Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice

by James Swallow

  At the head of the table, Christine Vale caught her eye and frowned. “Deanna, you’ve already gone above and beyond the call. . . .” She gave an apologetic smile. “Honestly? I didn’t think any of that was going to work.”

  Bashir was toying with a small medallion that the envoy had pressed into his hands, a rendition of his clan’s sigil. “It was an unexpected turn of events,” he offered, managing a weak smile of his own. “I must admit, I didn’t expect to wake up with a new extended family today.”

  “Andorians don’t do anything by halves,” said Vale.

  The doctor met Troi’s gaze for the first time. “Commander Troi, ch’Nuillen made it clear that you were the one who brought all this together. Thank you for what you’ve done.” He shook his head. “I had resigned myself to spending the rest of my days in that little cell.”

  “It wasn’t just me,” Troi told him. “Christine had the idea.”

  “Actually, Ezri Dax set me thinking on it,” Vale noted. “Call it a group effort.”

  Bashir’s frown deepened at the mention of Captain Dax’s name. “Is she all right? And what about Simon Tarses and Lieutenant sh’Pash? They risked a lot to free me from the Aventine’s brig.”

  Vale nodded. “They’re as well as can be expected, given what they did. But now we have you out of that damned oubliette, we can start on trying to get Dax and the rest of the Andor Five out into the public eye.”

  “That’s what they’re calling us?” Bashir seemed incredulous. “Catchy.”

  “The story hasn’t gone away,” Troi noted, “even with everything else that’s been happening in the meantime.”

  He listened, and nodded. “I’ve been out of the loop for a little while. What did I miss?”

  “Short version? Andor’s pushing hard to return to the UFP, and that’s going to happen, whether Ishan Anjar likes it or not. Kellessar zh’Tarash has announced her candidacy for the presidency. Elim Garak swept to victory on Cardassia—”

  For a brief moment, Bashir’s morose mien fell, and he showed a genuine flash of delight. “That’s excellent news! I knew we’d make an honest man of him someday.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Vale’s lip curled. “He is still a politician.”

  Troi picked up the thread of the conversation. “In the meantime, Admiral Akaar and a few of us have been investigating suspicious activity within Starfleet Command and the Federation Council.”

  “Activity connected to the Bacco assassination and the Andor incident,” added Vale. “Both may be connected in some way to abuses of executive power within the pro tem government, but so far we don’t have anything we can prove.”

  “That is troubling,” Bashir offered, looking away.

  Troi went on. “When you reach Andor, you’ll effectively be in exile. There will be investigators who will want to talk to you, but anything you can tell us now, we can pass back to Akaar.”

  He didn’t meet her gaze, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Commander . . . it’s been a very long day for me. I’m quite fatigued. . . .” He trailed off.

  Vale nodded. “We understand. Doctor Rssuu suggested you visit sickbay so he could check you over. Perhaps we should postpone this until later. . . .”

  But Troi was shaking her head, sensing the barriers around Bashir’s thoughts and feelings. What is he hiding? “Doctor . . . Julian. You’re among friends here. A lot of people put themselves on the line to get you away from that asteroid. The Andorians, the crew of this ship, Captain Dax, and Lieutenant Commander Douglas . . .”

  “Sarina . . .” Again, the barriers briefly slipped, but then they slammed down even more firmly. “Of course. She wouldn’t stand by and watch. . . .”

  Troi watched him carefully. “We need the full truth from you. Not just what happened, but everything around it. Everything you suspect, everything you think could be a clue to what is really going on back on Earth, in the corridors of power.”

  Bashir got to his feet. “I can’t give you that. I’m sorry. I’ll . . . I’ll be in sickbay.” He left the room and did not look back.

  Vale shook her head slowly. “What just happened there?”

  “I don’t know,” Troi said honestly. “He’s afraid . . . but not for himself.”

  * * *

  What passed for night fell on Nydak II, and the air in the detention chamber became cold and stagnant. In the cage next to his, Tuvok watched Lieutenant Nog dozing fitfully up against the bars, snatching a moment of rest where he could. Thomas Riker had his back to the door of his cell, and Tuvok could not tell in what state he was.

  For his part, the Vulcan did not currently require sleep, using a disciplinary meme to concentrate his thoughts and moderate the effects of fatigue. The Klingons had left them to their own devices, retreating to the guard room on the upper level, but not before setting up a portable automated disruptor turret at the throat of the chamber. The device panned right and left in an endless cycle of motion, watchful for any sign of movement inside its kill zone. Tuvok had already calculated that it would be capable of gunning down any potential escapees before they had taken ten steps from their cages.

  He turned and found Onar Throk watching him from the next cell along; his two companions, the woman Heybis and the bald male Vekt, shared the next pair of cages. The Cardassian’s intense, hooded gaze was unblinking and cold, full of sour hatred.

  “I should thank you,” said Throk, his voice low so it would not carry far. Tuvok raised his eyebrow, and the assassin went on. “After you sent the Klingons to kill us on that ice moon, I did not need more proof of the Federation’s rotting heart, but still you gave it to me.”

  “You are referring to my imprisonment here, with you.”

  “How does it feel, Vulcan? To know that your world allied itself with an entity that builds its power on secret lies and insidious manipulation?”

  Tuvok cocked his head. “I find it difficult to accept such a judgment from a member of Cardassian society. Until very recently, your Union based its power structure on those very things.”

  Throk gave a derisive snort. “I can see how an alien might be so mistaken. If you are not born Cardassian, you cannot know Cardassian ways. And yet, you and others like you think you have the right to change us to fit your patterns.” He grimaced. “First the Dominion, and now your Federation. Each an invader coming to us with iron wrapped in velvet. Each intent on burning out the soul of Cardassia.” Throk shifted his weight, coming closer to the bars of his cage, lessening the distance between them. “You still do not understand. You have looked me in the eye, and still the question vexes you. Why did they strike at us? After all we have given them. After all we have done to raise their world from the ashes, why attack our leader?”

  “You blame the Federation for the misfortunes of your species,” said Tuvok.

  “Imbecile!” Throk spat the word back at him with such venom that the Vulcan almost recoiled. “You are cattle, just like the Bajorans! You want the simple answer, the solution that eases your mind. That is why your government finds it so easy to manipulate you. On Cardassia, we knew that our leaders were using us. And we in turn used them, each of us part of a decrepit machine that ran on influence and falsehood. One component locked to the other in symbiosis. . . . But we understood, you see? We played our roles and smiled at the lies because we knew that was how the machine worked. But we never truly believed, not in our hearts.” He pointed at Tuvok. “You believe.” Throk made it a grave insult. “I would pity you if I did not hate you so much.”

  “The United Federation of Planets is a democracy,” insisted Tuvok. “A society of rules and laws—”

  “So says the man sitting inside a reeking cage on a poisoned world.” Throk gestured at the air. “Look around, Commander. This is the domain of your trusted allies. A pit for the dead and the nameless. The men in your government walk spotless before your citizens, hiding their mendacity where you cannot see it among the barbarism of the Klingons.”

  “And
so you conspired to commit murder because you hold that to be true.”

  “I am not a murderer,” Throk shot back. “I am a patriot. You weakened our race with your hollow gestures of friendship. The woman Bacco . . .” He scowled again. “She blinded that fool Garan with promises, eroding our independence with every word spoken of treaty and friendship. The die was cast. Our freedom was to be sold cheaply in the name of partnership, setting us on the road to being subsumed by the Federation . . . until we were one more pathetic member-world, one more star upon their roundel.” Tuvok saw a chilling and unflinching certainty in Throk’s eyes. “Cardassia must stand alone in all things. That is the lesson history has taught us. Alliance breeds weakness; it opens the door to greed and sloth. The True Way knows that. We had to take steps. We had to break you, yes? A deed of magnitude that all the galaxy would see clearly. And if we did not have ships with which to go to war, then we used the weapons we did have.”

  He was looking down at his aged hands, and Tuvok wondered if the former official was remembering the moment when he fired the killing shot. “What you did, sir, was not an act of war. It was terrorism.”

  “We hate you all so much,” Throk spat. “And you cannot feel it. A Vulcan at least has an excuse, bled dry of passion and fire. But the rest of your mighty ‘coalition’? The Federation thinks all beings aspire to be part of your great and good; you cannot comprehend that we would wish otherwise!” He was at the bars of his cage now, and Tuvok suspected that if he could have, Throk might have reached across the space between them to strike blows on the Vulcan out of sheer spite.

  “That is not so. You cast the Federation as the source of all your ills because it is a convenient scapegoat. You confuse hate with fear. You and those who share your isolationist beliefs in the True Way are unwilling to accept the hand of friendship when it is offered. You would rather lash out in anger than accept help from a former enemy. It is illogical.”

  Throk shook his head. “This is your arrogance! To speak as if you know us! Let me tell you why you are so loathed, Commander. It is not just in the name of all these things, the worthless treaty and the diminishment of Cardassia. We hate you because your bright, shining Federation is rotting within.” He laughed. “Ask yourself why it was so easy for me to put your president in my sights.” Throk mimed aiming a weapon. “Your people helped us, Vulcan. It was they who reached out to the True Way.”

  The dark possibilities that had plagued Tuvok’s thoughts over the duration of the mission now came rushing forward with the Cardassian’s words. Even now, after all that had taken place, after the revelation of Kincade’s actions, he had hoped that on some level there could be another explanation for what was going on. He felt the faintest echo of an emotion, out on the horizon of his self—desolation. But then it was gone, pushed away. “Who helped you?” he demanded.

  “The Tellarite,” Throk sneered. “He gave the information we needed, the identity of that Bajoran sow Enkar to throw your investigators off the trail. I made him show me his face before I agreed to the act.” He took bleak relish from Tuvok’s reaction. “That is why he sent you after us, that is why you and I are here now. We both saw his face, Vulcan. We cannot be allowed to tell of it.” He looked away, his bluster fading. “I regret nothing I have done. The deed will have its way, and others will take up the fight. Your Federation has been shown weak, and Cardassia will see the blood. It may take years, but we are a patient people. You will crumble, but eternal Cardassia will still remain.”

  Tuvok saw an opening and seized it. “No. If you truly did assassinate the President of the United Federation of Planets as an act of defiance, then that deed has no meaning. If we are to perish here, then the name of Onar Throk will be lost, and there will be no record of you.”

  Throk shook his head. “They will know. The truth will be out. . . . The True Way will not forget.”

  “The voice of the True Way will not matter,” Tuvok countered. “You desired the assassination to be an act of Cardassian resolve, but the galaxy will see a different culprit. Tzenkethi DNA was found in the investigation on Deep Space Nine. Enkar Sirsy’s name was cleared, and the Typhon Pact has been implicated in Bacco’s death. The name of the True Way has not been spoken.”

  Throk’s lined face split in sudden fury. “You are lying!” His voice rose, the sound of it stirring the others.

  “I have no cause to,” he replied. “If we remain here, your crime will be forgotten, and the consequences turned toward another design.”

  “No! I will die before I allow that to happen!” The furious Cardassian pulled impotently at the bars of his cage.

  “That, I believe, is the intention,” Tuvok told him.

  * * *

  Over Julian’s head, a cluster of tree branches formed a canopy through which shone soft light from an illuminator strip. The dappled glow cast over him and across the walls of the small examination room was a reminder of sunshine and summer days back on Bajor—and all at once he felt a pang of regret about the planet that had become something of a second home to him in recent years. He was going to miss the green fields and the broad trees. They didn’t have much of that kind of summery landscape on Andoria. Bashir wondered how long it would take him to get tired of skiing and skating in the colder populated zones.

  He closed his eyes and let the scanner unit pass over his body. It was an automatic device, a thin arm emitting a yellow haze of energy, built into the side of the bio-bed beneath him. It moved up and down, up and down as it used passive sensors to peer into his flesh and bone. Bashir knew that he was in good condition—lack of outdoor exercise notwithstanding—as one of the subtle perks of his genetically improved physiology, but he soon realized it would be best to let Doctor Rssuu conduct the examination rather than argue with the Lahit. The Lionheart’s chief doctor was formidable in his own way, and Bashir was quietly impressed by the work he and his team had done on the medical cruiser: hospital duty at the Haze Plague outbreak on Cimarron, disaster relief in the Sigma Draconis sector. . . .

  With infinite patience, the tree-like being deflected his suggestions that a thorough examination was a waste of time, citing numerous examples and the need to make sure he hadn’t been mistreated under Commander Chessman’s care. Finally Bashir had conceded, taking to the compartment off the main sickbay while the process ran. He tried to make use of the time, tried to relax . . . and failed.

  He could still see Troi and Vale in his mind’s eye, the look on their faces as he had cut short their questions and made his excuses. His actions had to seem foolish to them, ungrateful even; they had liberated him from his confinement only to find that he was unwilling to talk about who had put him there. But it wasn’t a risk he wanted to take, not at this moment.

  He pushed those thoughts away, and it was Sarina Douglas he saw in their place. She too had dared much for him, he didn’t doubt it. Julian owed it to the woman he loved to let her know he had some freedom now, after a fashion—and perhaps together they could find some solution that would allow him to get past the silence Galif jav Velk’s threat had forced upon him.

  Bashir heard a footstep at the door and the rise of a low, resonant hum. Someone spoke. “If there were birds in the branches, you could almost make this place a park, don’t you think?”

  He opened his eyes and saw a young man with dark hair in a lieutenant’s uniform. He was carrying a tricorder in one hand, the source of the humming tone. “I suppose so. . . . Did Doctor Rssuu send you?” Bashir craned his neck to see past the lieutenant’s shoulder, out into the passage to the main sickbay.

  “No,” he said, putting down the tricorder on a nearby table. He walked to a locker on the far wall and opened it, removing a hypospray, which he proceeded to load with a drug ampoule. “This won’t take long.”

  Something in the officer’s behavior rang a wrong note, and Bashir pushed the scanner arm away, swinging round to sit up on the bio-bed. The noise from the tricorder was irritating him, and it seemed to be having a
similar effect on the tree branches above. Julian saw the tendrils that were part of Rssuu’s extended “body” shrink away, and the small flowering blossoms along the branches folded closed. “That sound . . .”

  “It’s duplicating a subsonic register from the Lahit homeworld,” said the lieutenant. “Generated by an insect that bores into their outlying branches to lay its eggs. It’s a sort of anesthetic sound wave, deadens their limbs and sensory clusters.”

  The tree-being’s form reached to all parts of the Lionheart’s infirmary, allowing the alien doctor to almost be everywhere at once. But now Rssuu is blind in here—

  Bashir spun as the lieutenant came at him with the loaded hypospray, blocking him before he could press the emitter head to his neck. The other man was stronger than he looked, and for a second, they were at a stalemate. Bashir forced the hypo away and up.

  The device discharged in his face, and he choked as aerosolized liquid sprayed over his cheek and eyes. It burned cold, and Bashir fell back off the bio-bed, clawing at his skin. He could already feel the drug load penetrating his tissues, numbing him. His vision became blurry and indistinct. He tried to call out, but all that escaped his lips was a wet gasp.

  “I was passing by, coming in to ask about my last check-up,” said the officer. “You called me in. You tried to escape, wanted to steal my combadge.” There was a rattle as he ejected the spent ampoule and loaded another. “You attacked me with this hypospray, trying to knock me out with a theragen dose. . . .”

  Bashir listened to his assailant rehearsing his story, struggling to get back to his feet. Theragen . . . He recognized the effects now; in small doses, the compound could cure interphase sickness, but at larger concentrations it acted as a lethal nerve toxin. Lurching forward, Bashir heard the endless humming of the tricorder from somewhere nearby.

  The lieutenant’s hazy form came closer. “We struggled. . . . The hypo accidentally discharged . . . and there was nothing to be done to save you.”

  With all the effort he could muster, Bashir threw himself across the examination room in the direction of the soporific hum, arms out, flailing wildly. Near-blinded by the spray in his eyes, he could only hope to succeed.