by Dayton Ward
Which is why Jean-Luc is stuck at Ferenginar. Riker needed Picard, but orchestrating a ruse to justify moving him and the Enterprise from the so-called “diplomatic mission” for which Ishan had dispatched the flagship to the Ferengi homeworld was proving difficult. Still, Riker was formulating a plan of his own.
“When you requested a meeting,” Akaar said, his gaze focused on a small flock of ducks floating at the pond’s opposite end, “you said there had been a development.”
“Yes, sir. You know that I’ve continued to have my people working to find a way to monitor President Ishan’s communications.” At Akaar’s request and after the admiral had provided him with critical information with which to begin his unsanctioned investigation, Riker had asked trusted members of his crew aboard the Titan to target a secret, encrypted subspace communications array apparently in use either by the president or his chief of staff, Galif jav Velk. It had been a task fraught with risk; discovery of their actions likely would result in arrest and court-martial for treason. With the possibility of collecting incontrovertible proof of Ishan’s or Velk’s illegal activities, Akaar had accepted the danger, as had Riker and those members of the Titan’s senior staff with whom he had entrusted this information.
“I’ve kept my people at it,” Riker continued, “in the hopes that Ishan might lead us to wherever Velk’s being held.” With the interim president’s former chief of staff in the custody of the Federation Security Agency and being held at one of their detention facilities, Riker knew that time was running out for the Tellarite. At the moment, Velk represented the one key piece of evidence that could prove Ishan had knowledge of the president’s assassination. Whatever value he might hold for Ishan had to be connected to that and covering up his own tracks. No doubt Velk also was a vital component in the interim president’s bid to finish out the late Nanietta Bacco’s term.
“I take it your people are still looking,” Akaar said, when Riker paused.
Riker replied, “That’s right, sir. Ishan’s only apparent contact with Federation Security has been through normal channels, and my people haven’t found anything that even hints at an update about Velk. So far as we know, he’s still being held in detention and awaiting the council’s special board of inquiry, and Ishan seems to be going out of his way to keep his distance from the whole thing.” That Velk had been arrested on charges of usurping the Starfleet chain of command and ordering unauthorized covert operations was enough to send him to prison for the rest of his life, but there still was the matter of his alleged involvement with the True Way and Nan Bacco’s murder. Riker could bring forth no public accusations on this front against Velk, let alone Ishan, without evidence he did not possess. Ishan knew this, which meant that the president pro tem had to be plotting some means of eliminating the ticking time bomb that was Galif jav Velk. So long as he was in custody, removing him without raising suspicion was an obstacle, but Riker had no doubt Ishan was plotting a solution to that problem.
We need to work faster than he is.
“Finding Velk is the priority,” Akaar said. He seemed ready to continue but paused, and Riker glanced over his shoulder to see a pair of cadets—a human male and Vulcan female—walking past them. Both admirals waited until they had disappeared from view, then Riker counted off an additional ten seconds before saying anything.
“If Ishan’s already got spies embedded within the Academy-class ranks, we’re in big trouble.”
Akaar offered a grunt of mild amusement. “As I was saying, we definitely need to find Velk, and sooner rather than later, but we also need to track down Ishan’s contacts within Starfleet Command. Someone is working for him, behind my back.”
“You’re sure?” Riker frowned. “I know there was that issue with Commander Sarai, but I thought you handled that.” He recalled what Akaar had told him about Commander Dalit Sarai, an Efrosian officer assigned to Starfleet Intelligence and staffed to headquarters. Akaar had discovered that she was funneling information to Velk and Ishan without his authorization, circumventing him and undermining his authority, and that was before taking into account any possibility of her colluding with the president and his chief of staff to take part in any illegal activities. After discovering what Sarai was doing, the admiral transferred her from Starfleet HQ to a posting on Luna, where she hopefully would do no further harm. This did not preclude Ishan having other officers working for him in the upper echelons of Starfleet’s command hierarchy, but Akaar’s efforts to find those individuals so far had been fruitless.
“It’s possible Ishan is communicating directly with whatever cadre of officers he’s assembled to assist him,” Riker said. “People like Captain Unverzagt of the Warspite, for example. And let’s not forget Seth Maslan from the Lionheart, the one Velk sent to kill Julian Bashir. But, hell, Admiral, some of these people likely don’t even know they’re being duped. After all, there aren’t many starship captains who would refuse a direct order from their commander in chief.”
Akaar replied, “No, but I would expect at least some of them to inquire to their superior officers as to the irregularity of receiving orders that sidestep several links in the chain of command.” He shook his head. “Of course, if these officers are receiving eyes-only directives with orders not to share their information, this problem could be larger than we thought, but I suspect it’s not Ishan doing it himself. He almost certainly has someone working within Starfleet Command; someone with access to security protocols. That shortens the list a bit.”
“A bit,” Riker repeated.
Rising from the bench, Akaar blew out his breath. “I need to get back to my office. I would not put it past Ishan to have someone keeping track of my comings and goings. Yours, too, for that matter.”
It was an unsettling thought, to be sure, Riker conceded as he stood along with the Capellan. He had no desire to go on living and working like this. The time had come to resolve this business, once and for all. “We’ll find the leak, sir. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Don’t take too much time, Will,” Akaar said as he moved to the path for his walk back to Starfleet Headquarters. “I don’t know how much of it we may have left.”
Nine
U.S.S. Sanctuary—Earth Year 2357
All around her, Beverly Crusher heard and saw the suffering. She willed herself to ignore it and focus on the problem directly in front of her.
Not problem, she chastised herself. Patient. Focus on your patient, Doctor.
The wounded were strewn on beds or tables or just left on the stretchers upon which they had been carried into the Sanctuary’s already-cramped primary trauma center. Reports from the other treatment areas across the ship were communicating similar conditions, and the captain already had notified the medical teams that more injured were coming.
“We’re running out of places to put them,” called out Lieutenant Rahadyan Sastrowardoyo, one of the Sanctuary’s trauma nurses, as he helped to move a patient from one of the treatment tables to a clear space on the deck. “At this rate, we’ll be stacking them on top of each other.”
Crusher did not answer. The room was littered with wounded, Starfleet and Cardassian alike, and a peek through the doors leading from the trauma center told her that the situation in the corridor was pretty much the same as in here. She knew that the hospital ship’s captain already was enacting emergency procedures designed with the express purpose of handling unusual situations like the one the Sanctuary’s crew now faced. Cargo bays, briefing rooms, any space large enough to accommodate patients, medical personnel, and equipment for treatment were at this moment being set up as triage stations, with the most serious cases being sent to the ship’s main hospital and satellite trauma centers. Other patients were still on the planet’s surface, filling the makeshift emergency aid station set up by members of the Sanctuary’s first response away team. Those injured parties also would be transported to the ship at the earliest opportunity; perhaps just as soon as a transporter pad or even a lar
ge enough expanse of open deck became available.
So, Crusher mused as she reached for a hypo spray and tried to forget just how tired she was after hours of almost nonstop work, it’s like that.
The diagnostic scanner positioned over her current patient’s chest confirmed what she had seen with her own eyes, with the Cardassian having suffered four broken ribs and a punctured lung as a result of shrapnel from an explosion at the supply depot on Fradon II. Its location in proximity with the border separating Federation and Cardassian space was attractive from a strategic perspective. Starfleet had established an outpost here to serve as an interim facility until such time as a proper starbase could be constructed in order to support starship operations in this region.
This plan had not set well with the Cardassians.
“I still don’t understand why they’d attack here,” Sastrowardoyo said as he set to work on another patient. “We’re well within Federation territory.”
With most of her attention on the unconscious Cardassian before her, Crusher said, “They were probably trying to send a message.” Fradon II represented a significant tactical advantage for Starfleet in this area, something the Cardassians would not allow to go unchecked. “I just wish the intelligence people had crunched their numbers and statistics and probability predictions a little better.” Reports from Starfleet Intelligence had predicted the odds of a direct attack on the depot as being quite low.
“I just wish they were here,” Sastrowardoyo replied. “We could use the help.”
Crusher grunted, nodding in approval at the observation. The analysts and other experts responsible for the reports that had been so wrong of course were not here, just as they had not been present when Cardassian vessels arrived in orbit above the planet, delivering ground troops with the goal of seizing the outpost and its materiel. The Starfleet vessels detailed to the outpost had managed to keep the attacking ships from inflicting too much in the way of damage from orbital bombardment, while personnel on the ground were able to repel the initial assault. The holding action had succeeded long enough for Starfleet reinforcements to arrive, after which began the process of tending to the scores of casualties.
“What I don’t understand is why they didn’t just obliterate the entire base from orbit.” Sastrowardoyo’s voice was punctuated by the sound of his medical tricorder as he waved its accompanying diagnostic scanner over a female Starfleet officer who—so far as Crusher could tell—had suffered severe burns to one leg and her right torso. “Why go to all this trouble? What kind of statement does that make?”
Crusher stepped back and allowed two of her nurses to finalize their preparations for moving the wounded Cardassian from the diagnostic table. “I don’t know, unless they just decided they could use the planet themselves. All the supplies and equipment down there probably looked pretty enticing, too.” One of the nurses, a young Bolian female whose name Crusher could not remember, looked to her, and Crusher nodded. “He’s stable for now. Prep him for surgery and keep an eye on his medication, but he can wait until after the critical cases are done.” The Cardassian’s injuries, though serious, were not life threatening, earning him a place in the waiting line.
For a brief moment, Crusher wondered how that simple judgment call on her part would be viewed in the days to come once a full recounting of this incident was made to both Federation and Cardassian government leaders. Despite Starfleet’s doctrine of providing medical treatment to enemy casualties in a combat zone, she knew something as straightforward as prioritizing the injured based on the severity of their wounds rather than the uniform they wore often earned the Starfleet Medical Corps scorn from parties on both sides of the conflict. Still, it was a time-honored tradition, going back centuries on Earth, and strict adherence to this policy was one of the reasons medical starships, be they Starfleet or Cardassian, were allowed to operate in dangerous areas with the understanding that they were not to be targeted as combat vessels. So far, both parties to the protracted conflict had respected that rule of engagement.
An alarm from behind her made Crusher turn to see Sastrowardoyo and another nurse, now working on yet another patient deposited on one of the other treatment tables, scrambling around their stricken charge as alert indicators on the bed’s diagnostic scanners blinked and flashed harsh crimson.
“He’s gone into cardiac arrest!” Sastrowardoyo shouted, already maneuvering into position the equipment necessary to treat the new complication. Though she knew she was needed elsewhere and the nurse was more than qualified to handle the situation without her help, Crusher still stepped forward to assist him.
“Doctor Crusher!” called a new voice, this one from the trauma center’s entrance, where two more orderlies were maneuvering another anti-grav stretcher into the already crowded room. “Head injury! She needs emergency surgery now!”
“Get her prepped!” Crusher ordered, leaving Sastrowardoyo and the other nurses and doctors to their own patients. At the same time, she once more attempted to push away the tendrils of fatigue doing their damnedest to ensnare her. How long had she been working? How many more patients were there still left to treat?
When would it all end?
A hand on her arm almost made her jump out of her skin, and Crusher whirled to find herself staring into the face of a Cardassian who mere moments before had been lying unconscious on her diagnostic table. His eyes, though open, were reddened, and there was no mistaking the expression of pain he was doing his best to hide.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, recalling after a startled moment the extent of this patient’s injuries. Taking hold of his arm, she snapped, “You need to lie down. Your wounds . . .”
“Are not that extensive,” the Cardassian said. “I am still able to function. There are others who require more immediate aid.”
Crusher tried to guide him back to his stretcher. “I won’t argue with you on that, but I don’t have time to argue with you about anything right now. We’re shorthanded and up to our necks in casualties. You need to . . .”
“I can help,” he said, cutting her off once again. “Doctor, I too am a physician. I can assist you with treating the wounded Cardassians.”
Despite her initial misgivings, Crusher was not about to turn down any offer of help. “If you’re sure you’re up to it.” She gestured to a nearby nurse. “Get him started on the Cardassian injured. He can triage them faster than we can.” Pausing, she turned back to her mysterious new benefactor. “Thanks for pitching in.”
“To do otherwise would be unconscionable, I think,” the Cardassian replied.
“I’m Doctor Beverly Crusher, by the way. Welcome aboard the Sanctuary.”
“Ilona Daret, at your service.”
Ten
Runabout Dordogne
“Doctor Crusher?”
Jerking herself upright in the narrow bed, Crusher blinked several times, pushing away the mental fog and the reminiscences captivating her attention. How long had she been lost in her own thoughts? It took the doctor a moment to realize that her pulse was racing and that her breathing was fast and shallow. She frowned, turning toward the sound of the voice that had intruded on her recollections, and fixed on the concerned gaze of Lieutenant Rennan Konya.
“Are you all right?” asked the young officer, his expression one of mild concern. “I thought you might be dreaming, but your eyes were open.”
Crusher swung her legs off the bed. “More like daydreaming,” she said, pushing away the decades-old memories.
“Whatever it was,” Konya said, “you seemed a bit upset.”
“It was a long time ago.” Forcing a smile, she asked, “Was it that obvious?”
Konya shrugged. “Even to me.” Despite lacking the same degree of telepathic ability born to most of his fellow Betazoids or even Deanna Troi’s capacity to read the emotional states of other beings, the lieutenant still possessed a knack for gauging people that even he often struggled to define.
Placing her h
ands on her hips, Crusher tried to stretch the kinks out of her back. The small, semi-enclosed bunks that served as berthing space aboard Starfleet runabouts were functional, but they were no substitute for her own bed. That, and she never could shake the feeling that she was sleeping in a coffin, which was why she tended to leave open the privacy screen.
“I actually came back here because you asked me to let you know when we were outside the range of the Enterprise’s sensors.” Stepping back toward the open hatchway leading from the berthing area as Crusher pushed herself from the bed, Konya added, “I’ve already run a sweep, and so far as I can tell, we’re all alone out here.” He shrugged. “I suppose there could be a cloaked ship out there, but if that’s the case, then we likely have bigger problems than somebody just spying on us.”
“Are you always this cheerful, Lieutenant?” Crusher asked, smiling in order to take the sting out of the remark. “So, you think we’re okay to execute the course change for Jevalan?” She had never been one for subterfuge or other clandestine assignments. On those few occasions in which she had undertaken such missions, she always had felt out of place, despite whatever preparation she had received. In those situations, she tended to rely on the other members of her team with the requisite training and experience.
“I don’t see why not. Cruzen’s already input the course. We were just waiting for your order.”
“Let’s do it,” Crusher said. “I’m also going to need to use the comm system.”
“Commanders Worf and La Forge briefed us on the situation before we left, Doctor,” Konya replied. “We’ve got you covered. I’ve already set up the frequency and encryption protocols. You can use the station in the mess area.”