“That is Galif jav Velk, chief of staff to the president pro tem.” The Vulcan glanced at Kincade. “I do not understand. . . .”
Kincade’s expression betrayed nothing. “You and me both. I was just told to expect a signal on this hyperchannel frequency.”
“Better that you know who I am, for the sake of expedience,” said the hologram, and with a start, Nog realized that it was actually a “live” broadcast. “The power cost of encrypting this communication and transmitting it to you makes every second valuable.” Velk’s image flickered a little, distorting. “You have been summoned to this location by direct command of the Federation Council, an action authorized by Special Executive Order of President Pro Tem Ishan Anjar.” The Tellarite’s cold gaze scanned the room. “Some of you are under directives from Starfleet Command. Others have been recruited from the civilian sector. I have gathered you here in order to participate in an extremely delicate mission, in defense of Federation national security. Know that if you are successful, you will receive the highest commendations and the gratitude of the UFP.”
Nog glanced at Ashur, Tom, Khob, and the others. He would have expected mercenaries to want something more material than a promise of thanks, but none of them said a word. The Ferengi found himself wondering: Did the Tellarite have some other kind of leverage over them, something more than just avarice?
Velk went on. “As of now, you will be in commission under the group designation ‘Active Four.’ All communications and pursuant orders will be issued via that coding. Your unit will proceed to act as a covert tactical force, and you are to fulfill a single remit: Track, isolate, and capture the terrorist cell responsible for the assassination of the late President Nanietta Bacco.”
The Ferengi blinked, trying to keep up with what he was hearing. Nog had never heard of any such orders or unit being formed before, and he wasn’t certain how to deal with the concept. But then, perhaps that was the point; he had never heard of these kind of orders before precisely because they were so secret. He swallowed hard.
“It is our belief that these terrorists are agents of the Tzenkethi Coalition, operating beyond the borders of the Typhon Pact states,” said Velk’s holoimage, gesturing at the air. “They are highly dangerous and represent an ongoing threat to the security of the quadrant.”
Nog watched the other members of the group take that revelation on board, thinking back to Deep Space 9 and the discovery of a Tzenkethi DNA trace on the device that had been found implanted in Enkar Sirsy, the initial suspect in the assassination. It seemed the Federation Council now considered that sliver of evidence enough to act upon.
“The circumstances of your mission require that you conduct this operation in isolation from all outside agencies, even those of Starfleet and the Federation. Until the operation concludes, you are effectively phantoms. If you are captured or killed by any aggressor powers, the Federation will disavow all knowledge of your existence and of this mission.” Velk paused to let that sink in. “Your ship will provide immediate logistical support. Any additional concerns will be your responsibility to source.”
“What support?” muttered Ashur.
“Computer,” Velk snapped. “Authorization is given. Mission start. Unlock operations systems.”
“Confirmed,” said a synthetic voice.
Without warning, the holographic emitter projecting Velk’s avatar directed multiple other rays of light to points across the mess hall. Nog jerked back in surprise as a dozen panes of blue formed in midair, some hanging over the dining tables, others suspended in space. Each one was a data feed, a screen relaying complex charts, signal traffic, tactical plots, and more. In the blink of an eye, the grubby crew lounge had been transformed into an operations center. High on one wall, a chronograph was running, the clock having started the moment Velk gave his command.
It appeared that the secrets that Nog had suspected the Snipe of concealing were just the head of the gree-worm. Across the room, Khob had been leaning on the far bulkhead, and now the big Suliban flinched, stepping away as a seam appeared and panels retracted into the deck. Revealed beyond the mess hall was a hidden compartment lined with charging slots and equipment lockers. Racks on either side of the chamber were heavy with a variety of different weapons—energy pistols, ballistic guns, portable photon cannons.
Sahde pushed forward and gathered up a bulky phase-compression rifle, hefting it in her hands. “This, I can work with,” she noted. Nog saw the glint of something savage in her eyes, and he didn’t like it.
Velk’s hologram scowled at her. “I reiterate. You will leave no trace. You will draw no outside attention. You will find these targets.”
The Elloran woman spoke directly to the Tellarite. “And when we find them . . . we terminate them?”
“That’s not what we . . .” Tom Riker hesitated. “That’s not what Starfleet does.”
Velk glanced toward Kincade and back. “This is not an execution detail. Your primary objective is to capture President Bacco’s killers alive. Once retrieved, they will be taken to trial in public so that every power in the galaxy can know the facts of their guilt. These beings have committed a high crime against the people and the concord of the United Federation of Planets. They must be brought to account.”
Kincade folded her arms across her chest. “How do we proceed from here, sir?”
“Additional details have been transmitted to the Snipe via an encrypted side channel. You will find further information there as to your initial objective beyond the Beta Rigel system. I expect full mission reports every twenty-four hours, standard time.”
Tuvok rose from his seat to address the hologram. “Sir, with respect, this is highly irregular. I have several questions.”
Velk’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t doubt it.” Then without another word, the image of the Tellarite grew indistinct and winked out.
Ashur snorted quietly. “He hung up on you, Vulcan.”
At another table, Lieutenant Ixxen was examining a star map. “There are coordinates here,” she announced. “Just like he said. A system in the Zokod Barrens. That’s a large dust cloud this side of the Hromi Cluster. We could be there in three days.” She glanced at Tuvok, reflexively looking toward the superior Starfleet officer for guidance.
“Lieutenant,” said Kincade with enough snap in her tone to shift Ixxen’s gaze to her. “Plot a course, nothing that will draw attention. Follow civilian traffic routes.”
“Aye, uh, Colonel,” replied the Bolian, looking away.
As Nog watched, still trying to assimilate what he had heard, Tuvok turned to the other officer. “Were you aware of the parameters of our assignment?”
“No. But I had an inkling. Does this present a problem for you, Commander? I’ve seen your file. It’s not like you’re a stranger to covert operations.”
“My undercover infiltration of the Maquis was conducted with full Starfleet oversight,” he replied. “Mister Velk made no mention of similar supervision of this operation.”
Nog realized that everyone else in the room was silent, waiting to see how this conversation concluded.
“You want to refuse this mission?” Kincade asked without weight. “That could be a little problematic.”
“I did not say that,” said Tuvok after a long moment, his stoic expression remaining unchanged.
“I’m glad we got that settled.” Kincade looked around the room. “All right. As Ixxen says, we’ve got three days until we reach our area of operations. I intend to use that time for drills to get us working like a unit. Everyone, familiarize yourselves with the systems and hardware we have here.” Her gaze settled on Nog. “We have a job to do. Let’s get to it.”
* * *
Beyond the glassy curve of the atmosphere dome, the stark lunar landscape was bathed in hard light reflected from the rising Earth beyond it. There was an austere, chilly majesty to the view that made Deanna Troi give an involuntary shiver, despite the fact that here in the New Berlin Memorial Park,
the ambient atmosphere was steady and comfortable.
She cast around the roped-off area past the public statue garden, over the lines of diplomats, politicians, and ambassadors who stood in somber conversation or sipped discreetly at flutes of wine. It wasn’t difficult to spot the numerous Protection Detail personnel moving among the attendees, some of them standing sentinel at the edges of the open space, others patrolling, their eyes hidden behind black sensor-glasses.
Off to one side, a reporting team from the Federation News Service was the only media allowed to be inside the perimeter, and they were quietly recording the proceedings; the image feed was being broadcast live across the quadrant as hundreds of worlds and millions of beings tuned in to watch the ceremony.
Many had come to pay their respects, and she had seen the huge numbers of civilians and fleet crew in the outer areas of the park. They had come simply to be close to this moment, to show some solidarity in the wake of a terrible act.
She looked away. The presidential memorial was sheathed with a black cloth; the shape of the slab-sided obelisk was concealed for the moment. Troi had seen it before, in better days. It was carved from several blocks of granite, each mined from one of the founder-member planets of the Federation, then fused into a whole—a symbol of the accord between those worlds and all the others that had come into the fold in the decades since. Each president who had served was remembered here after his or her passing, and today it was Nan Bacco’s turn to join that illustrious list.
Troi took a shaky breath and tugged her uniform tunic straight, pausing to adjust the mourning band around her arm. There were very few Starfleet officers in attendance at the ceremony, and she was by far the lowest ranked. Admiral Akaar was visible across the garden, standing head and shoulders above the majority of the other attendees, but he had not once made eye contact with her, instead remaining at a distance among the other chiefs of staff, his expression unreadable. Troi’s empathic abilities brought her nothing more about his mood; the Capellan was always guarded, and right now his thoughts were silent and dark.
In truth, she didn’t want to exercise her psionic skills to sense more, not here, not today. There was such a great pressure of sorrow and regret clouding everything, a great mournful underscore of emotion emanating from the people who were here to show their esteem for Bacco. Troi kept a tight rein on her own sadness. She was afraid that if she began to weep, the barriers to her empathy would crumble and she would channel not just her sorrow, but that of hundreds of others.
“Deanna?” She turned as Togren approached her, and she gave the Denobulan diplomat a brittle smile. “Thank you so much for coming,” he added.
“I couldn’t refuse,” she replied. “I appreciate your generosity in asking me to be your plus one.”
Togren shrugged. “Both my wives are at home on Denobula. And I felt you should be here, if only to affirm Starfleet’s respect for dear Nan.” His tawny, dappled face was downcast.
“Yes,” she agreed. “There are not a lot of us here.”
“How is your family?”
“They’re well. Tasha’s four now.”
“Splendid. I hope to see her soon.” He paused. “I understand your husband did not receive an invitation?” Off her nod, he carried on. “Please tell him it was nothing personal. It seems that the president pro tem’s staff wanted to make this a visibly civilian affair.”
“I understand. It’s enough that a Starfleet vessel has the honor of carrying President Bacco’s body home to Cestus III. All of us who wear the uniform are proud to take on that duty.”
“Ah, yes, the U.S.S. Aventine.” Togren nodded. The diplomat indicated a flag officer Troi didn’t recognize standing near Akaar. “One of the rear admirals assigned a new commander to that ship after the arrest of Captain Dax. I understand it was dispatched to the Bajor system for repairs after that regrettable business over Andoria . . . but it is fitting that a ship commissioned under Nan’s administration and which stood at the forefront of recent crises is the one to take her to her rest.” His face clouded slightly. “There was some rather . . . spirited discussion at higher levels that the Aventine divert to Earth first. I argued otherwise. I think Velk would have pressed for thirty days of lying in state and mourning. . . .” He shook his head. “It was not in the late president’s wishes. She didn’t want pomp and ceremony . . . but she earned it anyway.”
Troi wanted to press the diplomat further for more about the Aventine and the fate of Ezri Dax, but before she could ask, Togren’s aide arrived, a look of dismay on her face. “Sir? Something has come up. Your attention is required.”
“Now?” asked Togren, gesturing at the dais set up before the shrouded memorial. The attendees were starting to take their seats; the ceremony was about to begin. He huffed. “Very well. Deanna, if you will excuse me?”
Alone once again, she steeled herself and found her seat—at the rear, she noted—just as a press secretary called them to their feet to announce the arrival of the president pro tem.
Ishan Anjar emerged from behind the dais and approached the lectern there with swift, confident steps. His dark hair accented with distinguished streaks of steel gray, and dressed in a traditional Bajoran mourning suit, he projected an air of solemn gravity, his stern features fixed in an expression of resignation and resolve. He seemed every inch a man called to take on a regrettable obligation, and his usual intensity seemed muted. Troi studied him, uncertain of how to measure him by her own lights.
As the attendees sat, he crossed the garden with his gaze, finding the cameras of the press team. “My friends and colleagues, my fellow citizens of the United Federation of Planets. We are gathered here today, not only in the gardens of New Berlin but on every member-world of our great alliance. On Earth, Tellar, and Vulcan. On Bajor, Alpha Centauri, and Bolarus. On Zakdorn, Axanar, and Cestus III. In these places and countless others, we have come together to mourn the loss of a great soul, a politician and peacemaker. My friend . . . our friend Nanietta Bacco.”
Troi noted that Andor had been left off the list of worlds Ishan mentioned; she glanced around, noticing for the first time that there were no Andorians present at the gathering.
Her attention snapped back as a group of Klingons—emissaries from Chancellor Martok—struck their fists against the breastplates of their armor as a gesture of respect to a fallen ally. Ishan gave them an indulgent nod and went on.
“A powerful light has dimmed. A woman of honesty and high character, struck down as she did what she had done for so long . . . build bridges and forge trust. Nanietta Bacco believed passionately in the United Federation of Planets and the principles for which it stands. She believed in a Federation that is strong and united. A Federation looking forward to a better tomorrow, beyond the trials that have tested us to the limits of our endurance.” He paused, as if searching for the next words. “I believe in those things. I share her vision of unity. And now, more than ever, I realize that this is a time for harmony, not for division. We come together this day in grief and sadness, but what do we see? That each of us is stronger under the aegis of our Federation than separated from it. Fear may make us believe otherwise.” He shook his head. “I tell you that is not so.”
Another dig at the expense of the Andorians? Troi wondered. Is he using this memorial service as a platform to diminish them?
But in the next breath, Ishan’s words turned toward a different target. “We need our unity. Our enemies know that truth, too. These rogue states, these old adversaries, they gather together and make pacts. Our enemies struck down Nanietta Bacco in order to break our union, but I say they have failed. In the wake of this terrible atrocity, look to yourselves and see. We are united in our grief, united in our resolve. United in our defiance of those who wish us harm through perfidy and menace.” Ishan left the podium and walked to the memorial, his voice strong and clear. “We will not be cowed.” With a flourish, he pulled at a silver cord and the black shroud fell away, pooling on the ground.
There, etched in gold on the ice-colored stone, President Bacco’s name caught the light and shimmered. Another figure emerged from the side of the platform; Troi recognized Galif jav Velk as he carried a laurel wreath to the president pro tem. Ishan took it from him with a nod and then laid it at the foot of the memorial, bowing as he did so.
Despite herself, she frowned. Through the mix of complex, turbulent emotions all around her, Troi had the sense of something disconnected from the moment, as if this was all a shadow play, a hollow act without true heart.
She became aware of Togren’s assistant, who had slipped into the chair beside her. “Commander Troi, please forgive me,” she whispered. “I’m afraid that Togren will be detained for some time. He sends his regrets that he will not be able to accompany you.”
“What’s wrong?” Troi asked, keeping her voice low as Ishan returned to the lectern again and began to speak.
“There is an issue with the Andorians.”
“They’re here?”
The woman nodded. “Outside. I’m fearful things may become rather heated.”
Troi made a quick choice. “Take me to them.”
Five
Deanna Troi sensed the simmering anger even before she entered the annex outside the statue garden. The color of the emotion was strong and potent, cutting through the darker tones of mournful feeling surrounding the attendees at the memorial service.
She heard raised voices as she approached and saw Togren standing in front of a group of five formally attired Andorians. His body language was that of a man trying to maintain peace, but the slope of the Denobulan’s shoulders seemed to show that he felt he had already been defeated in that regard. Two of the Andorian party, both thaans in suits of simple cut, were arguing with a pair of Federation Security Agency operatives. Floating above them all was a holoscreen of the ceremony that was taking place in the neighboring dome, a giant close-up on Ishan Anjar’s face as he continued his speech.
Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice Page 8