Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice

by James Swallow

  The Tellarite’s cold gaze swept the chamber, taking them all in. If not for the sentinel drone hovering at his shoulder and the slight distortion of his voice, it could have been believed that the presidential chief of staff was there before them. “It appears I am required to intervene directly.” He fixed Troi with a withering look. “Commander, like your husband and the rest of his officers, it appears you are exceeding your remit.”

  Ch’Nuillen answered for her. “One might say the same of you, Galif.”

  Velk eyed the Andorian. “Political asylum?” His porcine nose twitched in disdain. “That is the ploy you are making? Did you not think that your departure from Earth would be noted? Did you not consider that we would be watching this place at all times?” He shook his head. “It will not hold air, Ramasanar, this gambit of yours. It is a foolish, theatrical act of misplaced bravado.”

  Vale heard the low hiss from the diplomat. “Your people have never understood us, have you? Not since the very beginning. This is not an act. This is the matter of a debt to be repaid.”

  “Is he worth it?” asked the Tellarite, a shimmer of interference momentarily moving through his image. “Is Andor willing to risk its readmission to the Federation over one man’s liberty?”

  “If you must ask that question,” said ch’Nuillen, “then you truly show how little you know us.”

  * * *

  The cell door dropped open without warning, and Bashir was jolted, flinching back against the wall. A single sentinel drone floated there before him, filling the entranceway with its spherical bulk. Multiple camera eyes across its surface stared at him, glassy and dark.

  “Um . . . hello?” he began, putting down his padd. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Light shimmered, and a sketch of a humanoid form built itself in the middle of the cell’s confines until it was distinctly a Tellarite male in a plain business suit. “Doctor Bashir,” he began. “I’m sure you know who I am. I imagine you have it stored up there somewhere in that superior brain of yours.”

  He nodded, forcing himself to remain calm. “I know who you are, Mister Velk. Can I assume the appearance of the president pro tem’s hatchet man in my comfy little jail cell is a good thing? Are you here on Ishan Anjar’s behalf to tell me all is forgiven?”

  Velk made a noise that might have been a chuckle. “Hardly. You are an arrogant criminal.”

  “I believe the correct response to that is, ‘Takes one to know one.’ Or would that be too glib?” Bashir leaned forward, studying the drone without making it obvious. The cell door was still open, and he found himself idly plotting out methods of how he might get past the drone, get into the anteroom beyond . . . and then . . . ? He looked away. He wasn’t about to run. He didn’t see the point.

  “You have caused a great deal of problems,” Velk went on. “Andoria would have been given what they needed, eventually. In a few months, after the election. But you interfered with things. Took the law into your own hands. You brought instability, Bashir. I do not tolerate that.”

  “They’ve waited long enough,” he shot back, his temper rising. “The Federation had no right to hold information that could save countless lives.”

  “It is not your place to decide.”

  Bashir gave a rough shrug. “But I did, anyway. I did. I did the right thing.” He smiled thinly. “And do you know something? I don’t regret a moment of it. So if you’re here to menace me or make some kind of veiled threats, get it done, and then be on your way.”

  “No veils,” said Velk. “You are an intelligent man, and I have little patience with obfuscation, unlike your Cardassian friend Mister Garak.”

  “And how is he? Did they make him castellan yet? He’ll be insufferable if he gets that job, mark my words.”

  The Tellarite’s pinched, humorless expression tightened at Bashir’s feigned levity. “If it were in my power,” he said grimly, “you would remain here until your name was little more than a distant memory. But it seems the predilection for disobedience is more widespread in Starfleet than I had first realized. You are going to be released, Doctor.”

  They were, quite definitely, the very last words Julian had expected to hear, and he didn’t know how to react to them. “What?”

  “My hand has been forced. I am making the best choice of several poor options.” The holographic projection gestured at the low ceiling. “Up in the docking bay, an Andorian ship has come to take you away. They are claiming you like an errant pet, and if they are refused, it will go badly for all concerned. News will spread. That would not be for the best.” He sniffed. “So you may leave, to return to Andoria. I suppose you could consider it freedom, after a fashion.”

  “Vale . . .” He smiled. “She came through.”

  “And she will answer for that.” Velk nodded gravely. “Make no mistake, there will be a price to pay.” The Tellarite beckoned him. “On your feet. Follow the drone into the turbolift. You’ll be taken to your liberty, such as it is.”

  Warily, Bashir got up, hesitating with the padd in his hand. The Dumas novel was unfinished, and although he could recall the text with clarity from his own memory from past readings, he enjoyed the act of reading it over again. After a moment, he let the device drop on the sleeping pallet.

  He had only taken a step when Velk’s hologram spoke again. “One consideration before you leave, Doctor Bashir. You may intend to talk to others about this conversation, or to discuss the events that brought you to this juncture. You may think you know things about me and the president pro tem. But it would be wise for you to keep your own counsel on these matters.”

  “Why? I’m a free man. That includes the right to speak.”

  Velk nodded. “You are free. But Katherine Pulaski, Lemdock, Tovak, Elizabeth Lense, Ezri Dax . . . Sarina Douglas? Consider their circumstances before you give voice, Doctor.”

  The Tellarite shimmered and vanished, leaving Bashir alone in the cell with the humming drone and a chill running through his blood.

  Out in the anteroom, the turbolift door hissed open.

  Thirteen

  Again, there was the brutal touch of fire across his flesh, and then Tuvok was whole and uninjured once again, the flicker-flash of the phase-shift transport fading into the gloom.

  He heard Nog bite down on a gasp and looked past him to where Tom and Ashur were crouching. They too were fighting off the pain induced by the transport. The four of them had rematerialized deep inside the former mining facility, close to a power source that Nog had identified as a force-field generator. It seemed highly likely that the generator unit was part of a detention system, and Tuvok gave the command to investigate.

  Now, as he surveyed the area, he believed the hypothesis had been correct. They were under one of the complex’s aging domes, the cracked hyperpolymer sections of the structure overhead blackened by machine emissions and the ravages of the planet’s wounded ecosystem. Raised catwalks and gantries formed a suspended highway across what had once been refining pits and ore crushers. Most of the larger pieces of machinery were gone now, leaving stubs of connector conduits dangling from walls or sprouting from the thermoconcrete floors. In the shadow of corroding metal frames, crude slabs of drab Klingon technology—energy baffles and power generators—had been retrofitted to allow the facility to perform another function.

  “Patrol coming,” whispered Nog, and he dropped low behind the cover of a fallen exhaust pipe.

  Tuvok and the others followed suit. The Vulcan saw a trio of Klingon guards emerge from a tunnel in the floor and march in a ragged line across the vast chamber. They were from the same group he had seen outside when the Snipe landed. He noted the style of their battle armor, the manner of their weapons. Although they were Klingons, these were mercenaries without loyalty to any noble house, a stripe of dishonored warriors who would be shunned by their martial betters elsewhere.

  Tuvok considered them, turning over Ashur’s words in his thoughts. The ghost prison, the soldiers of f
ortune, the covert nature of it all . . . There was no doubt in his mind that Nydak II was a desolate holding belonging to Imperial Intelligence, the Klingon Empire’s secret police and espionage directorate. Some said that Imperial Intelligence held more power in the Empire than the chancellor, the High Council, and the noble houses combined. Governments would come and go, but they were eternal; it troubled Tuvok greatly to consider what part the shadowy agency might be playing in this unfolding drama.

  The guards vanished through a hatch, and as it clanged shut, Tuvok broke from cover and signaled the others. Staying low, hugging the deep, ink-black shadows cast by the gantries, the group threaded their way toward a former smelting chamber that had been repurposed as a brig.

  A number of adjoining metal cargo cages, once used for gathering useless slag from the ore-refining process, were now cells. Each one was held shut with a glowing blue mechanism fixed across the open face, a magnetic lock making escape impossible. Power units haloed the cells, connected by thick cables that snaked up toward a wide platform above. There was a guard room up there, and Tuvok glimpsed movement inside.

  Tom was observing the same through a data-monocle over his right eye. “Scanning with infrared. Just one up there. I can take him out of play.”

  Two more Klingons were standing near the iron cages. “Proceed,” said Tuvok. “We will deal with the others.”

  The human split off from the group and found a ladder that would take him to the upper tier. Tuvok beckoned Ashur and Nog to follow him.

  As they came closer, Tuvok heard the two Klingons talking; they were sharing rough humor at the expense of their Cardassian prisoners who sat a few meters away from them on the gridded floors of their enclosures.

  “No alarms,” said Tuvok quietly.

  Tom’s attack was the signal; there was a distant clatter of something falling, up in the guard room, and then without warning the power to the locks died with a fizzing crackle. The guards reacted, but Tuvok, Nog, and Ashur had already exploded from their concealment.

  Ashur moved with surprising speed for one of his body mass, and he performed a running leap that threw him directly onto the shoulders of the first guard. There was the glitter of dull light off a shimmerknife blade before the Zeon plunged it into the Klingon’s throat, down through his clavicle. The guard stumbled to the ground, dying as he fell.

  The other Klingon swung toward Nog, ripping a long-barreled disruptor pistol from his holster. It was a grave error on the part of the guard, choosing the less dangerous of the two attackers coming at him. In two quick footsteps, Tuvok was on the Klingon, and he performed a flawless leg-sweep. The second guard went down, and the Vulcan expertly intercepted him, chopping the blade of his hand down across the soft tissues of the Klingon’s exposed throat. Gasping and starved of air, the second guard was unconscious before he hit the dirt.

  Nog grimaced at Ashur as the Zeon wiped purple blood from his blade and moved toward the cells.

  A Cardassian woman with ragged, shoulder-length hair and a male whose scarred scalp was shorn were in the process of kicking open the gates of their rusted cages. The third prisoner was already free; Onar Throk had found a length of steel rebar and brandished it like a sword.

  “Heybis! Vekt!” he shouted, calling out their names. “Quickly!”

  Nog held up a hand. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

  “Lies,” spat Throk. “I knew your Federation was corrupt and decadent, but your cruelty is even greater than I could have expected! It is not enough you take us as your prisoners, but you use your Klingon lackeys to tear at our minds! I regret nothing I have done to harm your people, nothing!”

  “We did not want this,” Tuvok told him, calm in the face of Throk’s thunderous anger. “You were brought here unlawfully.”

  Nog gave a stiff nod. “No matter what crimes you have committed . . .” It was hard for him to say the next words. “You still have your rights to a fair trial.”

  Throk laughed bitterly. “You may choke on your rights and your fair trials! We wish none of it!” He shook his head. “No matter what you do to us, we will give you nothing, do you hear? Nothing!”

  “Tuvok . . .” Ashur called out from behind him. “See.” The Vulcan turned to see the Zeon pointing with his combat blade.

  From out of the shadows came Sahde, the Elloran female walking with a casual swagger. In one hand she gripped a phaser, toying with it as she moved closer. “Are you having fun without me?” She directed the question toward Nog.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Ashur. He shot a look at Nog. “I thought she was on the ship.”

  Tuvok slowly reached up and tapped the communicator bead in his ear. “Mister Riker? Respond, please.” He waited for an answer.

  “I figured out what you were doing,” said Sahde. “I followed you.” She glanced at Ashur and flashed a disarming smile. “So. Prison break? That could be interesting.”

  “Tom isn’t answering,” said Nog. “Something is wrong.”

  “The Elloran is lying to us,” Ashur said with finality. He brought up his blade. “She—”

  “She really is,” Sahde snapped, cutting him off. Before the Zeon could react, she turned her pistol on him and fired. Bright crimson fire enveloped the mercenary, and before he could scream, his body became a blaze of light—and then nothing.

  * * *

  Nog’s throat tightened. All that was left of Ashur was the brief tang of ozone in the cold air of the dome, and he stifled the urge to cough. He was very aware of the Zeon’s killer now turning her gaze—and her phaser—on him.

  Her lizard-like eyes bored into his. “I didn’t like Ashur,” she announced. “He talked too much.”

  “So you killed him?” Nog gasped.

  “Not just for that reason,” she said mildly. “I like you, Nog, but you’ll end up the same way if you don’t drop that weapon you’re holding.” Sahde waved her gun at the group. “Anyone else want to go out as a wisp of vapor and free atoms?”

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Tuvok.

  “Because I’m getting a good weight of gold-pressed latinum for my trouble, and now that Ashur is dead, I’ll take his share as well.”

  Figures moved in the shadows behind Sahde, hulking Klingon warriors surrounding a smaller female form in a hooded tunic. Nog saw slender fingers reach up, and Lieutenant Colonel Kincade showed her face.

  Kincade looked no different from the way she had the last time they had spoken, but in some indefinable way she had changed inside. It was almost as if he were looking at a different spirit possessing her body, a totally new persona looking out at him through those dark eyes. Kincade’s gaze was callous and bereft of any warmth, with a shallowness of effect that seemed chilling. “Do as Sahde says,” she snapped. “Or you’ll die where you stand.”

  “As you wish.” Tuvok let his weapon drop to the dirt, and Nog reluctantly did the same. He couldn’t help but tense for a blow to come a moment later, and a nerve jumped in his leg; it was a faint tingle of phantom pain from where his old wound had been, the damage done to him during the Dominion War.

  Kincade watched Nog as a predator would watch a prey animal. All of a sudden it came to him that it was not that she had changed, but that she had simply let a disguise drop away. The woman he had dealt with over the past few days aboard the Snipe had been the falsehood. What he saw now was the real Jan Kincade. “I wondered how long it would take you to try something like this. You moved more quickly than I expected.”

  Another pair of Klingons arrived, dragging Tom Riker’s unconscious form between them. They dumped him roughly on the ground and snatched up the weapons from where they had been tossed. Tuvok didn’t wait for any kind of permission, and he dropped into a crouch, examining the human.

  “He lives,” reported the commander.

  “For now,” added Sahde out the side of her mouth. “So, what do we do with them now that we know who can’t be trusted?” She grinned unpleasantly. “I mean, we only really n
eed that Bolian wench. . . .”

  “The Bynars are with me,” Kincade spoke over her. “We’ve worked together before; they’re loyal. I’ll find a convincing way to compel Ixxen to do her job, and the Suliban will do what I tell him.” She looked back toward Nog and the others.

  “If we don’t need these three, then what point is there in keeping them alive?” The Elloran seemed delighted by the idea of more killing.

  “You cannot sanction the execution of Starfleet officers and Federation civilians in cold blood,” Tuvok said, matter-of-fact and severe.

  Kincade’s lips thinned. “Don’t be obtuse, Tuvok,” she replied, pausing to think. “I have to check in with control,” she said to the Elloran. “There may be other uses for them. Keep them alive in the meantime.”

  Sahde made a motion with the weapon in her hand, nodding to the guards. “You heard the colonel. Put them in the cages with the rest of the prisoners.”

  The Klingons advanced, a wall of snarling faces and armor plates, and Nog watched as the last shreds of Tuvok’s plan disintegrated in front of him.

  * * *

  Deanna Troi sat across the briefing-room table from Julian Bashir, the doctor’s head haloed by warp-light as the Lionheart raced toward Andoria. Visible over his shoulder was the flat hull of the Mat-Rus, the warship keeping pace with the Nova-class cruiser at high cruise speed. She couldn’t see Envoy ch’Nuillen’s courier from this angle, but it was out there, too, following in their superluminal wake.

  What struck her the most was how guarded Bashir was. She had never met the man before today, but his reputation preceded him. Troi had heard stories from Beverly Crusher and Alyssa Ogawa about his abilities. Both were clearly impressed with his achievements; from their descriptions, she had expected to meet a man of suave character and self-assurance. Instead he was circumspect and inward-looking, as if he were bearing a load that no one else could shoulder.

  Instinctively, her counselor’s training took over, and she leaned forward. “What can I do to help?”