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

by Dayton Ward

  “I heard something about that, too. If this keeps up, they might leave any day now.” Baras gestured toward the embattled camp. “Maybe this is them getting in their last hits before they go.”

  The rumors had begun spreading throughout the small brig facility where he and his new friends had been housed. While Helva and Myrosi had been arrested on suspicion of being resistance members with knowledge of the attack on the troop barracks, Baras had been held as a means of safeguarding his cover as a spy for Gul Pavok. Following the execution of Ishan Anjar and the effort the camp commander had gone to to switch Baras’s identity with that of the luckless Bajoran, Pavok had decided the best course of action was to keep Baras in detention until such time as any links to his real identity were severed. So, Baras had bided his time, waiting for his handler to release him back to the laborer population, until it became obvious that the gul seemed content to keep his mole under lock and key. Despite all efforts to seek an audience with Pavok, his every request had been denied.

  Then, the attacks had escalated, on both sides.

  Even as Cardassian soldiers descended upon the labor camps and the mines in search of dissidents, members of the Bajoran resistance were hitting back with everything they could muster. Soft targets such as mining equipment and vehicles were among the most frequent casualties, though the insurgents gained courage with each successful strike. Other buildings were targeted, with the resistance cells using a variety of improvised explosives to inflict damage across the camp. Word of similar uprisings at the Tabata and Pencala settlements soon began drifting through the Olanda populace, providing even more incentive to the Bajorans fighting to break the grip of their Cardassian overseers.

  “I’m just glad we’re not still caged like rats,” Myrosi said, wincing as he rolled onto his side. “That hit on the detention center couldn’t have come at a better time.” Earlier the previous evening, he had sustained considerable bruising as well as a pair of fractured ribs from a beating he had suffered during his last interrogation at the hands of an overzealous guard. Having inspected the man’s injuries, Baras was certain that another such session might well have proven fatal, but Myrosi was spared that possibility when a resistance cell assaulted the detention facility in the early morning hours. Caught unprepared, the three soldiers on duty in the cell block housing Baras and his companions were killed, allowing the twelve prisoners in that section to be freed before an explosive destroyed that area of the building. It was yet another in the aggravating series of attacks Gul Pavok had been forced to endure, and it—along with strikes on his own command center—appeared to have been the tipping point for the latest round of retaliatory moves against the Bajorans. So far as Baras could discern, Pavok was offering no leniency in the face of the worsening revolt.

  “Look,” Helva said, pointing down into the shallow valley housing the camp. “That ship’s lifting for orbit.”

  Baras watched as the Cardassian vessel, an armored troop transport that had been firing on the compound, rose from its position over the camp and now was angling its nose skyward. The echo of its engines powering up rolled across the ground as the ship lifted ever higher, growing smaller with each passing second until it was swallowed by the clouds. Farther away, another ship was executing a similar maneuver, disappearing into the night sky and leaving behind the residual rumbling of its thrusters before that also faded. Elsewhere, Baras saw Cardassian soldiers retreating from the camp, most of them heading in the general direction of the compound reserved for their use but also toward the landing field where additional transports and other craft were staged. Many of those vessels were activating their engines and other systems, preparing for liftoff.

  “It’s an evacuation,” Baras said. Could they be giving up? Had Jevalan been deemed a lost cause?

  Let’s hope they don’t decide to just obliterate the entire planet from orbit.

  “What do we do now?” Helva asked. “Even if they are pulling out, it’s not going to happen all at once. This fight isn’t over yet. I think we should try to link back up with our cell, because you know the Cardassians will be looking to capture any stragglers.” She looked to Baras. “What about you? Where’s your rally point?”

  Baras pointed to the far end of the compound, which was ablaze in the wake of yet another air strike. “Near the secondary mine entrance. The problem is that it looks like it’s one of the hardest-hit areas of the whole camp. I can’t believe anybody from my cell survived.” Of course, he knew that the area in question would be a prime target for the attack, as it was one of the locations he had provided Gul Pavok as being a hiding place used by those members of the resistance who had carried out the attack on the troop barracks. That simple action would brand him as a traitor to the Bajoran people, and anyone who learned of his collusion with the Cardassians would take great pleasure in seeing him pay for his crimes. Such restitution would be long and painful, but it only would be an issue if he managed to survive the coming days.

  And I have every intention of surviving.

  To that end, Baras had elected not to return to the Olanda camp. There still existed the possibility that someone there would see him and ask why he was still alive, as they had seen or heard that “Baras Rodirya” was dead. He did not need that complication. No, he had decided; he would take his chances and head for the Tabata camp. Surely there would be survivors, and he would be able to blend in there using the new identity given to him by Gul Pavok, “Ishan Anjar.”

  Before that could happen, Baras knew there was one potential complication that required immediate attention. Two complications, in point of fact.

  While Helva’s and Myrosi’s attention remained fixed on the burning Olanda camp and the transport vessels that one by one were lifting away from the landing field, Baras drew from his jacket the disruptor he had purloined from one of the Cardassian guards killed during their escape, and he adjusted the weapon’s power setting to maximum.

  Thirty-three

  Paris, Earth

  The sound of his desk intercom paging him startled President Ishan Anjar from his troubling reverie, and he glared at the unit with no small amount of disdain. He did not answer the page, but instead drew several breaths to calm himself. Retrieving a crystal carafe of water that had been placed near one corner of his desk, he poured some of its contents into a matching glass, noting as he did so that his hand was shaking.

  Calm yourself, Mister President.

  Sipping his water, Ishan considered that it had been a very long time since he allowed himself to think of those final days of the Occupation efforts on Jevalan, to say nothing of his actions while under Cardassian rule. Indeed, he had spent years forcing himself not to dwell on his prior life or even to think of himself by his former name, Baras Rodirya. Though it certainly was true that he often revisited those events in an abstract sense, he could not remember the last time he had pondered the harsh reality that had forced him to commit such heinous acts.

  The past cannot be changed. You survived. That is what is most important.

  He swiveled his chair so that he could take in the wondrous, panoramic view of Paris afforded him by the large, curved window that formed his office’s rear wall. The city was awash in the rays of the afternoon sun, highlighted by a brilliant blue sky accented only with a handful of scattered, wispy clouds. Pausing to contemplate the beautiful, centuries-old city, teeming as it was with life and activity, served to calm him and push aside, if only for a moment, the stresses of his office. Though he was only a handful of weeks into his term as president pro tempore—a position many might consider as little more than a figurehead until such time as the special election was held and a permanent replacement was installed as successor to the late Nanietta Bacco—Ishan had wasted little time turning with verve to the demands of the Federation’s leader. Given the current volatile situation and the very real threats to the security of billions of people on hundreds of worlds, he could ill afford to sit idle and occupy a ceremonial station eve
n for the sixty days between his temporary appointment and the election. The Federation deserved better than that, particularly now.

  More than once, he had considered the notion that his emerging from the hellish existence that was life on Jevalan had been due to divine reason. Had the Prophets intervened, sparing him so that he might advance to the position he now held? If so, was it not incumbent upon him to make use of the reprieve death had granted him and see to it that such atrocities never again were allowed to be perpetrated upon anyone living beneath the banner of the Federation he had chosen to serve? Did he not now sit here, occupying the office of the most powerful person in two quadrants? How far he had come from his deplorable former life, toiling as a miner under the oppressive heel of the detestable Cardassians who had enslaved the entire Bajoran race. Surely, this evolution could not be happenstance?

  Something else had to be responsible. It certainly sounded reasonable enough, though Ishan knew there were many who would disagree with his interpretation of the actions he had taken. Fortunately, most of those dissenters were dead.

  Most, but not all. The thought taunted him, and it took effort for Ishan to force away the errant thought as the intercom sounded for the third time. Releasing an irritated sigh, he drained the contents of his water glass before reaching across his desk to slap the unit’s activation control.

  “What is it?” he snapped.

  “I apologize for the interruption, Mister President,” replied the voice of his personal assistant, Syliri Alvora. The nervousness in the young Bajoran female’s voice was evident with every word. “You are receiving an incoming call from a Starfleet officer, Commander Hayden. He provided your authorization code for personal communications. Shall I route the frequency to your secure workstation?”

  With a mixture of anticipation and apprehension, Ishan replied, “Yes, put him through.” As he waited for Alvora to route the connection, he took the opportunity to refill his glass. The shaking in his hand had subsided. Perhaps that was a sign?

  The tabletop computer workstation positioned on the left side of his desk activated, displaying the seal of the United Federation of Planets. Beneath the symbol, the caption SECURE COMMUNICATION appeared on the screen, followed by the voice of the Palais de la Concorde’s central computer system.

  “Incoming encrypted communication. Please enter access code.”

  Using the workstation’s manual interface, Ishan entered the authorization protocol he had created just for this purpose, and which he dared not speak aloud to the computer. After all, it was not unreasonable to presume that even the office of the Federation President was not immune from eavesdropping.

  “Authorization code accepted,” reported the computer. “Activating security and isolation protocols.” Ishan waited a moment until an indicator on the display screen flashed green, apprising him that the office’s protective counter-surveillance measures now were in operation. “Your location is now secure. Internal sensors detect no indications of monitoring.”

  Satisfied with the report, Ishan tapped another control on the terminal, and the image on the screen shifted to show a male human Starfleet commander, Joshua Hayden. A protégé of Admiral Declan Schlosser, Ishan’s contact within Starfleet Headquarters, Hayden, like the admiral, was an ambitious officer who recognized that the status quo gripping Starfleet and the Federation was not sustainable. Survival in any meaningful sense required new perspectives and a willingness to take bold, even unpopular action. While many of the officers filling out Starfleet’s senior ranks appeared to lack such conviction, those like Schlosser and the man now staring out at him from the computer screen showed great promise.

  “Good afternoon, Mister President,” Hayden said, bowing his head in greeting. “You asked me to apprise you when my task was accomplished.”

  “It’s done?” Ishan asked, omitting any specifics. After all and despite his precautions, he wanted nothing left to chance.

  “Yes, sir.” Hayden paused, and Ishan noted the man’s obvious discomfort. There was no doubting that the assignment he had been given had been difficult and even distasteful, and it was a testament to the man’s character that he had seen the necessity behind the action he had been asked to undertake. Admiral Schlosser had given his personal assurance that the commander could be trusted, so perhaps it was just a case of residual nervousness on Hayden’s part. “Though I encountered no issues, I do have to wonder about . . . long-term consequences.”

  “That’s not your problem, Commander,” Ishan replied. “I have others to see to those details.” He knew that removing Galif jav Velk from the Federation Security Agency detention facility was a calculated risk, but he also had seen no other alternative. “Is there . . . anything that still requires your attention?”

  It seemed to take Hayden a moment to comprehend the question’s cloaked meeting. “No, Mister President. Everything’s been . . . resolved.”

  “Very well, then, Commander. Thank you.” He was of two minds about this matter, of course. He and Velk had started out as colleagues and allies, and it was the Tellarite who was responsible for Ishan’s rise through the ranks of the Federation government. Ishan owed him everything, but their relationship had taken a distinct, irrevocable turn when Velk confronted him with his knowledge of Ishan’s true identity. That he possessed such damaging information was a risk that could not be ignored.

  Such is the way of things, my friend.

  Ishan was about to dismiss the officer but paused in the midst of reaching for the control to terminate the communication. What was wrong with him? His expression was flat, but there was still something in his eyes. Uncertainty? Guilt? “Is there anything else? You seem . . . troubled.”

  Pausing a moment as though considering his answer, Hayden finally replied, “No, Mister President. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, thank you. Report to Admiral Schlosser for further instructions.” He severed the communication, and Hayden’s image dissolved from the computer screen. Even as the Federation seal reappeared on the monitor, Ishan continued to ponder the commander’s odd behavior. Was it possible Hayden was wavering in his convictions? Might he become a liability? Ishan made a note to discuss the matter with Schlosser at the earliest opportunity.

  Eliminate one irritant, and another takes its place. Why must everything be so difficult?

  It seemed that from the beginning of this entire insane plot, he had been forced to deal with problems and complications that continued to arise. Though Velk’s dispatching of a covert-operations team had resulted in the elimination of Onar Throk and the other Cardassians who had perpetrated Nanietta Bacco’s assassination, members of the team sent to carry out that assignment still were alive. As such, they posed a potential threat, as there was no way for Velk—or Ishan—to know if Throk or his companions had confessed anything to Commander Tuvok or Lieutenant Nog regarding Velk’s involvement in the plot before their timely rescue from Nydak II by Admiral Riker and the U.S.S. Titan. Ishan suspected that Throk must have acknowledged his role as the assassin, giving Riker the confidence he possessed on the evening he had come to confront Ishan over the issue.

  Anticipating this, Ishan had been forced to take the only action available to him: having Velk arrested and detained at a secure facility. He then had crafted a narrative highlighting his former chief of staff’s “remorseful confession” for the unsanctioned orders he had given for the pursuit and execution of Bacco’s assassins. It was not a long-term solution, Ishan knew, but at the time it was enough to insulate both him and Velk from their actual complicity in Bacco’s murder. The action also was sufficient to keep at bay Riker and Admiral Akaar until Ishan could find a way to deal with them. In addition to the trouble they were causing, there also was the Federation attorney general with which to contend, who already had made inferences that she was considering her own investigation into Velk’s activities. That, Ishan could ill afford. If it came to light that Velk had orchestrated the entire conspiracy, in
cluding the leaking of information to agents of the True Way regarding Bacco’s schedule and protection detail to his cover-up attempts with the murder of the assassins at Nydak II, neither the Tellarite nor Ishan would be able to escape Federation justice.

  The simple truth was that Velk had become a problem requiring resolution. Hence Commander Hayden and the assignment Ishan had given him.

  Equally troubling was this business with Picard’s wife sneaking off to Jevalan under the guise of transferring to Deep Space 9. There was only one reason for Beverly Crusher—or anyone else, for that matter—to travel to that distant world under false pretenses: She, or someone she knew, had found some evidence leading back to him and the truth of Ishan Anjar.

  And Baras Rodirya.

  The only thing Ishan could do was try to contain Crusher and whatever information she may have uncovered, and to that end he had instructed Admiral Schlosser to direct the Tonawanda to Jevalan with orders to arrest the doctor and anyone with her and to impound whatever data or materials she may have collected. What if Crusher resisted? What if she managed to communicate her discoveries—whatever they may be—to Picard? Was Ishan prepared to destroy the Federation flagship to keep his secret?

  What then? Where would it end?

  With a sigh, he pushed himself from his chair and began pacing the width of his expansive office. Not even the serene view of Paris beyond his window could assuage his tension. Velk, Riker, Akaar, Crusher, and possibly even Picard and the Enterprise; would they all have to be eliminated before Ishan was free to do what needed to be done?

  Perhaps.

  Leading the Federation back to its role as the unrivaled power in the quadrant was the only matter of true importance, and Ishan could not accomplish that goal so long as he was forced to continue cleaning up the mess Velk had created. The longer he dealt with these distractions, the less time he had to focus on preparing Starfleet and the Federation to defend itself, both from external adversaries as well as the onerous, stifling ideology that might well be its undoing.