Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice

by James Swallow

  “Transporter three here, sir.”

  “Be ready, Bowen. We may require a snatch-and-grab.” Riker turned back to Pazlar. “Melora, can we—”

  “Captain!” The cry came from Lieutenant Pava sh’Aqabaa, currently standing Tuvok’s post at the tactical station. “I mean Admiral! Aspect change on Martok’s ships; they’re locking onto the Snipe, going weapons hot!”

  “Confirmed,” said Dakal. “The freighter is responding in kind.”

  Riker didn’t stop to consider if that was a foolish or brave thing, and he looked to Ssura. “Lieutenant, warn them off. That’s a civilian ship.”

  The Caitian’s whiskers twitched in agitation. “I hear the same reply as before, sir. ‘There will be no traces of this dishonor.’ ”

  Riker went to his feet, his jaw hardening. He imagined that the chancellor had given standing orders to eradicate anything that could connect the Klingons to the assassination. He would not risk damaging the Empire’s alliance with the Federation, and he could discredit General Shaniq at the same time. It would be win-win for him.

  He turned to Ssura’s console and jabbed the transmit key. “Attention, Klingon vessels: This is Admiral William Riker. We need that ship in one piece! Stand down!”

  A snarling voice filled the bridge. “You have no authority here, Riker. Rescue your people and go. This is a Klingon matter now.”

  Bright lances of fire stabbed out across the space beyond the viewscreen, connecting the Snipe with the warships. “They’re engaging,” called Rager. “Sir, what do we do? Those are Qang-class vessels; we can’t go toe-to-toe with a pair of them.”

  “Take us in closer,” Riker ordered. “We’ll crowd them.”

  The Titan rocked as a stray disruptor bolt creased the shields, sending a shiver through the vessel’s hull.

  “Let’s not pretend that was an accident,” said Pava.

  “Do not return fire,” Riker told her. “We’re in enough trouble as it is.”

  “The Snipe is shooting back,” said Rager. “They’re scoring hits, but that’s only going to make the Klingons madder. . . .”

  On the screen, Riker saw the slab-shaped transport ship move too fast for a barge of its type and design. Pop-up phaser turrets were lighting up the shields of the Klingon ships, but in return the freighter was taking a beating. A salvo of quantum torpedoes detonated in a chain-fire blast, and the Snipe veered away, trailing plasma and pieces of hull.

  “Snipe’s shields are down, their hull integrity is at sixty percent,” said Melora.

  “Klingons are coming around,” reported Dakal. “Sir, the next pass will finish off the freighter.”

  Riker tapped his combadge. “Radowski? Now’s the time.”

  * * *

  “No pressure, then,” muttered the lieutenant, peering at his console. “Admiral, those quantum detonations have thrown up a lot of interference. I’ll only be able to pull them out one by one. . . .”

  “Do your best, mister,” came Riker’s reply.

  “My best, yeah . . .” Bowen’s hands danced across the transporter controls, falling onto the main activation switches. “I’m locking onto the Starfleet transponder first, that’s the strongest signal . . . And energizing.”

  He had barely said the words before the deck beneath him rolled, and Radowski almost lost his footing. He snatched at the edge of the console and held on for the half-second before the Titan’s inertial dampers could right themselves and resume stability. With his other hand, the transporter chief forced the sliders back up the line, and on the pad, a column of blue-white light started to form.

  “Transporter room.” The admiral sounded as if he was standing beside him. “We’re right in the crossfire; the Snipe is breaking up!”

  Radowski’s heart leapt into his mouth. Sensors said there were half a dozen souls on that ship—and he only had his hands around one of them. He knew he could quit the beam cycle and restart the process in a heartbeat, maybe try a broad-spectrum snatch or a skeletal lock in hopes of scooping them all up in one go. . . . But the risk level went through the roof for that. There was a good chance he could lose everyone like that. But if he took this one person all the way, he wouldn’t be able to try again. He knew that now; he could see the fading sensor reads on all the others. It was taking all the power from every transport circuit on the Titan just to hold on to one decaying signal.

  No, he reminded himself, not a signal. A person. One Starfleet officer.

  Radowski went at the controls with renewed impetus, cross-patching the matter stream to B- and then C-circuits, boosting the gain as he went. Sweat beaded his brow, but finally the pitch of the transport effect shifted, and he knew he had it. He dared to look up.

  The white glow faded to reveal a blue-skinned Bolian woman in a threadbare civilian jumpsuit. She was injured, dark cerulean blood forming a patch in her abdomen. Bowen snatched the medkit from behind the console and bounded up onto the pad. “Medical emergency, transporter room three!” he shouted.

  He caught her as she fell and saw the nametag on her breast. Ixxen, Y. “Hello there,” she said, her voice slurred from shock. The Bolian’s hand flapped over his tunic. “Hey,” she added, “nice uniform. I have one just like it.” Her eyes fluttered, and she fell silent.

  “Radowski, do you have them?”

  “One, sir, injured but alive,” he said, gathering up the woman with a low sigh. The weight he felt on him had nothing to do with how heavy she was. “I have her.”

  * * *

  “Damn!” Riker looked away from the expanding ball of plasma that was all that remained of the Snipe. The Klingon warships broke off and pivoted, heading down toward lower orbits that would put them directly over the surface of Nydak II.

  “Confirming, freighter destroyed with all . . .” Lavena stopped and took a breath. “Destroyed with all hands but one,” she corrected.

  “Chancellor Martok’s ships are taking up geostationary firing positions,” added Dakal. “They’re targeting the structures on the planet below.”

  “No traces,” Riker repeated gravely.

  “Sir . . .” Ssura glanced up at the admiral. “Shuttlecraft Marsalis has been safely recovered. No fatalities reported.”

  Riker turned back to the main viewscreen as fire began to rain down from the Klingon warships, burning into the clouds and whatever lay beneath them. “I think we’ve worn out our welcome here. Lieutenant Lavena, set a course back across the border to Federation space, best possible speed.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I think it’s time to go home and face the music.”

  Fifteen

  Deanna Troi halted as she walked along the corridor and crossed to an oval portal in the Lionheart’s hull. The orbit of the starship was crossing Andoria’s day/night terminator, and as she watched, the star Epsilon Indi rose and bathed the cobalt blue planet with a cool, sharp radiance. Unlike the deep azure of the oceans on the two worlds she thought of as her spiritual homes—Earth and Betazed—Andoria’s were the milky color of sea ice or rare blue jade. Beyond the planet, a massive ringed gas giant caught the reflected glow, and if she looked carefully, Troi could see the faint flickers of storm cells deep in the layers of its turbulent atmosphere.

  Other motes of light moved in the darkness: starships of the Imperial Guard, martial and swift in their aspect. They resembled swords, daggers, and shields, and the implied threat in their construction wasn’t lost on her. Lionheart seemed isolated and alone here, shadowed by the ships of a people that should have been thinking of Starfleet as friends and allies.

  They don’t trust us, she thought, and who can blame them? When the Andorians eventually rejoined the United Federation of Planets, even with the cure to their species’ reproductive crisis in hand, it would still take a long time for that distrust to fade. But today is a step in the right direction.

  One of the ships drifted close to the medical cruiser—the ambassadorial courier Kree-Thai in the midst of preparations to make the return voyage to
Sol, now that its most recent mission was completed. Envoy ch’Nuillen was still needed at the seat of Federation power to make his people’s wishes firmly felt. Troi’s meager luggage pack hung from her shoulder, and she was eager to board the Andorian ship herself. She missed Tasha desperately and couldn’t help but wonder how her daughter was faring in the care of the Togren family back on Earth; she had been left with little choice but to leave her child behind in the Denobulan’s safekeeping. Dragging a four-year-old girl along on what had almost become a prison break would not have been an example of good parenting, and she comforted herself with that.

  She stepped away and entered a transporter room to find Julian Bashir waiting inside, with Christine Vale and Commander Atia standing with him.

  That same troubled expression Troi had seen on him in the briefing room still marred Bashir’s features. “Well,” he began. “I suppose this is good-bye.” He extended a hand to Troi. “Commander, thank you again for all you have done for me. I’m sorry I couldn’t reciprocate.”

  Vale and Atia exchanged looks but said nothing, so Troi ventured a reply as she shook his hand. “I think we all understand the circumstances, Doctor. The important thing is that you have your freedom.”

  “For now,” he corrected. “Lieutenant Commander Darrah brought me up to speed on the political situation back on Earth. . . . I think if Ishan Anjar wins the presidency, my stay on Andor will be quite short-lived.”

  “If he wins,” Troi repeated.

  “Extradition requests take a while,” said Vale. “A lot of things can change in that time.”

  Troi sensed the frustration in him. “And what are you going to return to?” he asked. “I know you all risked a great deal for me. Please don’t think I’m not grateful.”

  “Gratitude not required,” Atia answered for all of them. “The worth of the deed . . . is the deed.”

  Bashir reached into a pocket in his tunic and removed an isolinear chip. “I’d like to ask for just one more favor, if I may?”

  Vale took the chip and examined it. “And this is?”

  “There’s a message on there, for someone very important to me.”

  “Sarina Douglas?” asked Troi, sensing the ghost of strong emotions in Bashir’s surface thoughts.

  He nodded, and Vale handed the chip to Atia. “Not a problem, Doctor. We’ll see that she gets it.”

  Bashir took a step toward the transporter dais but hesitated on the threshold, and Troi sensed his reluctance to take the last few steps. Once he has left this ship, he’s an outcast. “Don’t worry, Julian,” she told him. “This won’t be permanent. You’ll come home again.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” he told her. “It’s just under what circumstances that troubles me. I broke the law, there’s no getting around it, and it’s not that I regret what I have done. I accept it. But it needs to mean something.”

  “It does,” Vale reminded him gently. “You helped save a species from extinction. I’m pretty sure they’ll have a parade waiting for you down there.”

  “Really?” Bashir’s lips pulled into a faint smile. “I hadn’t thought . . .”

  “ ‘Bashir’s Miracle,’ ” said Troi. “That’s what they’re calling it on Andor.”

  “I can’t take the credit,” he insisted. “I didn’t do it alone. . . .”

  There was a chime from the transporter console, and the thin-faced Edoan officer standing there peered down at it. “Signal from the Kree-Thai. Diplomatic team is incoming.”

  “Bring to place,” ordered Atia.

  The Edoan’s head bobbed on his long neck, and motes of energy gathered on the pad, swiftly forming into the distinct shapes of an Imperial honor guard and an older Andorian woman in elegant robes.

  “Doctor Bashir?” she asked. “I am Savaaroa sh’Nuillen, bondmate to the envoy. He has asked me to introduce you to the Parliament Andoria and to our people.” The shen offered Bashir her hand. “It is my honor to meet you. Please, if you will join us?”

  “The honor is mine, madam,” he said smoothly, and Troi saw confidence return to his manner as he stepped up onto the pad.

  “Coordinates locked for Lor’Vela,” said the transporter operator.

  Bashir gave them one last smile of farewell before he nodded to the Edoan. “Energize.”

  The group shimmered into white pillars of light and was gone.

  Troi watched the glow fade, musing. “My turn now, then.” She stepped up to where Bashir had been standing. “The envoy has graciously offered me a lift.”

  “Not just you,” said Vale. She turned to Atia and straightened, becoming formal in her behavior. “Commander, as much as I regret it, I think this is as far as I can take the Lionheart before I risk flying her over the edge. As of now, the ship is yours.”

  The Magna Romanii woman’s normally controlled, careful aspect cracked, and she was genuinely surprised. “You have certainty in this?”

  “I do,” Vale replied firmly, tapping her combadge. “Computer? Log the date and time. Command of the Starship Lionheart is now transferred to Commander Atia, acting captain.”

  “So noted.”

  “I . . . relieve you.” Atia was hesitant.

  “I stand relieved,” said Vale. “Very relieved, actually. My first command was a pretty good one. I wish it could have been longer. Captain Ainsworth is going to inherit a fine crew.”

  “We will fall to purpose,” Atia promised. “But question must be asked. Why now? Is there not more to do? With the traitor Maslan in irons and likely others of his ilk still out there upon the field?”

  Vale nodded. “True. But you’ve done more than enough. And I’m not going to put this ship and this crew at greater risk. Like Bashir said, I’m going to have to answer for what I did, for the orders I gave you. . . . But unlike him, I can’t outrun it.”

  “True,” noted Atia. “Would it trouble you to know Darrah and I kept orders for arrest from your attention?”

  “My arrest?” Vale’s eyes widened.

  “Aye.” Atia smiled. “Orders seemed to have arrived after you left. Inconvenient timing.”

  Vale walked up to join Troi on the transporter pad. “Lock onto the Kree-Thai and send us across,” she told the Edoan.

  Atia stood at stiff attention and gave them both a nod. “Duty is known clearly now,” she told them. “Tell Admiral Riker he need only speak and Lionheart will answer call.”

  “Energize,” said Troi, and their journey back into uncertainty began.

  * * *

  The door closed behind him, and Admiral William Riker looked into the haunted eyes of his own ghost, seated there at the far end of the Titan’s briefing room.

  “William,” said the other man, with an incline of the head.

  “Thomas,” Riker replied, and immediately he flashed a contrite grin. “Tell me something; did that feel as strange to you as it did to me?”

  “More so,” said Tom. “It’s good to see you. You look well. I guess congratulations are in order for the promotion and . . .” His twin gestured around. “Everything else.”

  Was that a slight edge of jealousy he caught in the other man’s tone? Riker decided not to dwell on it and took a seat across from his “brother.” “I’m glad you’re alive,” he said, and he meant it. “After the Dominion War, you just vanished. . . .”

  Tom nodded. “I stayed dead for a while. It didn’t take.”

  Riker had a hundred questions he wanted to put to the other man, but so many of them had nothing to do with the matter at hand. He took a breath and pushed those to one side, focusing on what was immediately important. “How did you get pulled into this business with Active Four? I’ve read Tuvok’s report. . . . Soldier of fortune never really seemed your style.”

  “You’d be surprised what choices you have to make when the best options are all closed to you.” The resentment again, just for a moment. Tom sighed. “The truth is, I was running out of road, and Kincade happened to find me at the right time.” He look
ed away. “Everyone who believes in what the Federation stands for was angry about Nan Bacco’s murder. Kincade offered me a chance to regain something and to do some good. I took it.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “Not much. Rumors that filtered out of the special-ops community. If half of them were true, it’s a wonder she hadn’t been drummed out of Starfleet before this. Even Section 31 would balk at some of the things laid at her feet. I didn’t believe the stories myself; perhaps that was naïve of me. . . . But maybe she had a guardian angel looking out for her, keeping her in uniform.” Riker let Tom’s implication lie where it fell, and after a moment, he carried on. “At first I didn’t look too hard at it. But then when Tuvok and Nog joined the team, and we saw it was Velk calling the shots, that’s when I started to wonder about why Kincade had recruited me specifically.”

  Riker had entertained the same thoughts on learning about his transporter twin’s involvement in Active Four, but he let Tom say it for him.

  “In the end, I think it was less about my skills, as good as they are, and more about this.” He pointed at his face. “Now I know that you’re involved, I’m certain of it.”

  Riker nodded gravely. There was no limit to the number of troubling possibilities for the exploitation of a man who was essentially an exact duplicate of a Starfleet admiral. “Thanks to Martok’s warriors and Kincade’s actions, all I have is you and three other witnesses to the existence of Active Four and their mission. Every viable piece of proof of the True Way’s apparent involvement in the murder of President Bacco is gone, as is anything that could prove that Galif jav Velk was aggressively attempting to manipulate that information. Beyond some circumstantial evidence and partial data, we’ve lost our chance to blow this open. . . .”

  Tom returned the nod. “If word gets out that Cardassians killed Bacco, there will be hell to pay. It won’t matter if they’re extremists or not. And all the hawks lined up at Ishan Anjar’s shoulder won’t be happy if they can’t pin this on the Typhon Pact.” He folded his arms. “And then there’s the question of how far it goes. Is Velk at the top of this or not? Did he make it happen?”