by David Mack
“I remember reading about that,” La Forge said, his memory jogged. “They were using a tiny ethnic subgroup of telepathically gifted Andorians—”
“The Aenar,” Elfiki cut in.
“Right. They used them to remote-pilot drone starships across interstellar distances. But the program fell apart once it was exposed and they lost access to the Aenar.” He shifted a piece of the ruined obsidian transceiver to get a better look at the mostly slagged relay underneath. “So, we have a Tholian transceiver with a Romulan telepresence interface inside an android body that we know was stolen by the Breen. The Typhon Pact’s learning to pool their resources.”
Data stared at the screen full of code, then he looked at Elfiki. “Lieutenant, would it be possible to use the information we have to block the thoughtwave frequency being used to control these androids? Or to track them, identifying both receiver and source?”
She looked over her shoulder at Anders and Lamar. “Guys?”
Anders, a tall woman with dark hair and an aquiline visage, nodded. “In theory? Sure. But the odds of deducing the frequency from this bunch of shards aren’t good.”
Lamar, whose long blond hair, square jaw, and athletic build had led some of the crew to nickname him Thor, added, “It’d be a big help if we could capture one of these things intact. Then we’d have a real shot at finding out what makes it tick.”
“Sounds like a plan,” La Forge said. With a nod he signaled Data to follow him as he moved for the door. “Let’s go tell Worf we have a new mission objective.”
• • •
The empty chair and glenget that only a day earlier had been occupied by Esperanza Piñiero and Nizor Szamra felt to Imperator Sozzerozs like open wounds.
He was flanked on his left by Togor and on his right by Azarog. Staring back at him from the other side of the table was President Bacco. Seated to her right was the frost-haired Councillor Enaren, and on her left was the Federation’s secretary of the exterior, Safranski, who had been introduced as a Rigellian, looked like a Vulcan, and was alternately as taciturn as a rock and as verbally aggressive as a Ferengi. No one had spoken of the previous night’s bloodshed, but it continued to cast a shadow over the summit, making the Federation’s insistence that it continue seem more like a symptom of denial than an act of hope.
Perhaps I could cling to some shred of optimism if I didn’t know we brought them here on a lie. Dwelling on that shameful truth filled Sozzerozs with bitter resentment toward the Breen.
“I’d like to begin this morning by thanking you all for agreeing to resume our talks,” Bacco said. She emulated the salutary spread-hands gesture that the late Piñiero had mastered with such grace. “It would be easy to abandon diplomacy in the wake of tragedy. Our hope is that your willingness to continue the summit indicates you share our commitment to a successful outcome, one that will benefit both our peoples.”
As rehearsed, Togor answered on behalf of the Hegemony. “Thank you, Madam President. We, too, are encouraged by your desire to resume our conversation. The only tragedy greater than yesterday’s deaths of our trusted colleagues and sworn defenders would be if we permitted their lives to be lost in vain. To honor the blood they have shed for us, we will continue to work toward the goals that first brought us here.”
Sozzerozs’s leathery visage betrayed no sign of his cynical brooding. Why do such noble sentiments so often come cloaked in lies?
Cort Enaren, Betazed’s elderly but still commanding representative on the Federation Council, pressed on to keep the meeting going. “At the risk of trying your patience, venerable elders, I would like to suggest we start fresh. We expect the shift in circumstances has led to changes in expectations and estimations on a number of points. So, rather than attempt point-by-point revisions of our earlier agendas, we suggest that it might be more efficient to draft new language that reflects our situation as it is, rather than as it was.”
Azarog let out a low, soft hiss of approval. “This seems wise. Recent events have given us reason to expect violent reactions by other powers—perhaps those of the Typhon Pact, or another local power that prefers not to see the Hegemony and the Federation in alliance.”
Safranski nodded. “Understandable. Shall we discuss strategic matters first, then?”
The imperator rasped, “What would be the point?” All eyes in the room fixed upon him. Gorn and humanoids alike regarded him in shock—and, in the case of his countrymen, with anger. Officially, under the terms of their membership in the Pact and their specific agreement with the Breen Confederacy, they remained engaged in a campaign of deception, with instructions to drag out the summit until cued to terminate their efforts. Sozzerozs, however, was weary of the ruse. “We have been here for days that never seem to end, talking in circles around issues that refuse to be resolved. You ask us for concessions we cannot afford to make. We ask you to guarantee outcomes that are beyond your control. You insist we risk the wrath of five major powers to side with your Federation—but when we demand you intercede to spare us from the wrath of your blood-bond ally the Klingon Empire, you mew that you can’t interfere in their politics.” A long, slow-rolling growl resonated inside his chest. “This is all a waste of time.”
A tense and awkward silence settled over the room.
Then, in a voice that was calm but also brooked no argument, President Bacco declared, “Everyone, please give me and Imperator Sozzerozs the room.”
Her subordinates Enaren and Safranski stood without hesitation and moved toward their exit. Togor and Azarog looked to the imperator for instruction, and he nodded his concurrence. The wazir and zulta-osol rose from their glengets and lumbered out of the meeting room. As they exited, Bacco pointed first at her personal defender, Wexler, and then at Hazizaar, the sikta of Sozzerozs’s Imperial Guard corps. “That includes the two of you. Out.”
Wexler bristled at the impetuous dismissal. “Madam President, I—”
“Out, Steven. That’s an order.”
The agent looked at Hazizaar, who looked at Sozzerozs, who nodded his permission. Eyes locked on each other, alert to the tiniest sign of betrayal, the two elite defenders slipped reluctantly from the room. Doors clicked shut after them, and then the two heads of state faced each other across the table with no witnesses, no advisers, no intermediaries.
“Let’s cut the bullshit,” Bacco said, her veneer of genteel civility shed like a worn-out skin. “This whole summit’s been a waste of time, hasn’t it? You’ve been running us in circles, forcing us to make the same arguments over and over, asking for promises you know we can’t make. If you really came here to make a deal, we’d be making one—wouldn’t we?”
He appreciated her lack of guile, and the unblinking ferocity of her eye contact. “You are quite the scholar of the political game, Madam President. I salute you.”
“Save the salutes. Just tell me the truth. Hell, at this point, I’ll settle for part of it.”
As much as he admired Bacco’s forthright quality, he knew that to admit too much too soon might doom any hope of real progress. But to squander the opportunity this moment represented would constitute a political and strategic failure of an even greater magnitude. “Our demands have been as unreasonable as they are intransigent. And I confess that you are correct: this has been entirely by design. I regret that I cannot explain in greater detail.”
The human woman took a moment to think about his response. It was a trait that he found commendable. Too many persons he had encountered in the political arena spoke solely for the pleasure of hearing their own voices, and a frightening number sought to fill every silence even when their minds were so evidently devoid of original thought. But not Bacco . . . she could think and speak at the same time when necessary, but she was a thinker first.
She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes as if to pierce his rhetorical defenses with visual acuity. “You were pressured to come here by another member of the Pact, weren’t you?”
The galaxy could use a
few more leaders like her, Sozzerozs lamented.
“For the sake of discussion, let us assume—in a purely hypothetical sense—that what you say is true. Further assume that the same party that compelled us to this summit did not see fit to explicate its motives for doing so—but has made clear what the price of betrayal would be.”
Bacco’s countenance grew stern. “Would this hypothetical external political actor be one that’s known to have a cultural affinity for masks?”
He was impressed that she—and likely, by extension, Starfleet and the Federation government—had been so quick to connect the Breen to the previous night’s attack. “It might.”
“And how might that external power react to a political realignment that sides the Hegemony with the Federation?”
He no longer saw any purpose to prevarication or procrastination. It was time to tell her the truth. “If such a realignment occurred, I would be assassinated without delay, as would my sons and brothers. Then a noble sympathetic to the killers’ agenda would be backed with a covert infusion of wealth and external political support, ensuring his ascension to the imperatorship. Within a few years, the Hegemony would be mobilized against the Federation as a proxy fighter—a mercenary too stupid to realize it’s been bought and sold as a slave.”
Her gaze remained as hard and cold as steel, but when Sozzerozs tasted the air with his tongue, he caught the metallic tang of her fear. She understands the true stakes now. Good.
Once again, she didn’t rush to reply. She was somber and pensive. As she considered the matter, the scent of her fear swiftly dissipated—and as it faded, his respect for her increased.
She folded her hands on the tabletop. “The rise of a new imperator whose principal loyalty lies outside the Hegemony would not be in the best interests of your people. And if the Hegemony were transformed into a client state, that could severely destabilize the balance of power within the Typhon Pact.” A sly look. “I don’t think that would please Praetor Kamemor.”
“No, it would not.” He fought the urge to grin in response to her implied proposition.
A hint of a smirk gave the president a mischievous quality. “Perhaps, before we worry about brokering a truce with the Klingon Empire, we should focus on strengthening the Hegemony’s bonds of friendship with a nation it already counts as an ally: the Romulan Star Empire. Considering the efforts the praetor has made to normalize diplomatic relations with the Federation, that would be an easy negotiation for us to mediate on your behalf.”
He grasped her reasoning. If the Romulans were sincere in their desire for détente, then a stronger relationship between the Hegemony and the Star Empire would serve two purposes at once: it would bring the Gorn under the wing of a larger power with the technological prowess and military strength to persuade the Breen not to meddle in the Hegemony’s affairs, and it would give the Gorn a chance to steer the Romulan government toward a lasting peace—and maybe even, in a generation or two, a formal alliance. “That would be a worthwhile outcome for the summit, Madam President—provided it can be accomplished with discretion.”
The human smiled. “Trust me, Imperator—discretion is what we do best.”
• • •
Surrounded by a labyrinth of rusted pipes, ruptured conduits, and derelict reactor housings, Šmrhová was plagued by the suspicion that she was being deceived. Acting on a request from Commander La Forge and Mister Data, she and Worf, along with a security detail and science specialists from the Enterprise, had beamed down to the last site the defunct android was known to have visited before its capture: the abandoned power plant. Now the security chief stood in the shadow of the main reactor under a patch of open sky—a luxury made possible by the long-ago collapse of the main building’s enormous roof—and she felt . . . manipulated.
A huddle of officers outside the entrance to the reactor’s control center split up, and from its nucleus emerged Commander Worf. The Klingon looked as irritated as Šmrhová felt, and he walked toward her with long and purposeful strides. As he approached conversational range, he said in his bold baritone, “Our teams have found nothing.”
“I didn’t think they would,” Šmrhová grumbled.
Worf met her mild complaint with a severe glare. “Explain.”
“Are you kidding me?” She waved her arms at the cavernous corroded facility. “Look at this place, Commander! No power, no comm lines, no access to the city’s infrastructure—at least, none that we’ve found so far. What were we supposed to find here? A hideout?”
He refused to blink or back down. “A clue, Lieutenant.”
“Well, I think we’ve already found it, sir.” She nodded toward the vast, murky pool of contaminated water that, thanks to evaporation, only half covered the dormant heat exchangers. “As far as I can tell, the thorium traces are the only thing to find here. What’s more, I think we were supposed to find them—and the android copy of Bacco’s chief of staff.”
The first officer scrunched his brow with a doubtful frown. “I do not see what an enemy would gain by exposing its own assets in that manner. Especially not one so valuable.”
“Neither do I, but think about how we got here.” She held up fingers one at a time to keep count as she continued. “One, Geordi and I acted on an unsolicited tip that led us to expose Chairman Kinshal at the bank. Two, the Piñiero impersonator, despite having an almost perfect shot at any target she wants, missed the president and the imperator, then escaped. Three, we get an anonymous tip that leads us to the real Piñiero’s body. Four, we find thorium traces that lead us here, to the power plant, and that leads us straight to the Piñiero look-alike.”
Worf shook his head, refusing to accept her conspiracy theory at face value. “The shooter missed because the president’s protection agent shot her first. And the anonymous tip could have come from a citizen who saw suspicious activity and reported it.”
“Have you dealt with the Orions, Worf? They’re not the type to tip off law enforcement.”
With smug assurance, he replied, “Then why did the bank’s custodian warn you and Commander La Forge about the chairman’s breach of security?”
“I asked myself the same question. Unfortunately, I didn’t ask it until an hour ago. I just heard back from the bank’s personnel director. They have no employment record for anyone named Kal Pollus. Or any name remotely similar, for that matter.”
That news sparked his interest. “Then who was it who gave you the tip?”
She shrugged. “No idea. I had Balidemaj run a check against the Orions’ public databases and census information to see if we could find him, but the only match for that name is a man who died ninety-two years ago.”
“Naturally.” The first officer’s imagination was clearly engaged. “Could your informant have also been an android? An accomplice of the infiltrators?”
“I don’t know. Considering that they know how to spoof our sensors, I don’t see why it couldn’t have been. Of course, it could just as easily have been some random low-life paid off to bring us the information and give us a fake name.”
Worf crossed his arms, and his body language became tighter and more closed-off as his gaze became a thousand-meter stare, fixed on some unseen idea in his mind’s eye. “Whether he was another android, a biological accomplice, or a paid cutout is irrelevant. No matter how he learned of the plan to infiltrate the bank to assassinate the president and the imperator, the more important question is this: Why would someone who possessed that information choose to share it with us? And was it given to us by the conspirators themselves—or by someone seeking to sabotage them?”
“All excellent questions,” Šmrhová said. “Unfortunately, I don’t have answers for any of them—yet.” She looked around at the roving teams of investigative scientists. “So, what do we do next? Because honestly, I don’t think this is a productive use of our time.”
He frowned, then sighed. “Very well. Order all teams to finish their current tests and return to the Enterprise.
Then join me and Commander La Forge outside the plant’s main gate.” He started walking away, his mind focused on whatever plan he was concocting.
Šmrhová called out, “What’s our next move, sir?”
He stopped and looked back. “We tell the Orions we are halting our investigation and preparing to leave the planet.” His eyes brightened with a gleam of diabolical amusement. “If I am right, someone is about to make certain we have a very good reason to stay.”
21
Berro squatted down, took Olar’s hand, and helped his comrade sit up in the open transmogrifier pod, from which climbed clouds of noxious vapor. Freshly reshaped from his previous identity as Siro Kinshal into a nondescript young male Vulcan, Olar seemed woozy and bewildered. Steadying the other agent with a hand on his shoulder, Berro asked, “How do you feel?”
“I’ve been better.” Olar blinked his eyes hard, then drew a deep breath. “Was it my imagination, or was the turnaround on that really fast?”
“It wasn’t your imagination.” He pulled Olar to his feet.
After a few seconds, Olar regained his balance. He nodded. “I’m okay.” He let go of Berro’s hand and pressed his fingertips to his remodeled face. “How did it turn out?”
“Better than mine.” Even though it was just a temporary visage on a distant avatar, Berro still felt mildly self-conscious about the aesthetic shortcomings of his android’s latest template. He imagined his new form—bald with a bulbous nose and bulging eyes beneath wild graying eyebrows—must have been modeled on the ugliest human male in existence. “Run your diagnostic. I’ll ping the lab coats and see if we have new orders yet.”
Olar turned away as he submerged into a full-system diagnostic scan, and Berro faced in the other direction as he accessed the circuit for the direct comm line to their handlers at Korwat. The hailing prompt buzzed only once before Hain replied, her voice like a disembodied presence inside Berro’s mind.