Riker glanced over at the Zakdorn. “If they had activated Takedown, Commander, you wouldn’t be able to tell right away. It might not register. But later on you’d know it for sure. No, it’s safe for Lieutenant Mirren’s ear, and that only. Even putting the audio out onto the bridge still gets it into Aventine’s systems.”
Mirren was still listening, though she was evidently struggling to make sense of it. “I think we’ve caught them on a worship day.”
Riker grinned darkly. “They’re all worship days here. They’ve given us the opening. Let’s take it.”
The distance between Aventine and the Annunciator halved, and then halved again. “Ready phasers,” Dax said. “Give me life-sign readings of every targeted structure. If anyone is aboard, bypass it.” It wasn’t something Riker had told her to do, and Dax now looked back at the admiral, searching to see if her order had evoked some kind of reaction. “Admiral?”
He didn’t hesitate before answering. “Of course. We only want to prevent Takedown from being broadcast.”
“The transceiver panels are not crewed,” Helkara said, his voice betraying the excitement of the moment. “Precision fire to sever them should spare the inhabited areas.”
“We’re in range,” Kedair announced.
“Forward phasers, target panels only,” Dax ordered, just to be absolutely sure. “Fire!”
Orange rays lanced out from Aventine, striking the black blossom and shearing off two of the colossal panels. Aventine veered right, with the port phaser banks continuing the fire. Dax watched closely as the starship completed half a circuit. It was almost surgical, what they were doing—and not entirely unlike a child pulling petals off a flower.
Or was it the wings off an insect? The thought entered Dax’s mind for a moment, and she shivered a little. The Kinshaya weren’t fighting back—
“Incoming fire!” Kedair called out. Disruptors on the Annunciator’s rearward side opened up on Aventine as they passed, just missing.
“Continue firing,” Dax said. The design of the station was such that its weaponry had a narrow field of fire—and she took advantage of that, keeping Aventine in its many blind spots.
Riker, standing to her right, watched with great interest. On the flight controller’s station, he pointed. “I think we’ve got company!”
“Good eye, sir,” Bowers called out. “Kedair, what have you got?”
Aventine had already moved to where the vessels Riker had seen were out of sight, but her sensors had more information. “I mark three—no, four attack vessels of the kind the Klingons told us about, all coming from the planet in the system.”
Dax keenly studied the Annunciator—now mostly an orb with sparking spikes sticking out of it—floating amid a sea of debris. “Give me a damage assessment on the target.”
“The transmitter is done for,” Helkara said. “I estimate ninety percent of the structure disabled.”
“Kinshaya combat vessels have charged weapons and are closing,” Kedair said.
Dax wanted a better look. “Long-range view, on-screen.”
The image changed to a rear view, and she spotted several black, spherical spacecraft—identical except for unique designs etched into their hulls, which served to identify their captains. Or at least that was what the Klingon intel reports had said. Whoever was aboard them, they were all in a race to catch up with Aventine.
It was a race none of them could ever win. “We’ve done our job,” Riker said.
Dax was glad to hear it. “Lieutenant Tharp, take us out of here.”
She felt a surge of acceleration that she did not try to fight, allowing it to push her back in her chair. The tension of the moment was finally subsiding. Bowers, who had been worried since the staff meeting, seemed much relieved—and from his admiring glance, quite impressed with his hero Riker’s plan. He gave her a thumbs-up gesture, out of sight of the admiral.
And looking up to Riker, she saw an approving look on the admiral’s face. He said it, Dax thought, her heart warmed. We’ve done our job.
“Set heading for Staging Area Two,” she ordered. It was a location Riker had chosen beforehand, back in neutral space. There, they could reactivate only his connection to Command—the most secure link they could manage—to send word of their efforts.
“Heading set, Captain.”
“Slipstream drive, engage.” Dax let out a breath as she heard the system powering up. “I’m glad that’s over.”
Then she looked across and saw Riker’s smile fading. He seemed to be considering something else. As much as she hated to break the jubilant mood on the bridge, she chanced a question: “It is over, isn’t it?”
“I wish I could tell you that,” the admiral said. Then he turned and left the bridge.
D’VARIAN
NEAR JOURET
Bretorius had always admired Nerla’s hearty complexion; it came from growing up on the shores of Beraldak Bay, Romulus’s vacation paradise. But the woman who returned to his commandeered office had no color to her face at all.
“It is Praetor Kamemor,” she said, the padd in her hands nearly about to drop. “She wants to speak . . . with you.”
The senator reacted with mild amusement. “Calm down, Nerla. You handle important political calls for me every day. Why should this unnerve you?”
Nerla’s eyes locked on him. “Half your ‘important calls’ are from retirees looking for a state pension—and the other half are from your creditors. Not from the praetor of the Empire—wanting to know why you haven’t returned!”
Bretorius waved his hand dismissively and activated the terminal on the desk. Nerla had the link set up. He smiled at her primly. “Would you like to stay around for this? I’m sure the praetor would like to say hello.”
Nerla answered by darting out the door.
The senator touched the screen. The image was shaky, but he recognized the silhouette of Gell Kamemor. “Praetor,” he said, not bothering to bow his head.
“Bretorius!” Kamemor’s voice came through loud and clear—and her anger was unmistakable. “What are you doing? I was told you transferred to D’varian to return here—and now I hear you’ve unseated her captain and ordered the ship to hold position in Federation space!”
Bretorius wasn’t surprised she knew. There wasn’t any chance of Subcommander Quarlis not sending that piece of information to Romulus. But Bretorius also knew that the praetor would seek answers from him first, rather than admit to a junior officer in the fleet that she had lost control of someone. “What I have done is for the good of the Empire,” he said.
“Don’t tell me you want your old command back so bad that you—”
“You will hear me,” Bretorius said, blithely interrupting a woman he had not dared to speak a word to in his entire service in the Romulan Senate. “At the Summit of Eight, I learned that Commander Yalok was a spy for the Federation.”
“What?” Kamemor’s features faded in and out. “You can’t be serious. Yalok is a twenty-year veteran and loyal! And even if he were a spy, this is a matter for the Tal Shiar! Not some fool—”
“There could be no delay in bringing him to justice,” Bretorius said. “Order demanded it.”
“Order? Order demands that you return with him now!” The screen went blank for a moment, before the Praetor’s image reappeared, still railing at him.
“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid. There are things to do.”
“Won’t be—?” The normally dignified leader of the Romulan Star Empire looked ready to explode. “I don’t need this distraction right now. We’ve just suffered a mad act, an attack on our communications systems. By of all things, a Ferengi—”
The transmission ended. Bretorius checked: it was indeed a failure of one of the connections upstream, between D’varian and Romulus. That was fine. The praetor had told him several things he needed to know.
He reached for the padd he had been working with and stepped out into the hall. Nerla was there, supervising th
e three workers Quarlis had sent down to turn the Ter’ak Pen’s offices into something he could use. She looked back at him nervously—and followed him as he walked around the prison deck, checking the workers’ modifications.
“So are you sacked?” she asked him, her voice dry. “Are you—are we—under arrest?”
“Clearly not. But I can understand your confusion.”
“I’m asking about the praetor. Can you at least be serious?”
He smiled. “Very well. If that idiot Quarlis called for the staff meeting I asked for, you’ll see how serious a man I can be . . .”
Eleven
U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
EPSILON OUTPOST 11
Captain’s log. We have arrived at Epsilon Outpost 11, a communications array in the Beta Quadrant. Years ago, this facility was constructed as part of a chain of stations keeping watch on the Klingon Empire; now, it serves as the home for the Brightman-Laird Subspace Telescope, listening across vast reaches of space to find new civilizations, ready to begin an exchange . . .
Jean-Luc Picard deactivated the recording and sat back in his desk chair, frustrated already with the entry. It was difficult to make what Enterprise was doing now sound interesting.
At the end of the tumult that followed the death of Federation President Bacco, Picard had been assured that the Enterprise would be spared any further role in interstellar politics—returning to the mission it was designed for: deep-space exploration. Enterprise had indeed been dispatched toward an unexplored region. But extended expeditions depended on a long lifeline for support, and they had realized the transceiver at Brightman-Laird wasn’t properly calibrated. It wasn’t near the place they were exploring, but rather one end of a long chain. A very important end, as it happened.
So back again we go, Picard thought, standing up. He wondered how far Ferdinand Magellan would have gotten if he’d needed to return to Seville every time some little thing went wrong.
But at least the setback seemed temporary. Commander Geordi La Forge was across at the outpost, bringing the systems in line with what was needed. Soon, they would be off again, with little recollection of this side time. He’d let his wife, Beverly Crusher, know he was back, but there was no chance of visiting her this time. She was running the medical facilities at Deep Space 9, on the complete other side of the Federation. They had decided it was better for her not to say hello to René, their young son. It would be better to wait for a real reunion.
Picard left his quarters and made for the nearby turbolift. He knew he could count on La Forge not to drag out whatever needed to be done at the outpost. Voltaire was right: Le mieux est l’ennemi du bien. The best was the enemy of the good. They didn’t need perfection, they simply needed to make sure the facility could help them communicate as they found their way across the—
A tremor shook Enterprise. Crimson lighting in the hallway activated, as well as the Red Alert siren. Keeping his footing, Picard slapped his communicator badge. “Bridge, Picard. What’s going on, Number One?”
The Klingon first officer’s voice was full of urgency. “Captain, we are under attack!”
“Attack? By whom?”
“The Romulans.”
Picard goggled—but he didn’t ask any more. “On my way.” Worf would be busy, taking the steps the captain knew he would to protect both Enterprise and the outpost. The turbolift doors opened and he rushed inside. “Bridge!”
The ride was fast, as always, but it felt interminable. All he could think was, “Here we go again.” When would they escape this cycle of crisis after crisis? It wasn’t just a selfish desire to get back out exploring. Didn’t everyone deserve peace, at last?
The turbolift doors opened and he stepped onto the bridge. Enterprise’s command crew was in full battle mode. On-screen, he could see the vast, gray metal expanse of Outpost 11 and its communication arrays branching outward, part of it in flames. A Romulan D’deridex-class warbird soared past, launching photon torpedoes at it—even as its disruptors fired in Enterprise’s direction.
He hurried to the command well on the bridge, where Worf was giving out orders to counterattack. His eyes glistened with rage, but he controlled it. “Starboard shields to maximum. Put us between the Romulan and the outpost. Fire when ready.”
Picard heard an assent from the tactical station—even as Worf recognized the captain’s presence. “Status, Number One.”
Worf quickly yielded the center chair, still clearly furious. “A sneak attack, sir. A single warbird decloaked, firing on the array.”
“And the outpost?”
From behind, Lieutenant Aneta Šmrhová, the chief of security, reported, “Commander La Forge’s team has left the conning tower for a more secure area. Sixteen staffers are aboard the station. Structural integrity of crew areas holding.”
Worf looked sharply at Picard, as if trying to read his superior’s mind. “Captain, we cannot beam out the staff while shields are up. The best way to buy them time is to engage the Romulan.”
“Agreed.” Picard saw the warbird growing larger on-screen as Enterprise raced the length of the array. “Let’s get their attention.”
WARBIRD D’VARIAN
On the warbird’s bridge, Senator Bretorius watched with delight as another of Epsilon Outpost 11’s long masts shattered to pieces under D’varian’s attack.
“Withdraw and begin another run,” he said, pounding his fist on the top of the commander’s chair.
“Do as he says,” Subcommander Quarlis muttered, not looking back at him. Her eyes were focused on the destruction outside.
Nerla sat off to the left, hands clasped together, her gaze darting between the viewscreen and the senator. He could see the fear and worry in her face every time she looked at him; he could only let her see his confidence.
The vessel’s crew had finally gotten him what he needed down in the Tal Shiar agent’s office without complaint, but putting them on their present course had taken something more. He had met with the senior staff, delivering the message he had “received” from Praetor Kamemor—modified to support his order for a strike against Outpost 11.
And this was the right place for a strike. Outpost 11 was just across the Romulan Neutral Zone in a small wedge of Federation space along that body’s once-fortified border with the Klingons. The Empire had seen a potential threat coming from this region for years. Quarlis had quickly commenced the attack at his command—after he had implied that Commander Yalok would be sure to do it in her stead, if she wavered.
Now, they were doing his bidding. Destroying—and exercising mercy. “No needless deaths, if possible. We want the survivors to remember this lesson.”
Some members of the bridge crew naturally objected; all knew what kind of a provocation they were involved with. Starfleet would respond, whether lives were taken or not. But Bretorius had brought just enough of the right people to his side to give his commands credence. All Romulans operated in a realm where information was strictly compartmentalized; few knew the reasons behind every mission. Bretorius used that to his advantage. If he could talk a Tal Shiar agent into giving him his office, he could convince anyone of anything.
A barrage from behind struck D’varian’s shields, shaking all on the bridge. “We’re being hailed by the commander of the Federation starship,” came a voice from the side. “It’s the Enterprise.”
Bretorius took a breath at hearing the name—and then smiled. Everyone had heard of Enterprise and her captain. It would be interesting to take the human’s measure. “Put Captain Picard on-screen.”
A bald human in Starfleet uniform appeared. “Commander, Romulan vessel: cease fire at once. This is an unarmed facility.”
Subcommander Quarlis, already agitated at the sound of Picard’s name, shuffled uncomfortably in her chair at the human’s voice. But she played her part. “This outpost is not peaceful. It is directing signals into Romulan space, supporting your spies in the Empire!”
“Untrue,” Picard said. “S
can the array’s output. The signals are bound for space far beyond your territory.”
Before anyone could check, Bretorius spoke up. “An amusing ploy, Captain. Of course, you could transmit such signals as a cover. When, in fact, this facility is meant to speak to your agents on Romulus. You seek to undermine and destroy!”
“That is not our way—”
“Oh, really?” Bretorius pointed out the Klingon first officer on the image before him—and the Cardassian crewman, visible at a station just behind Picard. “You have allied your so-called peaceful Federation with gangster states. You have taken their warriors onto your ships. You intend nothing less than to carve up our Empire. You will give the scraps to your allies, and you will claim the heart, Romulus, for yourselves. That I will not allow!”
Before Picard could respond, Bretorius ordered the communication cut.
He looked to the sides to see the officers—and Nerla—stirred by his words. “Intensify firing,” he said. “Focus on the remaining intact segments of the outpost’s array. Hit them with everything.”
“What about Enterprise?” Quarlis asked, her voice quavering a little.
He looked forward and smiled. “I already know what they’ll do.”
ENTERPRISE
“Outpost is showing structural failure in several locations,” announced Ravel Dygan at ops. The Cardassian male looked concerned.
Picard glared at the viewscreen, still puzzled and irritated at being summarily dismissed by the Romulan who had spoken to him. He glanced at Worf. “Options?”
“The outpost is likely out of commission. We must protect the lives of those who remain.”
Picard looked on the Klingon with admiration. He had come such a long way from the angry young man Picard had known years earlier. “Cease fire.” The captain called back to the human woman at flight control. “Mister Faur, cancel pursuit. Full stop.”
“Full stop, Captain.”
“Minimize our profile facing the warbird. When we pass out of range, drop shields.”
The process took less than thirty seconds. It was fortunate that only a skeleton away team had been aboard and that the station was mostly automated since the days of its construction more than a century before.
Takedown Page 7