Takedown
Page 27
Riker shook his head. “You saved the Federation.”
Picard gestured to the forest around them. “While the public at large doesn’t know about this place or Simus, when those at the top are satisfied with you, their confidence has a way of projecting to all.”
Riker decided it was time for the frank question. “So the last few weeks haven’t been career suicide?”
“We don’t use that term here,” Simus called out. Riker turned to see the Vulcan hobbling up the bridge. “No, you haven’t any reason for concern. My report will describe a man who had a remarkable experience and who under extreme duress managed to use what latitude his captors gave him to mitigate damage. And more than that—he resolved the crisis.”
Picard nodded. “We’ve had additional interchanges with the Cytherians since you’ve been here. They cannot repair our arrays personally, but they’ve provided technical guidance that will enhance our deep-space studies. The Federation has agreed to distribute the knowledge to all the injured parties and the rest of the Typhon Pact. It will net positive for everyone.”
Riker was relieved to hear that. “And the political situation?”
“Starfleet Intelligence believes most involved will sweep the matter under the rug. It’s been an embarrassment for many—and it’s shown us all how vulnerable our communications arrays are.”
Riker nodded. “I imagine a lot of people will be less willing to go to the next summit meeting.” Then again, he thought, fewer pointless exercises might be a blessing.
“I don’t know what will become of some of the others involved,” Picard said. “I suspect Senator Bretorius’s political prospects may have gone from zero to a negative number. If he lives.”
“Which just goes to show,” Simus said, “that Admiral Riker fared better than anyone.” He presented his hand to Riker. “A number of other people have spoken highly of you over the years, sir. I’ve long been interested in meeting you. I am sorry for the circumstance, of course.”
Riker returned the handshake. “Thank you, Simus. It’s been an experience.”
“Experiences are my specialty. You know where to find me.”
Fifty-one
The Enterprise captain led Riker up a garden path to a plaza with a fountain. The trees were thick, all around, and the admiral could see several other guests of the center wandering in the woods. Who were they, and what might they have experienced?
Riker realized, then, how lucky he was to be leaving. The Romaine Center was a nice place, and Simus a helpful doctor—once he started answering questions instead of asking them. But certainly there were people here whose brushes with other intelligences had left them unable to function outside the station’s confines. He had no lingering aftereffects that he could tell—apart from the physical toll it had taken. However, some of the people here were likely forever scarred by what had happened to them. He was glad that Starfleet had developed this facility. It wasn’t easy living with two minds using one body.
And that made him think of someone else.
“One more thing,” Riker said to Picard. “Captain Dax has had a rough time since the Andorian incident. I’m going to see that she and her crew get a commendation, a plum assignment, something.”
“It’s already happened,” Picard said over the burbling of the fountain. “Aventine’s repairs are complete, and she’s back in action already. Her crew’s heroism was self-evident, but I’m sure whatever words you put together would be welcomed.”
“As an admiral, Jean-Luc, I’m officially horrified to have another captain who is a member of the Order of Occasionally Disobeying Orders,” Riker said. Then he grinned.
Picard chuckled—and mentioned someone else who had disobeyed a directive. “Nerla has recovered and been granted full asylum. She’s expressed interest in being a resort planner.”
“Good. After Bretorius, she’s someone who needed a vacation.”
Suddenly realizing the time, Picard looked down a path to the right. “I have to get back to Enterprise. We have a mission of exploration to resume.” He gave a slight bow. “May I take my leave, Admiral?”
“Good luck, Jean-Luc.”
Riker smiled as Picard walked away toward a brightly lit doorway. Out of habit he reached for his combadge. It was not there. “Hey! How am I supposed to get back?”
“Someone will come for you, sir,” Picard called out, not looking back.
CITADEL VAR’THELDUN
ROMULUS
Being hung upside down was easier on the stomach when you hadn’t eaten in days.
That was one of the very few conclusions that Bretorius had reached during his time in the suspension device, other than that the person who had developed the thing was a diabolical sadist. The table he was strapped to pivoted gyroscopically to a new position at random times. While perhaps not as hard on the body as being held upside down all the time, prisoners spent most of their time wondering when the thing would move next.
It was a device that told him he was in the hands of the Tal Shiar. And, truth be told, it was a better thing to be imprisoned in than their gravitic rack, which applied varying amounts of artificial gravity to different parts of the body. They’d given him a day in that before his digestive system told them he wouldn’t survive another.
The table lurched again—this time, bringing him fully upright. When the world stopped spinning, he saw the door to the all-white chamber open. It revealed a middle-aged Romulan male with jet-black hair and a silvery uniform, holding a black padd. “I am Irliss, your handler for today.”
Bretorius let out a low moan. “Another one?”
“Yes, another one,” Irliss said, snappish. “You were expecting, perhaps, the praetor?”
“I don’t know.”
“Praetor Kamemor would not meet with you,” the handler said. “She is not fond of harsh methods.”
Two guards entered through the door behind Irliss. They walked to either side of Bretorius and began detaching him from his restraints.
“I feel as though I am in the presence of celebrity,” Irliss said. “There has been quite the squabble trying to decide who gets control of you. The Military Affairs Division wants you for what you did to D’varian. Research and Development is interested in the modifications you made. Internal Security is going mad trying to find out how such a thing could happen.”
“So who gets me?”
“Special Operations. We won the dice throw.” Irliss smiled. He lifted the padd and read from it. “It’s quite the bounty you’ve racked up. Piracy. Barratry. Misuse of senatorial privilege. Destruction of Romulan strategic assets. Unauthorized acts against neighboring powers.”
The last shackle released, Bretorius slumped forward. The guards made no attempt to keep him from falling to the deck. It was spattered with long-dried blood, he saw.
“Collusion with hostile powers,” Irliss continued. “Collusion with Romulan citizens, in the form of the fugitive Nerla. Conspiracy to unseat high officials.”
Bretorius tried to force his muscles to work. “No treason?”
“It’s all treason,” the inquisitor said, aggravated. “I’m surprised that you haven’t tried to deny any of it.”
On his hands and knees, Bretorius looked weakly at the floor. He had needed sleep, food, and water after his experience. The Romulans aboard D’varian and here had done their best to deny him all three. That left little energy for denying what was plainly true. “It all happened. I have nothing to say.”
“I expected you to plead innocence based on the Cytherians controlling you.”
“Why would I do that?” Bretorius asked. He cast his weary eyes up at the inquisitor. “If you thought I was simply a puppet unable to resist, you would think me weak and a coward. But if you thought I had access to immense powers and didn’t try to take personal and political advantage? Then you would think me a poor Romulan.”
Irliss stared coolly down at him, a little surprised at the comment. “Amusing,” he finally sai
d. He nodded to the guards, who yanked Bretorius back onto his feet.
Irliss walked back out into the brightly lit hall. The guards shoved Bretorius along after him. The Tal Shiar officer continued to read aloud from the padd as he walked. “It pleases me to say that you have become poorer still. You have lost your senate seat, of course. Your properties are stripped from you—and your record with the Imperial Fleet has been amended to read that you were discharged dishonorably in your first year as a cadet, never to serve.”
This much was expected.
“We have parliamentary experts working on finding a way to expunge your name from the historical rolls of the Senate without changing the results of the votes you took part in. Fortunately, it appears that you never voted on anything where you would have made a difference.”
“I was usually throwing up during the tough votes.”
Ignoring him, Irliss stopped as they reached an intersection. “So much for your name; now for the man. You are to be confined for an indefinite period in our research laboratories.” He turned back toward Bretorius and gestured down the hall to the right. “Our scientists would like to see what remnant effects the Cytherian powers had on your mind. Perhaps there is some small useful thing left in that mass of driftwood you call a brain.” There was a glint in the officer’s eye. “I suspect some of their techniques will be . . . invasive.”
That sounds about right, Bretorius thought. “And then?”
“If there is anything left of you, you will be removed to the Reman mines, where you will serve the Empire until death. Which I would expect would come relatively soon for one in your physical shape.”
Bretorius sagged in the guards’ clutches. Nothing at all he’d been told had surprised him. Maybe that was a remnant of the Cytherian experience. Instead of wondering about the horrible possibilities ahead until he made himself sick, he simply selected the worst possible future and figured on that one happening. It still ripped his stomach up, but he got through it a lot quicker.
The inquisitor snapped his fingers, and the guards turned Bretorius down the hall to the right. There was a darkened doorway up ahead, and he could see the flicker of lights beyond. The research lab. This was it—the beginning of the end for him.
“Oh, one more thing,” the inquisitor said, trailing behind. The guards paused, and Bretorius looked wearily back. “Your wife has left you, too.” Irliss smiled evilly. “We have put her out on the streets.”
Bretorius’s eyebrow raised slightly. “My in-laws, too?”
“All evicted and left with nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Bretorius considered the words for a moment. A smile crept onto his face. “Well, there’s that.”
He turned his head and walked deliberately toward the darkened room, each step lighter than his last.
THE ROMAINE CENTER
ABOVE BETAZED
After the captain disappeared into the aperture, Riker looked around for the promised escort. He had made several complete circuits of the fountain when someone emerged from the trees.
“They’ll let just anyone in here,” Deanna Troi said.
“Evidently.” He smiled as his wife stepped out into the artificial sunlight.
Troi looked up and around. “You know, Will, I went for a walk in an arboretum with Reg Barclay after the Cytherians released him.”
“You’ve found me out,” Riker said, walking over to her. “This whole thing was my way of making sure I got the same walk.”
“Mastermind.”
“I thought this was a secret place. How’d you get in here?”
Troi straightened. “You’ve clearly forgotten the time when I was the pawn of the prisoners of Ux-Mal.”
“I’ve tried to forget it,” Riker said. “They made you talk funny.” Troi, along with Enterprise-D crewmates Data and Miles O’Brien, had once briefly come under the mental control of evil entities. “You’ve been here before? You didn’t tell me.”
“I’ve stopped in on the way to Betazed. Simus likes having people check in now and again.” She walked up and took his hand. “Our minds aren’t built for multiple occupants. It’s not always easy to get the house back in order after the guests leave.”
“I think,” Riker said, “I may be done with the metaphors.”
She smiled warmly. “I’m just telling you you’re not alone. Others have gone through this.”
He released her hand and looked away. “Maybe we can start a parrises squares league. Those controlled by ancient spirits can be on one team, alien voyeurs on another.”
Her eyes followed him as he turned to look across the parkland. “What’s wrong?”
He looked back to her. “Nothing.”
“Will, black humor usually means you’re worried about something.”
Riker walked over to a tree and leaned against it. He took a deep breath. “Simus and Jean-Luc said this whole thing was being forgiven. I’d love to believe that. But it sounds too good to be true.”
A smile crossed Troi’s face. “Oh, is that all,” she said, her tone playful. “Worried about your career.” He looked back at her, not amused—and she decided to let him off the hook. “Will, from what Captain Picard told me, Admiral Akaar has taken a great interest in your recovery—with an emphasis on getting you back as quickly as possible.”
He weighed that. “Huh.”
“ ‘Huh’ is right.” Troi walked up to him. “Maybe Captain Picard didn’t tell you, but Starfleet Command loved the fact that of all those the Cytherians touched, it was the Starfleet officer who broke free to help save the day.”
“Squirmed free is more accurate.”
She pulled his hand from the tree. “And having seen what you could do with three starships has made some people wonder what you could do with a wider bailiwick. They’re curious to see how much was the Cytherians—and how much was you.” Drawing him into an embrace, she kissed him. “So I hope you got some rest here, Admiral. Because I would say you have big things ahead of you.”
Against Deanna Troi’s optimism, resistance was futile. Riker grinned as they turned up the path. “Let’s try some small things first. Like seeing Tasha.”
Deanna smiled. “And that dinner we never got to have.”
“No, that will be a big thing. I am starving.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While I came to many readers’ attention as a writer of stories set in a different galaxy, writing a Star Trek novel has been a longtime ambition for me. My first stab at writing licensed fiction, in fact, was for Star Trek, in the form of a submission to Strange New Worlds. I couldn’t be more delighted now that the stars have finally aligned. I’m grateful to Margaret Clark and Ed Schlesinger at Pocket Books for not only giving me the opportunity but letting me chase the sort of story I’ve always wanted to write.
I’m greatly appreciative to John Van Citters at CBS for his input and feedback, and I am glad for the conversations I had with longtime Trek authors Kevin Dilmore, Christie Golden, David Mack, James Swallow, and Dayton Ward as I wrote my first full-length novel for the milieu. I really appreciate the warm welcome I’ve received from the Trek universe of fans and professionals.
Obviously, I also owe a major debt of gratitude to writer Joe Menosky and the team behind the production of the fourth season Star Trek: The Next Generation episode “The Nth Degree,” which served as the inspiration for many of this story’s events.
And finally, my thanks as ever to Meredith Miller, proofreader and Number One on my bridge.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Jackson Miller is the New York Times bestselling author of Star Wars: A New Dawn; Star Wars: Kenobi; Star Wars: Knight Errant; Star Wars: Lost Tribe of the Sith—The Collected Stories; and fifteen Star Wars graphic novels, as well as Overdraft: The Orion Offensive and Star Trek: Titan—Absent Enemies. A comics industry historian and analyst, he has written for franchises including Conan, Iron Man, Indiana Jones, Mass Effect, and The Simpsons. He lives in Wisconsin with his wife, two ch
ildren, and far too many comic books.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: authors.simonandschuster.com/John-Jackson-Miller
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