Star Trek: Typhon Pact - 13 - The Fall: Peaceable Kingdoms

by Dayton Ward

  She flinched as the Bajoran spun on Daret, shoving his left forearm beneath the Cardassian’s chin and forcing him backward until he slammed against the wall. At the same time, the person lying on the cave’s stone floor—another Bajoran with blond hair—sprang to his feet, an ugly-looking weapon in his hand.

  “Get in here!” he snapped, aiming the blunt weapon at Crusher. Holding up her hands, Crusher felt a knot of fear tighten in her belly as she moved as directed to stand against the wall. The Bajoran waved Cruzen to stand next to her. With his arm extended, the weapon’s muzzle was less than a meter from her face.

  “What are you doing?” Crusher asked, fighting to keep her voice from trembling.

  “Quiet!” Looking to his companion, who still had Daret pinned against the wall, he said, “They said he’d be alone. What are we supposed to do with these two?”

  His forearm pushing against Daret’s throat, the dark-haired Bajoran looked over his shoulder. “Kill them.” His eyes bored into Crusher’s, and she saw no hesitation or compassion there. “Make it quick.”

  “He doesn’t know anything,” Cruzen said, her voice hard and firm. “I’m the one you want.”

  What the hell are you doing? It took every scrap of willpower Crusher possessed not to turn her head or even move her eyes to see the lieutenant. What could she be thinking?

  Frowning, the blond Bajoran growled, “What is she talking about?”

  “Nothing,” his companion said. “We’re here for him. Hurry up and finish it.”

  Cruzen pressed, “I’m telling you I can take you to what you want. He doesn’t know anything about it.”

  Now it was the dark-haired Bajoran’s turn to scowl. “Who are you supposed to be? I don’t recognize you, or her, for that matter.” He nodded toward Crusher. “You’re not part of the recovery group.”

  “We’ve been working at the Pencala camp,” Crusher said, having decided it might be better to play along with Cruzen’s ruse, wherever it might be going.

  The blond Bajoran was glancing back and forth between them and his companion. “What if they do know something?” he asked, the pitch of his voice raising an octave. “Maybe we should take them with us.” He turned to his friend, his eyes leaving Crusher and Cruzen.

  It was not much—a mere instant—but that seemed to be enough for Cruzen.

  The momentary lapse of attention was all the lieutenant needed as she lashed out with her foot, kicking the Bajoran in his groin. His initial howl of pain only grew louder as the security officer stepped in for her next attack. The flat of her boot struck the side of his left knee, and Crusher heard bone snap. By now his companion was moving, having released his hold on Daret as his other hand reached for the weapon concealed inside his jacket. Crusher was scrambling to retrieve her own phaser, but Cruzen beat them both. A high-pitched whine echoed around the chamber as a bright orange energy beam struck the Bajoran in the chest. His body went limp, and he slumped against the cave wall before sliding to the ground.

  “Ilona!” Crusher cried, stepping around the fallen Bajoran to her friend who still leaned against the wall, rubbing his throat. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  Still conscious, the blond Bajoran was lying on the ground, holding the knee Cruzen had injured and perhaps even broken. His expression was a mask of pain as he glared up at them, his breathing coming in short, rapid hisses between gritted teeth.

  “Who are you?” Cruzen asked, stepping closer and aiming her phaser at his head.

  Crusher knelt beside the Bajoran. “I’m a doctor,” she told him. “I promise, we won’t hurt you.”

  “They were going to kill us,” Cruzen said.

  “And that’s not going to happen now, is it?” Crusher countered. “His knee is broken.”

  Cruzen stepped closer. “He might have friends, Doctor.” To the Bajoran, she said, “It’s obvious you’re not professionals, so who hired you to grab Doctor Daret?” When the Bajoran offered no response save a strained grunt through his obvious discomfort, the lieutenant looked to Daret. “Do you recognize these men?”

  The Cardassian replied, “I believe I have seen them around the camp, but I do not know their names.”

  “That means somebody’s going to miss them, sooner or later.” Lifting her phaser, Cruzen aimed it at the wounded Bajoran and fired. He went limp, now lying unconscious on the floor of the cave.

  Shocked, Crusher turned on the lieutenant. “Why did you do that?”

  “He wasn’t going to tell us anything, and now that he’s stunned, we’ll have an easier time moving him.” She returned the phaser to where she had concealed it beneath her jacket. “Besides, we’ve got bigger problems. When these two don’t show up wherever they’re supposed to take Doctor Daret, somebody’s going to come looking for them, and him. We need to stay ahead of that.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Daret asked.

  Crusher, though still uncomfortable with the casual way Cruzen had treated the wounded Bajoran, at least now was able to examine his injuries. Having assessed the fracture below his left knee, she looked around the cave and spotted a length of old, pitted wood she decided would do well enough as a temporary splint. “The camp has a security contingent, right?”

  “Yes, but they’re not professional law enforcement or military personnel,” Daret replied. “In fact, most of them are volunteers who help the two full-time security officers. They have a small collection of weapons and a holding cell, but it’s mostly used for those who drink too much and get into fights.”

  “It’ll have to do,” Cruzen said.

  After tearing away a portion of the Bajoran’s shirtsleeve, Crusher now was using the material to secure her makeshift splint to his injured knee. It would do, she decided; at least long enough to get him to the camp’s medical station. “If we can get them there without too many people noticing,” she said, “that should buy us some time.”

  Daret frowned. “Time for what?”

  Rising to her feet, Crusher reached out and gripped her friend’s arm. “Ilona, you heard what they said: They wanted you to take them to something. What else could it be? Whoever sent these two after you knows you’ve got access to the evidence and information your friend Mosara collected. Wherever it is, we need to find it and get you away from here.”

  “And fast,” Cruzen added, gesturing to the pair of unconscious Bajorans. “These two may have dropped the ball, but you can bet whoever sent them won’t.”

  “Kirsten,” Crusher said, “contact Konya and Riker, and tell them what’s happened. These two knew we didn’t belong here, so somebody might be getting suspicious about them, too.”

  Cruzen nodded. “Whoever sent these clowns is probably trying to keep a low profile, but once they don’t show up, or it gets out that they’re locked up? Those people—whoever they are—will be coming for us.”

  Seventeen

  Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, Earth

  “Incoming encrypted communication. Please enter access code.”

  Leaning forward in his high-backed chair, Admiral Declan Schlosser tapped a control on his desk’s embedded keypad, which engaged the locks on his office doors and severed the room’s links to the rest of the building’s internal communications system. Another control increased the tinting on his office’s windows, obscuring the room’s interior from anyone who might be attempting visual surveillance from one of the neighboring buildings. Then, before entering the command string to activate the protected communications link, he entered one more instruction to the terminal, this one designed for his own private use. As he had learned over the course of his long career, one never could be too careful when it came to matters of security. Still, even his own compulsive observance of such practices paled in comparison to the person with whom he was about to speak, as evidenced by the multi-step process in which he now was engaged.

  “Computer, identify Schlosser, Declan, Admiral. Authorization code Beta Seven Three Sierra Nine Alpha. Enabl
e.”

  “Working,” replied the feminine voice of the headquarters’ central computer. “Authorization code accepted. Activating security and isolation protocols.” It took the computer an additional few seconds before indicating that all of the security measures for the use of this most irregular and unusual mode of communication were in place.

  The image on his screen—that of a helix spinning before a black background—dissolved as a humanoid figure coalesced and solidified before him. A moment later, Schlosser found himself staring into the face of President Ishan Anjar.

  “Mister President,” Schlosser said. “Good evening, sir.”

  Ishan nodded, his expression fixed. “Admiral. I trust you have enabled all of your security protocols?”

  “Indeed I have, sir.”

  More than two decades serving in various divisions of Starfleet’s tactical and intelligence departments had honed Schlosser’s ability to lie without effort. In open defiance of the president pro tem’s orders, he was recording this conversation just as he had all of his previous communications with Ishan as well as his chief of staff, Galif jav Velk. After Velk had been arrested—ostensibly following a confession to Ishan citing his sole responsibility for violation of numerous laws and the use of Starfleet resources and personnel to conduct unsanctioned covert operations—Schlosser was forced to wonder if the Tellarite had sacrificed himself in order to protect Ishan from being implicated in however many illegal activities to which he had confessed. There was no evidence of the president’s having possessed knowledge of Velk’s unlawful pursuits, of course, which Schlosser suspected was the point. With the president reaching out to other parties to assist him in continued clandestine operations, Schlosser had no intention of being caught without some kind of insurance for his own benefit should circumstances lead him to a situation similar to the one in which Velk had found himself.

  Leaning back in his chair, Schlosser said, “How may I be of service, Mister President?”

  “I need a ship with a sizable security detachment sent immediately to the planet Jevalan, in the Doltiri system, for a sensitive mission.” Ishan’s expression was unreadable, though the simple fact that he wanted this to happen told Schlosser all he needed to know about how serious the president viewed this matter.

  The admiral said, “That system is in Cardassian space, as I recall.” As he spoke, he used the workstation’s manual interface to instruct the computer to call up data on the system and the planet Ishan had specified. It had been some years since he had read or heard anything about that region, but half-buried memories were beginning to assert themselves. “A mining planet, and the Cardassians used slave labor to extract and process dilithium and other minerals during their Occupation of Bajor.” Though he did not say it aloud, Schlosser also recalled that Ishan himself had once lived there while Bajor still was under Cardassian rule.

  “Correct,” Ishan replied, and this time Schlosser thought he heard the barest hint of irritation in the president’s voice. “I didn’t call you for a briefing about how my people were conquered and oppressed by the Cardassians, Admiral. I’m quite familiar with that chapter of Bajoran history, thank you. What I need is a starship detailed to that system at once.”

  Though he bristled at Ishan’s abrupt change in tone, Schlosser offered no outward sign that the stinging words were having any effect. “I’ll need to review our current deployment to see which ship’s closest and available for reassignment.”

  “You’re not understanding me, Admiral,” Ishan snapped. “I need a ship routed there now. I don’t care what else it might be doing. This is an urgent security matter, and time is of the essence. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Very much so, sir,” Schlosser said. He had dealt with overanxious individuals often enough not to let such histrionics faze him. His reputation for remaining calm under pressure, coupled with what he admitted was his own slight, stark countenance, had earned him a nickname early in his career: Warhawk. The name was bestowed on him by the captain of the first starship on which he had served, following an intense engagement with a trio of Tzenkethi vessels where Schlosser had been forced to take over the ship’s tactical bridge station after his immediate superior was killed during an exchange of fire. Despite his junior rank and lack of actual combat experience, Schlosser had—as his citation later would read—engineered a devastating counterattack resulting in the destruction of two enemy ships and severe damage to the third. His conduct during the engagement led to awards and a promotion as well as his captain’s moniker, which would follow him from assignment to assignment as he continued to climb the rank ladder. These days, only close friends called him by the nickname; in the decades since that fateful day, his icy, composed demeanor only had strengthened. Compared to what Schlosser had faced during his career, an exasperated superior was nothing.

  “I will see to it immediately. May I ask the nature of the reassignment?”

  “Not at this time. As I said, it’s a sensitive matter, but rest assured that the ship you send will be acting on a matter of the utmost importance to Federation security interests. I need the ship on station as quickly as possible, and any other priorities under which its captain may be operating are rescinded.” The president moved closer so that his face all but filled the workstation’s display screen. “This is a classified operation, Admiral, so I want all proper compartmentalization protocols in place and enforced. Once you’ve found the ship and routed it to Jevalan, inform her captain to expect further instructions directly from me.”

  “Sir, I’m happy to act as your liaison in this matter. I do have a top-security clearance, and I can certainly help with making sure that the ship’s rerouting doesn’t attract any undue attention.”

  “I expect you to do all of that, anyway, Admiral. After all, you’re supposed to be someone who can accomplish great things under pressure, ‘Warhawk.’ I hope that reputation is well-earned. Let me know when the ship is on its way. Ishan out.”

  The communication ended before Schlosser could say another word, leaving him alone with the now-blank computer screen and a growing number of points to ponder. Something about this planet, which so far as he knew had no strategic value other than as a source of dilithium—which belonged to the Cardassians, anyway—was some kind of irritant to the president pro tempore. Without more information, there was no way for Schlosser to form any sort of coherent hypothesis, other than the fact that the order itself was just another in a string of odd directives handed down by Ishan as well as his chief of staff before him. On the surface, the orders of which Schlosser was aware possessed no links or commonalities, other than being of great interest to the president. To this point, Schlosser had refrained from attempting to find any such connections out of concern that his actions might be discovered by Ishan, resulting in his own set of problems with the president. No, the admiral decided, prudence was the wise course, but something about this new request still intrigued him.

  “Computer,” he said, directing his attention once more to the desktop workstation, “access current status of all Starfleet vessels operating in or near Cardassian space that can reach the Doltiri star system. Order search results in ascending order of transit time to that system from their present location, and display to my screen.”

  “Stand by,” replied the computer, and in a moment, the terminal’s screen began to list what ended up being eight starships of different classes and capabilities, along with the names of their captains and current spatial coordinates. Also included were travel times, listed in hours, to the Doltiri system. Based on their vessel classes, only four of the ships met President Ishan’s criteria of having a “sizable security detachment,” which Schlosser chose to interpret as being required in order to engage some kind of military target or perhaps to locate and take into custody one or more persons of interest. As for the latter scenario, the admiral had no idea who that might be or what they might have done to earn the president’s attention.

  Tapping his
desk as he mulled possibilities, Schlosser said, “Computer, information on planet Jevalan, located in the Doltiri system. What is its current status?”

  “Jevalan is a mining planet belonging to the Cardassian Union. It is the former location of labor camps used by Cardassians overseeing indentured Bajorans. The camps were abandoned in 2369 just prior to the end of the Cardassian Occupation of Bajor. Currently, the planet is the site of a joint Bajoran-Cardassian effort to locate, identify, and return to Bajor the remains of Bajorans who remain unaccounted for since the end of the Occupation.”

  That seemed benign enough, Schlosser decided, to say nothing of being a relevant and timely cause, given the ongoing effort to solidify relations between the Cardassians and the Federation, of which Bajor now was a member. Aside from its history, which could not be considered pleasant or noteworthy by any sane definition, what on this otherwise unremarkable world could possibly warrant Ishan’s acute attention?

  It was an intriguing question, Schlosser decided, and the answer promised to be equally fascinating.

  What are you up to, Mister President?

  Eighteen

  Federation Colony Planet Acheron

  Everything about the cooling unit just sounded so wrong.

  “Where in the world did you get this thing?” asked Commander Geordi La Forge, shouting to be heard over the unit’s internal generator as the sounds of its coughs and sputters spilled forth from its open access panel. “I didn’t even know they still made this model anymore.”

  Standing next to him while he finished his inspection of the unit’s innards, Vernon Wilmer, the colony’s chief mechanic, offered a smile of unabashed pride. “They don’t, but since most of their internal systems can be adapted to comparable replacement components from other hardware without too much trouble, they’re popular with colonies like ours.” His hands were jammed into two of the deep hip pockets of his tan coveralls, which were soiled and frayed at the cuffs and shoulders. This, La Forge knew, was a man who had no trouble getting his hands—or the rest of him—dirty to accomplish a task, and he looked as though he might enjoy every moment of his work.