A grim certainty settled on Vale. “Captain . . . I mean, Admiral . . . don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t think you deserve the laurels and all . . . but this has come from out of nowhere. Especially now, after the assassination.”
“You’re not saying anything I’m not already thinking, believe me. I’m sure Admiral Akaar has his reasons. Maybe he’ll see fit to share them with me, hopefully sooner rather than later. Carry on, Commander.”
“Aye, sir,” she added. “And, uh, congratulations.”
“Thanks,” said Riker. “I hope.”
Two
It was a good view, Riker reflected.
Out across the bay, looking in the direction of the great spans of the Golden Gate Bridge and beyond them the towers of San Francisco, there were only clear blue skies and the occasional puff of white cloud on the coastal breezes. Silver dots—flyers and air trams—caught blinks of sunshine as they moved through the city’s aerial lanes. San Francisco was waking up, going to work, but Riker had been in the office since before dawn.
He hardly felt like his feet had touched the ground since the brisk promotion ceremony a day earlier. Lieutenant Ssura, now permanently assigned as his adjutant, had taken him to his new base of operations in the south tower of the Starfleet Command complex and spent the rest of the day acclimating the new admiral on the details of his posting. By the time they were done, it was ship’s night up on Titan, and Riker wearily chose to snatch some sleep in the transient officers’ barracks rather than beam back into orbit and wake his wife and daughter.
Deanna seemed to be taking the news a lot better than he did. She immediately dropped into what he had come to consider “counselor mode” and said all the right things to set his mind at ease . . . for the moment. Talking to her, he found all the trivia of a hundred minor decisions welling up in his thoughts. Would they need to find a home on Earth now? A new school for Tasha? Will Riker hadn’t lived anywhere other than in the cabins of a starship for almost three decades, and the notion of suddenly finding a home back here on Earth was strangely banal and alien all at once. He’d been away for so long, back when escape from his youth in Alaska had been the only thing he wanted. It seemed odd coming home like this, the opportunity to think on it robbed from him.
He turned from the window to look at the wide desk where dozens of padds of varying sizes were neatly stacked. The room was sparse, lacking any touches of individuality save for a couple of generic-looking potted Aldebaran ferns and a painting on one wall of an old Mann-class starship chasing the wake of a comet.
Suddenly the office felt very small, despite the fact that it was almost twice the size of his ready room back on the Titan. Riker sat in the chair behind the desk and surveyed the piles of files Ssura had dutifully prepared for him.
“Is this going to be my center seat from now on?” he said to the air. An ember of resentment stirred in his chest, and with a grimace, Riker snatched the first padd off the top of the pile, resolving that he would get back to his ship in the shortest possible order, even if that meant docking Titan permanently in geostationary orbit.
When he looked up at the chronograph on the wall, two hours had passed and the pile of padds hadn’t dwindled, only moved into smaller groupings spread out over the desktop. Tasking orders for ships and crews, re-supply authorizations, mission logs for review, transfer requests, scientific reports . . . The list went on and on. A landslide of paperwork threatened to bury Riker on his first day on the job, and if anything, that frustrated him even more.
Akaar pulled me out of the captain’s chair to be his damned file clerk? He thought back to his earlier fears that he had been called back to Starfleet Command to be reprimanded for something, and for a moment, Riker wondered if that was in fact what had happened. The promotion to admiral wasn’t a reward, it was a punishment. I still have more to do out there, he told himself, his gaze slipping back toward the painting of the starship.
A ping from the intercom on his desk interrupted Riker’s morose train of thought, and Ssura’s voice issued out, even as the door to the office was opening. “Sir, I’m sorry, but he insisted on coming straight in—”
The grim-faced Tellarite who had been at the promotion ceremony filled the doorway, and over his shoulder Riker saw Ssura bobbing up from his desk in the anteroom beyond, eyes wide.
“It’s okay, Lieutenant. Carry on.”
The door slid shut behind the Tellarite, and he cocked his porcine head, his dark, deep-set eyes studying the office. “Don’t get up,” he said, walking slowly across the room. “I can see you are busy.”
“Mister Velk, isn’t it?” Riker knew exactly who the civilian was. In a moment snatched between his endless briefings, he had searched the public databases for information on the men and women who had watched Akaar give him the new rank. Galif jav Velk had been hard to miss.
He didn’t grace Riker with a reply as he helped himself to a glass of water from a carafe on a nearby side table. According to the sparse biography that was a matter of public record, Velk had originally been a representative for one of Tellar’s largest mining and mercantile concerns before a transition into the political arena in the 2360s. At some point in the last decade or so, Velk had come into alignment with Ishan Anjar, an ambitious councillor from post-occupation Bajor—the very man who now held the transitory office of president pro tempore following Nan Bacco’s death. According to the Federation charter, Ishan would maintain the role as interim president for sixty days, until a special election could be called to determine who would take the office on a permanent basis.
Both Ishan and Velk were unabashed hawks, champions of a strong and well-armed Starfleet and a proactive military stance; but while the Bajoran leavened his views with a good amount of fatherly charisma, Velk was simply blunt and forthright. A hard-eyed and uncompromising figure from a race of beings who practically made stubbornness a virtue, Velk now served at Ishan’s pleasure as his chief of staff.
There were other, less flattering names for him, however. The more vociferous political commentators in the Federation news media spoke about Velk as a “hatchet man,” and it was true that in his corporate career as well as his political one, the Tellarite often made decisions that some might have called callous, even ruthless.
“How can I help you?” Riker asked, tamping down his irritation at the Tellarite’s uninvited intrusion.
“The role you are going to fill,” Velk began, his gaze still ranging around the room, “it is fluid. You’ll come to understand that quickly enough . . . Admiral.” He lingered on the cityscape across the bay, adding the rank as if it was an afterthought.
“Doesn’t look that way from this side of the desk,” Riker replied, waving a hand at the padds. “But I’m a quick study.”
“So I’ve heard.” Velk put down the glass and at last he looked directly at Riker. “I have a lot to occupy my time at the moment. The Federation’s resolve is being tested, and it is imperative that we do not buckle under the pressure. As such, when outside elements are introduced that cause additional concerns, I am greatly perturbed.”
“I don’t follow you.” But he had an idea of what the Tellarite was implying.
“I opposed your recall and promotion.” Velk said it without any shade of emotion to the statement. “I felt you were unsuitable, a view shared by many members of the cabinet. You’re not a diplomat. You have little experience of . . . what is that human word? Realpolitik.”
Riker’s lips thinned. He hadn’t even moved in and already he was being challenged. “Your candor is quite refreshing, Mister Velk, and I appreciate it. But as you can see, I’ve got a fair bit of reading to catch up on. So do you have a point to make, or did you just come up here to enjoy the view?”
“Akaar promoted you; that’s done.” Velk continued as if Riker hadn’t spoken. “So now you’ll be working with the members of the cabinet, and we have to make the best of it. I wanted you to understand my outlook at the earliest opportunity,
so that there is no room for misinterpretation. I don’t have time for such things.”
“We agree on that, at least. So let me show you the same courtesy.” Riker leaned forward. “I’m sure there’re a dozen other officers who would be better suited to wearing this.” He tapped at the rank pin on his collar. “Frankly, I’m a little surprised Akaar didn’t give it to Jean-Luc Picard—”
“Picard?” Velk said the name with cold disdain. “In my opinion, a man unable to follow orders. But the president pro tem is more tolerant than I. He has ordered Picard and the Enterprise on a mission to Ferenginar to deal with a developing diplomatic situation there.”
This was the first Riker had heard of it; the day’s intelligence reports were the first documents he had read, and nothing had been mentioned about problems with the Ferengi Alliance. “What situation would that be?”
“There is a possibility that the Typhon Pact may be making overtures to the Ferengi, regardless of their membership in the Khitomer Accords. Picard is there to keep them from accepting the offer. I would hope he’s capable of accomplishing that, at least.”
Riker ignored the jibe about his former captain and went on. “Mister Velk, you might have a negative opinion about me and my fellow officers, but let me make this clear. If Starfleet calls me to duty—any duty—I will serve to the best of my abilities and in the best interests of the United Federation of Planets. Do you understand me?”
“I believe so.” Velk turned to leave, but Riker rose from his chair. He wasn’t willing to end this confrontation just yet.
“As you made the trip, Mister Velk, perhaps you can explain something to me before you leave.”
The Tellarite halted. “What is it?” he asked, frowning.
“Doctor Julian Bashir. Captain Ezri Dax.” Riker saw Velk stiffen. “Doctor Tovak. Doctor Elizabeth Lense. Doctor Katherine Pulaski. Doctor Lemdock.” He held up the padd containing the report that mentioned the names.
“The disposition of those individuals is not a matter for your concern.”
“I don’t agree.” Riker folded his arms. “I owe my life to one of them. But according to the Federation Security Agency, under a special executive directive they are being held pending court martial charges. I want to know the reasons why.”
Velk turned back to face him. “This is a very delicate matter. The Andorian problem . . .” He paused, a momentary look of distaste crossing his expression. “Bashir and the others violated their oath of service in a misguided attempt to take matters into their own hands.”
What Velk dismissed as “the Andorian problem” had been a biological time bomb for that species. A race with four genders required for procreation, issues of falling birthrate, and infant mortality had finally brought Andor to the brink of global crisis—and the eventual result was the succession of a founder species from the very Federation they had helped to create. Velk was right when he said Bashir and the others had taken it upon themselves to aid the Andorians, but they had only apparently done so in reaction to the Federation Council’s unwillingness to intervene. Whatever had happened out there in Epsilon Indi, Andor was now petitioning to return to the fold, but actual facts were thin on the ground.
“It is my understanding that the medical officers remain under house arrest while their involvement in the incident is fully determined. I am aware that the Pulaski woman served directly under you, but I would advise you not to allow your past associations to cloud the facts.” Velk’s expression became unreadable, with the steady focus of someone repeating a prepared statement. “Captain Dax disobeyed a direct order from Starfleet Command and she has been relieved of her position and placed under guard at the Jaros II penal colony. As for the ringleader, Bashir . . .” The Tellarite paused, framing his words. “You are familiar with the Shedai Meta-Genome?”
Riker gave a slow nod. “A storehouse of sensitive alien genetic data recovered in the twenty-third century. Highly classified.” Even knowing that was at the very limits of his security clearance.
“Through means we have yet to determine, Bashir illegally accessed elements of that data and gave it to a non-aligned power . . . namely, the Andorians. He is being held at an undisclosed secure location, for his own protection. Once the present crisis has been dealt with, both he and Captain Dax will face a full military tribunal.”
For now, Riker didn’t argue over Dax’s fate; but Julian Bashir’s wasn’t so clear-cut. His illegal actions were not in question, but his status was. He had officially resigned his commission as a Starfleet officer before he fled the Bajor system for Andoria, and he had apparently been granted political asylum on his arrival. Riker said so to Velk, trying to gauge any reaction. “He can’t be held off the grid under such vague circumstances. Bashir has to be brought back to Earth for a full and transparent trial. The Andorians consider him a hero and under the protection of their planet, with all the rights and privileges of a resident of a non-aligned world. He should have his day in court, in the public eye.”
Velk gave a curt shake of the head. “I don’t agree. These are extraordinary circumstances, Riker. The presence of the Meta-Genome data makes this a national security issue, and the Federation Council deems Bashir to be a flight risk. You do realize he is a genetically manipulated human?”
“I don’t see how that has any bearing on this,” Riker began, but Velk was already raising a hand to stop him.
“Let me make you aware of something now, so you will no longer have any need to waste my time with such inquiries. I have already ordered the Security Agency to launch an investigation into the incident at Andor. This will be conducted independent of Starfleet Command, as so many of those involved or implicated in illegal activities are, as you put it, your fellow officers. In the meantime, the cabinet will continue to offer any and all assistance to the Andorian government.”
“The Federation Security Agency answers to the office of the president,” said Riker.
“Of course,” Velk replied, as if that was blindingly obvious. “As such, I would advise you, Admiral, that rather than put effort into an endeavor that others will attend to, you should instead set to work on the most important job at hand. Assisting in locating the Tzenkethi terrorists responsible for the murder of the late president Bacco.”
Riker’s eyes narrowed at the statement. “There’s no hard evidence that the killer was Tzenkethi. . . .” In the immediate aftermath of the Bacco shooting, a Bajoran named Enkar Sirsy had been discovered with the murder weapon and held for questioning. But Sirsy had later been released, cleared of all suspicion, and the only statement from the Federation Council had been that the investigation “was ongoing.” In the information vacuum that followed, several media networks had claimed that credible sources inside the government considered the Tzenkethi Coalition as the likely instigator of the assassination.
It was an alarmist, if plausible, possibility. A founding member of the Typhon Pact along with the Romulans, Breen, Tholians, and other adversary states, the Tzenkethi were well known to manipulate other galactic powers for their own ends.
“The rumors are true,” Velk replied, his words clipped and dismissive. “Tzenkethi DNA traces were found on evidence connected to the assassination. Leads are being followed as we speak.” He glowered at Riker, as if he was offended that the admiral was daring to question him. “The Typhon Pact has the most to gain from chaos in the Federation,” Velk insisted. “It was so-called ‘rogue elements’ from the Pact who were responsible for the destruction of the original Deep Space Nine space station, and while we could not prove conclusively that it was the Breen Intelligence Directorate who tried to assassinate President Bacco on Orion last year, I now believe that the Tzenkethi have done what the Breen could not. Mark my words, they are behind this.”
Velk’s parting words hung in the air after he was gone, and presently Lieutenant Ssura entered the office, his ears sloped forward forlornly. “Sir? Apologies. I was not correct on the protocols, and the chief of staff—”
* * *
Entering the main engineering compartment, Tuvok was not surprised when the first sound he heard was the strident voice of Doctor Xin Ra-Havreii, the Titan’s chief engineer.
“No,” he was saying, “you don’t just walk in here and start taking things to pieces. I don’t care who gave you permission.” The Efrosian had a tendency to talk loudly and slowly when confronted with someone intent on contradicting him, as if he were condescending to converse with a life-form of subnormal intelligence. Tuvok saw Ra-Havreii standing in front of the starship’s dual warp core, bathed in the glow of the matter-antimatter stream as it pulsed at idle. He had his hands on his hips, his narrow chin jutting forward, and he was blocking the path of a group of other Starfleet officers and noncoms, all in engineering coveralls.
The new arrivals were an overhaul crew from McKinley Station, and some of them were guiding antigravity trolleys loaded with components and equipment cases. The officer at the focus of Ra-Havreii’s invective was a lieutenant commander, a Deltan, and his face was tight with annoyance. “Sir, if you will just—”
“Just what?” Ra-Havreii snapped. “Just let you start banging on things like a troupe of primates? I know every bolt and weld in this ship, lad, and if you think for one second I am going to let some greasy-fingered yard-bound stranger poke and prod my vessel, you’re gravely mistaken.”
Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice Page 3