“What do you think?”
“You appear to have sabotaged your own ship to get here, Commander.” Vale didn’t react, but she made a note not to underestimate the man. “That doesn’t exactly seem like well-balanced behavior to me.”
“You wouldn’t have let us dock any other way.”
He fell silent again, musing. “What do you want with . . . that detainee?”
“You’ve spoken to him.”
Chessman shook his head, and he looked away, troubled. “No one has spoken to him. We were given strict orders to confine him but not to engage with him.”
“Orders from whom?”
“The Federation Council. After what happened to President Bacco and then that business with the Andorians, it seemed . . . unusual. But understandable.”
Vale saw the flash of doubt in Chessman’s eyes. She got the sense that this was a man unhappy with the lot he had been given, pushed by duty and oath to do something he was not ready to ignore. She took her second risk that day. “I think you’re going to let me talk to Bashir, Commander.”
“Really? What makes you say that?”
“Because I think you want to know why he’s here as much as I do.”
* * *
Keru pawed at his beard, and it did little to hide the tired scowl behind it. “Another signal from Starfleet Command,” he said, showing the padd in his hand. “They’re asking for Titan’s destination and intentions.” He paused. “Well, less asking, more demanding.”
Riker sat on the edge of the table in his ready room and listened to the Trill officer’s report. “Send the same reply again. We’re on a shakedown cruise, testing the new engine modifications from McKinley.”
“They’re not buying that, sir,” Keru replied. “Clearly. The next message will be them telling us to return home.”
The admiral gave a wan nod. “Probably. Or a politely worded warning about another ship coming to ‘escort’ us back to the nearest starbase.” He took the padd and scanned the text there. “It’s not like the old days when captains had more autonomy. That would make it a lot easier. . . .”
“With all due respect, sir, nothing has been easy since you came back aboard.” The comment came out harsher than Keru had intended, and he knew it the moment it left his lips. Riker let it fall without comment. With Vale and Tuvok both off the ship, technically the role of executive officer would fall to the crew member with the next highest rank, but Xin Ra-Havreii wasn’t about to leave his engine room for anything less than the heat death of the universe, and so Riker had put Keru into the role of temporary Number One. So far, the Trill was dealing with the job in the same dogged and sober manner as he treated Titan’s security.
The intercom whistled, and Riker tapped the panel on his desk. “Go ahead.”
Lieutenant Rager’s voice issued out. “Admiral, contact has been made. I have Qo’noS on subspace.”
He nodded to himself. “Put it through, Sariel.” He got to his feet, and at his side, Keru stiffened. “Careful what you say,” Riker added. “He’s a shrewd one.”
The viewscreen displayed a forbidding chamber made of dark, slate-colored stone. Riker saw braziers burning in the background, casting pools of jumping orange light across the walls and the floor. A Klingon in full martial regalia and a heavy battle cloak dominated the scene; he measured Riker with his one good eye, the fire-glow illuminating the legacy of past battles written in the scars across his face.
“Riker,” he growled, “nuqneH?”
“Chancellor Martok,” Riker replied with a bow of his head. “Thank you for your time. Is this channel encrypted?”
Martok snorted. “Of course it is, Captain. . . . No. Admiral now, isn’t it? Tell me, does the rank weigh on you yet?”
“I’m bearing the burden as best I can.”
“As do we all. This day I find it cumbersome upon my shoulders. My rivals in the High Council posture and rattle their blades. . . . They seek out any instance of galactic unrest and look to turn it to their agenda.” His expression darkened, and he pushed those thoughts away. “It matters not. We speak of more important things; tell me, how goes the hunt?” Martok didn’t need to say anything else. He had been on Deep Space 9 to witness Nanietta Bacco’s cold-blooded murder, and like all honorable Klingons, he had immediately offered his sword arm against the perpetrators of this act. Martok and the Empire had not always agreed with Bacco’s policies, but they respected her as a valued ally; more than that, they had been offended by the cowardly way in which the brave woman had been struck down.
“That’s why I’m contacting you, sir. Things have become complicated.”
The Klingon snorted. “Track them, find them, kill them. There is no complexity in that, Admiral.” Martok shrugged off his cloak and it fell to the flagstones with a crunch. “I will grant you some of my elite attack ships. Say the word. I will turn them loose and they’ll bring you the heads of those motherless Tzenkethi petaQ in short order.”
Riker exchanged glances with Keru. “Starfleet appreciates the offer. But you should be aware that initial suggestions the Tzenkethi or the Typhon Pact were involved in the assassination may be wrong.”
“And who told you that? One of their so-called ‘ambassadors’?” Martok spat on the ground. “Every one of them competes with the others to tell the largest lies.”
He decided on a different tack. “Chancellor, I must be open with you. I didn’t make contact on behalf of Starfleet. This isn’t an official communication.”
Martok’s manner cooled. “Indeed? It was my understanding that you are Akaar’s man now. What has that towering Capellan dog done this time?”
“Along with my new rank, Admiral Akaar has granted me some leeway to investigate the assassination,” Riker went on. “That’s why I’m coming to you directly. I believe secret military actions are taking place under Federation auspices. Undertakings made without formal oversight or guidance, propelled by all the wrong motives.”
The Klingon gave a snarling grunt of derision. “I find it hard to understand your kind, Riker. You are slow to anger, but you can fight with honor when the need is there. And yet, you must debate every drop of blood you spill, every sword drawn, and ship committed to the battle.” He shook his head, his gray-streaked hair rattling against the pauldrons of his armor. “Does it matter how that is done? You tell me your people seek the killers of President Bacco. Is that not to be lauded?”
“Not if it’s done to serve an agenda instead of justice,” Keru spoke up, unable to hold his silence any longer.
Riker eyed him. “My chief of security makes a good point, Chancellor. I’m sure you know full well that the need for revenge rings loudest. But it can be misused. And I won’t stand by and let rights and freedoms be trampled under the guise of lawful conduct.”
Martok considered this, the thunder of his voice softening. “I see why Akaar chose you. You speak truth, Riker. Sometimes the call of the blood burns strong, but a colder spirit and clearer eye are needed to guide the spear to its true target.” A slow, predatory smile crossed the Klingon’s face. “So then. What do you want of me, human? I have had my fill of debate this day.”
“My ship is en route to your borders.” Riker glanced at one of the padds on his desk. “We’ll be crossing into the Archanis Sector. I request your permission to proceed into Klingon space in order to pursue my investigation.”
“Archanis . . .” Martok’s scowl returned. “You couldn’t have chosen your destination more poorly. That sector is under the governance of one of my key political rivals. Shaniq, a general, as I once was . . . but his power flows from service with Imperial Intelligence and all their shadow warfare.” The chancellor’s lip curled. “He is old and bitter and dangerous with it. If you seek to accuse him of something, I would know it now.”
“We know that a planet in the Nydak system is playing a role in all this,” said Keru, measuring each word. “If it is under this General Shaniq’s jurisdiction, he may have important
knowledge.”
“Shaniq was no friend to Bacco,” Martok replied. “He understands the value of our alliance with the Federation, but not the reticence of your past military policies. I think he favors this new man, the Bajoran.”
“Ishan Anjar,” offered Riker.
The Klingon nodded. “Aye. The Bajorans know war, not as Klingons do, but well enough. Shaniq likes Anjar’s rhetoric. . . . I do not.” He leaned in, his face filling the screen. “Riker, speak plainly. What do you expect to find at Nydak?”
Now that it came to the moment to actually give voice to the thought, Riker found it hard to say it out loud. He took a breath. “The truth, sir. I expect to find those responsible for the death of President Bacco . . . and those seeking to use them for political and personal gain.”
Martok studied him for a moment. “You are spoken of well by warriors I trust, Riker. Worf, son of Mogh. Klag, son of M’Raq.”
“It was my honor to serve with them.”
“For that, I grant you passage into the Empire and to Nydak . . . for all the good it may do you. General Shaniq does not like to bow to my authority. I will send ships to meet you there, but I warn you. If a Klingon hand is revealed in any ill deeds, it will be dealt with by my men, understood?”
“It is, sir. You have my gratitude.”
Martok nodded. “Qapla, Riker.” He cut the channel, and the image faded.
Keru glanced at his commander. “A warrant of passage from the chancellor of the Klingon Empire. . . . That gives us good cause to stay out here. I’m surprised he gave it so easily.”
Riker nodded absently, walking to the port where he could study the light of warp-stretched stars as Titan raced across the void. “I told you he was shrewd, Ranul. He’s an honorable warrior, but he also knows an opportunity when he sees it. Martok’s just given us the ability to bring dishonor to one of his major political rivals and have a hand in the credit for catching Nan Bacco’s murderers.”
“And if we’re wrong . . . we’ll get the blame, not him.” The Trill shook his head, a humorless smile rising and falling. “I guess it is true what they say: The higher you’re promoted, the more politics you get on you.”
Riker raised an eyebrow. “You’ve only been Number One for a short while. Had enough already?”
Keru folded his arms over his chest. “Let’s say I liked my job better when it was just shooting at things, and we’ll leave it at that, sir.”
* * *
The cargo ramp dropped open like the drawbridge of an ancient fortress, allowing the atmosphere of Nydak II to billow into the Snipe’s cavernous loading bay. Tuvok’s acute Vulcan sense of smell immediately picked out the tang of burnt metals in the air, the ozone of storms, and something else . . . The unmistakable musk of Klingons.
A line of them stood waiting just past the foot of the ramp, some with bat’leths slung over their shoulders, others with disruptor pistols hanging in fast-draw holsters at their hips. The warriors were in uniform-battle plate, but none of them had the polish and swagger that Tuvok had come to associate with Klingon crews. These ones lacked the finer edges of the Imperial soldiers he had met in passing on previous occasions; they were rough-hewn and thuggish in their manner. An ironic estimation, he thought, considering how the Klingon species had almost made an art out of their belligerence.
The only one who didn’t follow the pattern was the adjutant, the same officer who had faced them in orbit from the bridge of one of the Birds of Prey. He searched the bay, finding Lieutenant Colonel Kincade, and shot her a brisk nod. “What do you have for us, human?” he asked with some relish.
Tuvok turned as a hatch behind him opened and Thomas Riker emerged, carrying a phaser. Grim-faced, he led a procession of four Cardassians—three males and one female—out from where they had been held. Ashur walked alongside the prisoners, a rifle in his hands, and Tuvok could tell he was looking for an excuse to use it. Nog was last, and the Ferengi looked deeply troubled by the unfolding events. It was a mood the Vulcan shared.
The adjutant gave a cruel, lopsided grin. “This is what remains, then?” He advanced, flexing his fingers. “These are the cowards who laid bombs and traps to kill our warriors.”
Tom halted on the edge of the ramp and looked to Kincade. “So what now? We turn our prisoners over to them?” He jerked his head toward the Klingons.
“Those are the orders,” said Kincade.
One of the Cardassian males, a youth with ragged lines of facial hair, tensed as he heard the woman’s words. His eyes darted left and right, desperately looking for some means of escape.
Ashur gave him a hard shove in the small of the back, enough that it almost put the youth on the deck. “Move.”
“You cannot do this,” hissed the elder Cardassian standing near Tom; he was Onar Throk. It was virtually certain that Throk had been the one who committed the actual act of assassination, and yet he seemed so small and ordinary as he stood there. A gray-haired humanoid in drab fatigues, caught between anger and fear. It was hard to envision that the deeds of this one unremarkable being had set off a storm of controversy across the quadrant.
Throk was glaring at Kincade. “We have rights! Your precious Khitomer Accords demand it!”
“That would be the treaty you’re trying to destroy?” Kincade shot back. “You’ve certainly got nerve, I’ll give you that.” She turned away, masking a look of disgust on her face, and addressed the adjutant. “Get these criminals off my ship.”
“With pleasure.” The Klingon officer waved his hand, and a few of his men came up the ramp to take custody of the Cardassians. The prisoners protested, but their words fell on deaf ears. Blades and guns were brandished, and the ready threat of death brought silence as they were marched off the Snipe and onto the surface.
Tuvok and Kincade followed a few steps behind. Outside now, the Vulcan could see the full scope of the old mining facility. It was a squat, ugly complex of geodesic domes and tall refinery towers set into a scarred hillside ravaged by earthmovers. A few lighted buildings clustered near to the landing pad, but most of the mine seemed to be rusting and derelict. Far from the well-maintained security of a Federation penitentiary, it was almost medieval in its outlook.
Nog trailed after them, sniffing at the air with a sour expression. “This isn’t right,” he said, half to himself. “What are they going to do with them?”
“These conspirators will be questioned,” said the adjutant, catching the Ferengi’s words.
Ahead, there was a sudden flurry of movement as the younger Cardassian gave a cry of effort and threw himself against the Klingon closest to him. It was a lucky gamble, the guard losing his footing on a broken stone. The Klingon stumbled, and the Cardassian made a break for it—but he barely got a few meters before the warrior caught up and struck him brutally across the back with the blunt, flat edge of his bat’leth. Tuvok heard the distinct crack of bones breaking.
The prisoner went down with a cry, drawing harsh laughter from the other guards. Tuvok tensed, but Nog had already broken into a run, sprinting to the fallen youth’s side. He extended a hand to help the Cardassian back to his feet. Blood marked the youth’s face, and he gasped in agony as he tried to stand.
The guard who had struck the blow advanced on Nog, raising his weapon, this time turning the sharp double points toward the Ferengi’s throat. “Step away!” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “Step away, or share this one’s fate!”
His face set in a grim mask, Nog backed off, letting the injured youth slowly rise on his own. “Striking an unarmed prisoner?” he sneered. “Where’s the honor in that?”
“Honor is not for the likes of them,” came the snarled reply. “Only a fool gives succor to his enemy. If the Federation understood that, perhaps your leader would still draw breath.”
“Stand down, Mister Nog,” added Kincade. “You’ve done your job. Now let our allies do theirs.”
“And what would that be?” Tuvok asked her.
She
looked away, ignoring the question.
* * *
Vale walked with Chessman into the turbolift, and she noted that the commander’s security escort stopped short of following them into the capsule. The doors hissed closed and he entered a code on the wall panel before pausing to allow hidden sensors to perform a retina scan, voice trace, and biometric sweep.
“That’s a fair few locks and keys,” she noted. The security protocols in the turbolift were the third in a series of barriers Chessman had guided her through as they moved deeper into the nameless facility.
In the warren of corridors that threaded through the asteroid’s interior, Vale saw nothing but long passageways burned out of the living rock or compartments built from blank expanses of thermoconcrete. Force-field emitters studded the walls every few hundred meters along with sensor clusters that kept a constant watchful eye on every square centimeter of the facility.
Once or twice they passed autonomous drones that floated by on anti-gravs, identical white metal spheres sporting camera arrays and holographic lenses. “Sentinel remotes,” Chessman had explained, noting her interest. “Operated from a central monitoring bay on the surface. Each one can operate on its own or directly under the control of a security officer. They can be used to holographically communicate with detainees while keeping the actual officer well out of harm’s way.”
Now, as the elevator descended, she found her thoughts returning to the devices. “I’m wondering why you’d need something like those drones. The only explanation is that this place was constructed to house extremely dangerous individuals.”
The other officer nodded. “I’m sure you’re familiar with life-forms possessing dangerous telepathic ability, or phenomena like spontaneous psionic development. . . . This complex was originally built to contain things like that, if they threaten the safety of the Federation. Hence the drones, so anyone who could be influenced by a telepath remains at a distance.”
“This asteroid . . . it’s an oubliette,” said Vale.
“Yes,” admitted Chessman ruefully. “Fortunately, it doesn’t get a lot of use. At least, not until recently.”
Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice Page 23