Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice

by James Swallow

  “Jaros II on screen,” ordered Commander Atia, and immediately the view shifted to an image of the dun-colored planet. Vale’s first officer sucked in air through her teeth. “Would that you could tell a world’s character from a gaze upon it,” she muttered.

  Vale said nothing. She had seen prisons more than once and always from the standpoint of someone taking a criminal to his or her justly deserved fate. She had no desire to see them from any other angle, but still there was something about Jaros II’s reputation that would give any Starfleet officer a moment’s pause.

  The charter of the United Federation of Planets stipulated that any penitentiaries on its member-worlds were maintained at a liberal standard that kept in mind the rights of the individual—no matter what crime they might have been convicted of—and an avowed intent toward rehabilitation over incarceration. The Federation wanted lawbreakers to repay their debt to society and if at all possible, find a second chance. It was a laudable goal and one that Vale believed in, even if the reality didn’t always match up to the high hopes behind it. In fact, there were very few dedicated penal colonies within the bounds of the UFP, most of them transitional facilities like Earth’s New Zealand compound, where prisoners would serve out their sentences before being re-assimilated back into normal life. Some worlds had no jails of any kind, instead imposing punishment on offenders by keeping them under constant close surveillance, curtailing their rights of movement, communication, or access to goods and services—effectively making them prisoners of their own lives.

  But there were always those who could not be easily rehabilitated or who represented a grave threat to others. Criminals of that stripe would be dispatched to worlds like the Tantalus Colony or Elba II, and if you broke the law while in the uniform of Starfleet, the planet on the screen was where you would most likely end up.

  The official name of the facility was the Jaros II Detention Barracks Complex, but among those who served aboard the fleet’s starships it had a simpler name: the stockade.

  It was a ghost story for plebes and midshipmen, a threat that Academy instructors would hang over their heads, the tale of an isolated desert world stocked with the men and women who had dishonored the service and the code for which it stood. Few of those sent to Jaros II ever wore the uniform again, and for Christine Vale, that notion was a punishment equal to any stay in a dungeon.

  She dismissed the thought with a blink and shot a look at Lieutenant Commander Darrah. “Let the logistics team know we’ll be off-loading that additional cargo once we make orbit.”

  “Aye, Captain—” Darrah was cut off by a chime from his console. “Sensors indicate a ship approaching on a high-speed intercept vector, aggressive posture. They’re hailing us.”

  “Show me.”

  The Bajoran tapped a key, and the main screen shifted to show a sleek, cylindrical vessel moving fast against the black of space. A Starfleet pennant was visible along the length of the hull; multiple impulse grids glowed orange-white, but the ship had no telltale warp nacelles. It was a system boat, designed for interplanetary defense operations only. “The coast guard?” offered Darrah.

  Vale nodded. “Open the channel.”

  “Attention, Lionheart. This is Patrol Six-One. You are entering a security-restricted sector. Provide authorization immediately, or turn back toward open space.”

  Atia’s lip curled. “Impolite,” she growled.

  “They’re targeting us,” reported Kader from the engineering station.

  “Very impolite,” added Atia.

  Vale tugged her tunic straight without thinking about it, and the gesture almost made her smile. Did I pick that up from Riker? She schooled her expression. “Six-One, this is . . . Christine Vale, captain of the Lionheart. We’re here on the orders of Starfleet Command. We have supplies and materiel for the colony.”

  “Our regular supply run isn’t due for another month,” came the reply.

  Vale was aware of Atia and Darrah watching her intently as she responded. “We were . . . passing by.” She tapped her own console, transmitting to the patrol ship a copy of the instructions Admiral Riker had given her. “You’ll see everything is in order here.”

  A few seconds later the smaller craft veered sharply away, shifting heading to fall in alongside the medical cruiser. “Confirmed, Lionheart. Maintain course and speed, enter standard orbit upon approach. Do not deviate from these instructions. Patrol Six-One out.”

  “Sociable types, aren’t they?” Darrah said, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  Maslan had been watching from his panel. “They must still be on alert after the . . .” He paused. “The, ah, incident on DS9.”

  With a start, Vale realized that it had been a month and a day since Bacco’s death. On some level, it seemed like only hours had passed since she had stood in Riker’s ready room on the Titan and listened to the shocking message from Starfleet Command. It was still raw and new.

  “Take us in, Alex,” she told the flight operations officer. “Don’t do anything to aggravate them. Fly smooth.”

  “Always do, sir,” Thompson replied, his focus on the growing shape of the planet ahead.

  Atia leaned closer and spoke in a careful whisper. “We near moment of purpose, so clarity would be appreciated. Will you give reason for presence, beyond task that any cargo scow could accomplish?” The challenge in the other woman’s words was clear.

  Vale folded her arms. “Well. I figure, as we’re here, I might look up an acquaintance. Ezri Dax.”

  “Dax is inmate below,” noted Atia. “Held to account after disobedience aboard Aventine at Andor. You count her as friend?”

  “I’m the friendly type,” Vale replied with a cool smile.

  “Entering standard orbit,” called Thompson.

  “Signal from logistics,” added Darrah. “We’re ready to start the cargo drop.”

  Christine rose from her seat. “See to it, Hayn. You have the bridge.” She turned back to Atia. “You know, there’s a superstition among some older fleet types that it’s bad luck for anyone still serving to go down to the stockade. Kind of like a black cat crossing your path.”

  “Or a snake falling from the roof.”

  “I’m going to go challenge fate a little,” said Vale. “You want to come with?”

  Atia stood up. “I hold no stock in old wives’ tales.”

  * * *

  The transporter put them down in a dusty quadrangle in front of the main administration block, in front of a large sculpture of a Starfleet crest. The rest of the complex was thoroughly protected under a powerful inhibitor field that would reflect back any attempt to get a lock on anyone within the grounds of the penal complex.

  The heat of the day immediately stole all the moisture from Vale’s lips, and she sniffed at the dry air, looking around; she was half expecting to see guard towers and walls topped with spikes, but there was nothing so dramatic or draconian to see. Aside from the invisible transporter barrier and the glitter of what might have been observer drones high in the clear sky, the stockade resembled the same kind of residential barracks that Starfleet had on dozens of worlds. Off toward one of the buildings she saw figures moving, all of them clad in nondescript clothing that, while it wasn’t exactly prison uniform, was still basic enough to clearly be standard-issue. Each of them wore a combadge similar to the arrowhead on Vale’s chest, but it was a bronze-hued oval without other detail.

  “Monitors.” Atia stood at her side, noting her interest. “Tracing movements and life function of those who wear them.” She turned away and looked out into the desert beyond the compound. “No cordon or chains to the eye, but confinement nonetheless.” The Magna Romanii woman frowned. “Your action in coming down here, Captain . . . it is unusual.”

  “I know.” Vale caught sight of three figures approaching them from the main building. “I’m prone to being a little headstrong. You should learn that about me sooner rather than later.” She flashed a smile at the man leading the g
roup, a captain in the mustard-tan of operations. “Good morning!”

  “Afternoon,” he corrected. The man—a human with what Vale pegged as a Terra Novan accent—briskly introduced himself as Warden Sisterson, senior duty officer and site commander. “Captain Vale, this is highly irregular. We’re not in the business of being open to impromptu visitors. Now, we fully appreciate your crew expediting the . . .” He paused, and one of his men handed him a padd containing a cargo manifest. “The delivery of these medical supplies. But we have protocols for this sort of thing, and I’m sure Admiral Riker is well aware of that, especially given our current situation and the elevated security levels fleet-wide.”

  “It wouldn’t be much of a surprise inspection if you knew we were coming, would it?” Vale’s reply blew the wind from Sisterson’s sails, and she saw Atia’s eyebrows lift in mild surprise.

  “Inspection?” Sisterson repeated. “Why?”

  “You said it yourself,” said Vale. “Starfleet Command wants to make certain everything on Jaros II is secure.” She aimed two fingers at her own face, in the shape of a V. “Nothing better than an eyes-on look-see to confirm that, don’t you agree?”

  The warden exchanged looks with his subordinates. “I’ll have to clear this with Security Operations Command on Earth. . . .”

  “And set time to waste?” Atia broke in. “Is there something you wish us not to see?”

  Vale gave her first officer the slightest of looks. Without prompting, Atia had stepped up to bolster the thin justification she was using to pressure Sisterson, when, in fact, Vale was making this all up on the fly. I’m starting to like her, she thought.

  The warden frowned and folded his arms. “All right. What do you want?”

  “You can give Commander Atia here the tour. As for me, I’m specifically interested in one of your high-profile detainees.”

  * * *

  Four sides of the complex’s main exercise yard were surrounded by three-story detention blocks, but the north-facing elevation looked out onto the great sandy plains of Jaros II and to the dun-colored stone that lay in low waves of rock. The view reached off into the distance, vanishing in the heat haze. Again, there were no walls here, nothing to stop anyone from picking up and running.

  But where could you go? Vale wondered. The second planet wasn’t like its close neighbor in the third orbit out, capable of supporting a wide variety of flora and fauna. Jaros II was an arid world, not lifeless, but certainly not welcoming. Someone out there in the wilds would run out of water in days, and that was if the guards didn’t stun them with a phaser burst the moment they went over the perimeter of the compound. As she crossed the empty space, she wondered if anyone had ever made the attempt.

  Vale found her quarry practicing free throws at the edge of a parrises squares court. The woman was small, nimble, and she wore a jumpsuit that was a size too large and patched with sweat. She made an easy goal and dropped with a gasp, panting as Vale approached her.

  “Ezri Dax.”

  “That’s my name,” she said, gulping in breaths. “Don’t wear it out.” The Trill woman stooped to gather up a chill-flask of water and took a long swig. Dax’s short dark hair was spiked with sweat and dust, and the lines of pigment mottling common to her species stood out against her skin. She had striking blue eyes that took the measure of her, and Vale remembered hearing somewhere that Ezri had been a counselor before she became a captain.

  But then, as a joined being, the host to a near-immortal symbiont intelligence that had shared many human lifetimes, Dax had doubtless been many things. Vale recalled that thought from the first time they had met, of how she had made a mental note not to let the Trill’s outward appearance fool her into underestimating the woman.

  She looked around at the vacant quad. Other than the two of them, not a soul was in sight. “Must get lonely out here.”

  “Not really. It’s hardly solitary confinement when I’ve got eight more of me to talk to.” Dax patted her belly.

  She offered her hand. “Christine Vale.”

  “I remember. What’s it been, four years since we met on the Titan? We hung out, eradicated the Borg, then went home for tea and medals.” She toasted the air, ignoring Vale’s gesture. “Good times.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it, I guess.” Dax’s mordant tone wasn’t what Vale had been expecting, and she let her hand drop. “Captain, Will Riker sent me here.”

  “I’m not the captain of anything,” she replied. “Keep up.” Dax dropped to her haunches and sat on the edge of the court, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I heard he got promoted to admiral. Nice work if you can get it.”

  “It seems like a lot of things are happening at Command,” ventured Vale. “You upset a lot of people.”

  “So it would seem.” Dax sighed, her spiky manner ebbing slightly. “Commander, what do you want with me? I made my choices and that’s that. You understand I’m toxic now? Stay here too long and you may find your career has become tainted by my . . . I guess most people would call them mistakes.”

  “You don’t seem the kind to make mistakes, Dax.”

  She gave a hollow laugh. “Oh, you should see my record with men.” She took another swig of water. “And women, for that matter.”

  Vale tried another tack. “Are the others here? The doctors who worked with Bashir on the Andorian cure?”

  Dax shrugged. “No. They’re all under house arrest, as far as I know. They’re all singing from the same page, claiming no knowledge that he had them using top-secret data stolen from Starfleet Command.” A shadow passed over her face. “Julian’s doing, taking all the blame for himself. He’s not here. Federation Security separated him from the rest of us the first chance they got.” She looked away. “I should have never followed him to Andor. He would have been safer there.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Dax shot her a look. “Don’t you know?”

  “Let’s just say that the story has become murky. And that may be to the advantage of some, but you know Riker. He wants the clear-eyed view.”

  “I’m not sure that will make a lot of difference at this point.”

  Vale was suddenly tired of standing, and she dropped into a settle on the sun-warmed ground. “Explain it to me, Ezri,” she insisted. “Because if things change, I might not get the chance to ask you again.”

  And so Dax told the story, her gaze locked out toward the rocky wilderness as she spoke. It had begun with a call that woke her from her sleep shift, her first officer Sam Bowers bringing orders from Admiral Akaar that Julian Bashir had defied a government mandate forbidding investigation into the Andorian genetic issue. Worse still, he had apparently extracted information from the highly classified Shedai Meta-Genome project, one of the Federation’s most deeply buried secrets, in order to do so. His illegal work discovered, Bashir stole the Rio Grande and fled for Andor with all the data he wasn’t supposed to have. Dax’s crew aboard the Aventine tracked him from that ship to another, finally closing the net around a civilian transport called the Parham.

  “We caught up to Julian just as he reached Andor, in time to have an Imperial Guard warship put their guns on us. He tried to claim asylum, then the shooting started, and damn him if he didn’t almost spark off a war right then and there.” She shook her head angrily. “At first I was so furious with him . . . but then we talked and none of that seemed to matter. He told me what he was doing, about how Ishan Anjar was obstructing Andoria’s chances for survival. I know Julian Bashir, maybe better than anyone. I understood why he did what he did, but I still had my orders. At the time, I thought that would be enough.”

  “But it wasn’t.” Vale nodded to herself. “I’ve been there, too.”

  “I wanted to give the Andorians the cure Julian and the others had created,” Dax insisted. “I was trying to find a solution . . . but my hand was forced.”

  She explained how Bashir escaped with the help of sympathetic members of her own crew
, the Parham blasting its way out of the Aventine’s landing bay, running the gauntlet of the two other Starfleet ships that had come to back up Dax’s crew. Ezri had been willing to let them go, but the captains of the Warspite and the Falchion had other orders. In the end, the daring gambit cost the Parham’s master his ship and his life, and very nearly that of Bashir and an Andorian named Shar into the bargain. The doctor and Shar had barely made it, beamed out of a plummeting escape pod by allies down on the planet.

  Vale watched a humorless smile rise and fall on Dax’s face. “I guess that was the moment I decided to defy orders. I got in the way of Warspite and Falchion, tried to slow down what they were doing. About that time, Julian contacted me from Andor, asking for my help.” She shrugged. “Old boyfriends are always so inconsiderate about when they call.”

  Vale picked up the thread of the events. “You were sent to arrest him, but instead you aided and abetted.”

  “There’s some truth in that,” she agreed. “Let me guess. They say I did it because we used to be lovers.”

  “Some of the less-circumspect reporters might have mentioned that. . . .”

  Dax let out a bark of cynical laughter. “I can almost see the head lines. ‘Heroine of the Borg Invasion Falls from Grace.’ ” She shook her head. “We’re so past that, Julian and me. It’s not that way at all between us now. Look, I had my crew protect him until he could get that cure out to all the Andorians who wanted it. And they wanted it, believe me.” The Trill’s expression changed, becoming stronger. “I did the right thing. I’ll take whatever slings and arrows come next.”

  Vale saw movement back toward the main building. She guessed she wouldn’t have long before Sisterson came to call time on this conversation. “What I don’t understand is why Ishan Anjar would let it go this far. Why hold back the genetic data from the Andorians?”

  “Politics,” Dax retorted, almost spitting the word. “You know the Tholians had given the Andorians some of the Shedai Meta-Genome information, hoping that they would join the Typhon Pact. . . . I’ve had a lot of time to think about this. . . . I believe Ishan thought that the Federation had more or different data on the Meta-Genome than the Tholians. Ishan wanted something to hold over them, the promise that he would declassify the information, to keep them out of the Pact. To strong-arm the Andorians back into the Federation. With Ishan angling to succeed Bacco and take the job full-time, think what a political victory that would have been for him.”