back and keep things moving.”
“Understood.” Tropp shuffled away, obviously exhausted but soldiering on.
She walked in the other direction, toward the arboretum’s entrance. Picard finished his conversation with the bank’s security chief, who stepped away as Crusher joined her husband. “We’re starting to beam up the casualties,” she said. “But the last few aren’t stable enough yet.”
Picard squeezed Crusher’s shoulder. “If things are under control here, it might be best if you returned to the Enterprise now.”
“Not until I make sure the last two wounded agents are out of danger.”
Doubt darkened his expression. “Surely, Doctor Tropp can handle—”
“Jean-Luc—are you trying to get rid of me?”
Her accusation left him taken aback. “Not at all. But in light of recent events, a greater emphasis on security seems warranted, don’t you think?”
She didn’t know whether to take his explanation at face value or to plumb for a hidden agenda. Before she could decide, La Forge and Šmrhová arrived and headed directly to the captain. “Sir,” La Forge said, “we got here as soon as we could. Is everyone all right?”
“No one from the Enterprise was hurt,” Picard said. “Unfortunately, several members of the president’s protection detail have been killed, as have a number of Gorn imperial guards. Do we have any leads on the bank’s chairman?”
Šmrhová shook her head. “No, sir. And it sounds like your shooter got away, too.”
“Regrettably, yes.” He pointed around the arboretum. “Somehow, she planted a handful of explosive devices after the area was secured. Most of them were tear gas intended to cover her escape, but a high explosive near one of the far exits enabled her to slip past security.”
Worf and Dygan emerged from the bustle of activity filling the smoky rooftop and joined their shipmates. The first officer appeared agitated. “Sir,” he said, “Glinn Dygan and I have made a thorough analysis of the shooter’s escape.”
While Worf drew a breath, Dygan jumped in to continue. “During the firefight and then her escape into the service stairwells and elevator shafts, the shooter engaged in sev
eral bouts of hand-to-hand combat, against both Federation personnel and Gorn soldiers.”
“Piñiero served in Starfleet before she worked for President Bacco,” Worf said, reclaiming control of the briefing. “She was a highly trained officer, but nothing in her record suggests she is capable of besting a Gorn in hand-to-hand combat.”
Dygan cut in, “Even stranger, sir, she left behind no genetic material on her victims. Considering how much force she applied, she should have left traces of dermis and blood on each of the personnel she assaulted. However, one of the Gorn reported striking her with a bladed weapon. When we scanned it, we found trace particles of bioplast sheeting.”
The news drew a grim nod from La Forge, who looked at Šmrhová and explained, “The same material used to create the skin of Soong-type androids.”
As ever, Picard reacted to the worsening crisis with calm decisiveness. “If Ms. Piñiero has been replaced by an android, we need to prove that fact as quickly as possible—not only to clear her name, but to preserve the peace. Number One, share this with Data’s defense counsel, but make sure he understands this information is top secret. Geordi, I want you and Lieutenant Šmrhová to return to the Enterprise; keep looking for evidence to clear Mister Data. Doctor Crusher and I will stay here to direct the investigation and keep an eye on the president.” Picard’s already dour mood turned grave. “One last thing: do not share this information with the Gorn until we have a better understanding of their true role in this debacle.” He fixed his visage into a mask of hard resolve. “Work quickly, and exercise extreme caution. . . . Dismissed.”
• • •
Nanietta Bacco couldn’t stop herself from shaking, yet she felt numb, inside and out. Cloistered in her private suite, all she could think about was her friend’s inexplicable betrayal. Nothing had seemed amiss before the shooting started. Piñiero might have been a bit less talkative than usual, but that wasn’t uncommon when they were in social settings; whenever they were out and about, Piñiero had always been careful not to upstage her president. Before every meeting or event, she had entrusted to Bacco all her best talking points, all her best jokes, and—when necessary—a selection of scathing retorts to keep her critics in line.
So how did she end up pointing a phaser at me? What went wrong?
Her bitter ruminations were interrupted by the chiming of the visitor signal.
She wanted to shout Go away! but knew that wasn’t an option. Shirking the burdens of her office would be unpresidential. She tried to compose herself into a semblance of dignity as she called out, “Who is it?” The confrontational edge in her own voice startled her.
A man’s voice replied through the comm, “Madam President? It’s Cort Enaren. May I come in?” Did he sounded worried or condolent? It was hard for her to tell without seeing him.
Torn between an urge for isolation and a yearning to fill the sudden void in her life, she opted for the latter. “Come in, Cort.”
Heavy clacks and low hums resounded from the door as the protection agents outside unlocked it to admit Enaren. As the elderly Betazoid councillor entered, he was trailed closely by Agent Wexler, who no longer wore a jacket and had moved his sidearm holster from under his arm to his right hip. Stern and watchful, he kept his hand on his phaser and his eyes on Enaren.
“Steven,” Bacco scolded, “is that really necessary?”
Wexler continued to observe Enaren as he answered. “Yes, ma’am, it is. After what happened at the reception, I’m not taking any chances.”
She traded a look of quiet exasperation with her visitor. “Well, I certainly can’t fault him for being thorough.” Then she narrowed her eyes at Wexler. “Tell me, Steven: if you’re protecting me from Councillor Enaren, who’s to protect me from you?”
Her mocking question made the agent think. He lifted his free hand and spoke into his cuff. “Kistler, get in here.” His attention never wavered from Enaren—not even as the door opened and Alan Kistler, another agent from Bacco’s personal protection team, stepped inside.
Kistler was a few centimeters taller than Wexler but nearly two decades younger. His combination of Peruvian and Irish ancestry had given him fair skin and a thick head of wiry hair, handsomely cherubic features, and dark brown eyes. Like his fellow agent, he had doffed his suit jacket and now wore his phaser on his hip. In a glance he sized up the situation inside the room, then he looked to Wexler for direction. “Sir?”
“Alan, if I do anything that even remotely looks like a threat to the president or the councillor, shoot me.”
The second agent set his hand on his phaser. “Yes, sir.”
Bacco didn’t know whether to be amused, horrified, or reassured. Enaren drank in the moment with the aplomb of one who has grown too old to be shocked by life’s oddities, then he noted with a droll deadpan, “We seem cursed to live in interesting times, Madam President.”
“Don’t we always?” She led Enaren to a pair of facing armchairs and motioned for him to sit down as she did likewise. “What can I do for you, Councillor?”
He folded his hands on his lap. “Actually, I came to see how I could be of help to you.” More quietly, he continued, “I know how you feel right now, Madam President.”
“I appreciate your sympathy, Cort, but I doubt you could understand exactly what—”
“I wasn’t speaking figuratively, Madam President. I’m a Betazoid. I know how you feel.”
His explanation left Bacco feeling even more vulnerable than she had before his visit. “No offense, Cort, but that’s just creepy.”
He turned his palms outward. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to alarm you. Please believe me when I promise I’m not poking around inside your mind. Most of the time I shield myself from other people’s thoughts, as much out of respect for their privacy as for the sake of my own sanity. But the emotional storm you’ve got brewing . . . well, it’s too powerful to ignore.”
“I think that’s to be expected, don’t you?” To his credit, he didn’t respond right away. Apparently, his gifts enabled him to sense that she was merely pausing to compose herself. “Esperanza was more to me than my chief of staff, Cort. Even more than just a friend. I’d known her almost her entire life. . . . She was family, as close to me as my own flesh and blood.”
Enaren became briefly pensive. “Are you certain it was her in the arboretum?”
Something about the way he’d asked the question led her to wonder if he knew more about the situation than he was saying. “Who else would it have been?”
“Officers from the Enterprise found evidence in the arboretum to suggest that the shooter wasn’t really Esperanza, but an android replicant of her.”
She leaned forward, her attention fully engaged. “Why haven’t I heard about this?”
The white-haired Betazoid frowned. “I think they’re keeping certain details a secret while they continue their investigation. Possibly to prevent a panic, and maybe to avoid tipping off the enemy to the extent of their knowledge.”
His explanation sounded reasonable, but another question bothered her. “How did you find out about this?” Rather than answer, he looked at the floor. Bacco began to intuit the truth. “You’d left the arboretum by the time the science teams arrived, so you couldn’t have overheard Picard and his officers talking.” She hardened her gaze into an accusatory glare. “I thought you shielded yourself from other people’s thoughts—‘out of respect for their privacy.’”
“Most of the time, I do.” A sheepish smile and a small shrug. “In times of emergency or a direct threat to my president, I make exceptions.”
“I knew there was a reason I liked you.” Feeling a bit more relaxed, she leaned back and sank into her chair. “If that was an android masquerading as Esperanza, then she might still be alive somewhere, if we can find her soon enough.”
He was slow to mirror her optimism. “Yes, perhaps.”
“But you don’t think it’s likely. Do you?”
She could see him wrestling wit
h his conscience, and she wondered whether he would think it better to lie for the sake of her morale, or to tell her the cold truth. The regret in his eyes telegraphed his decision. “I don’t think it’s likely, Madam President. In most cases of infiltration by impersonation, the doubled individual is eliminated to reduce the risk of detection.”
Despite knowing it had been coming, it had been a painful thing to hear. Bacco bit back on her surge of grief and nodded. “Thank you for telling me the truth, Cort. But until we find proof that she’s gone, I have to hang on to hope.”
In his green eyes she caught a faint glimmer of admiration, and he mustered a wan smile. “I would expect nothing less, Madam President.”
• • •
“We can’t know for certain that the attack was part of the Breen’s operation,” Azarog said. His head was the only part of him not submerged in the bubbling sludge of the Gorn suites’ warm mud bath. “Piñiero’s actions might have been a coincidence.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” Sozzerozs paced and let the hot, arid climate inside his suite ease his aching muscles and rejuvenate his senses. “Events of this magnitude rarely occur by chance.”
Wazir Togor perched atop an ersatz rock ledge and basked beside one of the suite’s primary heating elements. “What would the Breen gain from killing Szamra?”
Sozzerozs stopped pacing and looked down his snout at his adviser. “Now I know you’re being obtuse. You watched the same security recordings I did—she was aiming at Bacco. Szamra was collateral damage—and I would have been, too, if not for Bacco’s bodyguard.”
“You assume Piñiero was aiming at Bacco,” said Azarog, with barely half his snout sticking out of the mud. “Based on what I saw in those recordings, we could make a solid argument that she was aiming at you.”
Togor added quickly, “A fact we can turn to our advantage when talks resume.” He stretched his long sinewy body across the faux-rock slab. “Let me leverage a scandal like that, Majesty, and we’ll be able to wring any favor we want from the Federation.”