by Dayton Ward
“Behind you!” Konya yelled, already moving as another figure emerged from cover. Picard pushed Beverly back out of the way just as he heard another metallic crack, and this time he felt something whip past his left ear. That was the only shot the Andorian managed to get off before Konya reached him, the lieutenant swinging at the Andorian’s arm and sending his weapon up and out of the way. Konya stepped closer, gripping the shooter’s arm and pivoting to his left, yanking his opponent forward and over his hip. The Andorian was pulled off balance and crashed with a heavy thud to the floor. Twisting his attacker’s arm, Konya wrenched the weapon from his hand before driving a knee into the side of the Andorian’s head. There was a grunt of pain before his opponent went slack, and Konya released his arm, where it fell limply across the prone Andorian’s body.
Stepping forward, Picard regarded his two security officers. “Are you both all right?”
From where she knelt next to the Andorian she had dispatched, sh’Anbi said, “Yes, sir.” Beverly stepped toward the fallen Andorian, and the ensign added, “He’s only unconscious, Doctor.”
“Mine is, too,” Konya said, rising to his feet, “though he’ll probably have a headache for a few days.” He held up the weapon he had taken from his assailant. “Other than a knife, this is the only weapon he was carrying, sir.”
Moving closer, sh’Anbi offered Picard the weapon she had taken from her own opponent. “It looks like a tranquilizer, sir.” She held up a small cylinder, perhaps two centimeters in length. “I’ve seen these used by animal handlers, such as veterinarians and trained specialists at zoos. The weapon has a magazine that carries ten of these, and he was carrying two additional magazines. The projectile’s exterior casing is composed of an organic material that breaks down once introduced into the bloodstream.”
“A tranquilizer?” Beverly frowned. “Could be poisonous?”
Sh’Anbi shrugged. “Not normally, though it’s certainly possible, Doctor.”
“Seems like an awful lot of trouble just to kill us,” Konya said. “Even after disabling phasers and disruptors, they could’ve used any of a number of lethal weapons. I think they want to take us alive, sir.”
Examining the projectile sh’Anbi had given him, Picard shook his head. “They’re going to have to work a bit harder for that.”
Konya smiled. “Due respect, sir, but I like the way you think.”
“Captain Picard!”
Despite himself, Picard flinched at the sound of his name being shouted in the corridor, and he turned to see a trio of Andorians moving up the passage toward him. He tensed at the sight, relaxing only slightly upon realizing that all three wore the polished black leather uniforms of Homeworld Security, and that the apparent leader was the local brigade commander, Captain Eyatra ch’Zandi.
“Are you all right, Captain?” ch’Zandi asked as they drew closer. His eyes fell on the unconscious Andorians lying on the floor behind Picard, and he regarded the captain with concern. “Is anyone in your party injured?”
Picard shook his head. “No. Captain, what can you tell us?” As he spoke, one of ch’Zandi’s subordinates moved to inspect the fallen Andorian intruders.
“It appears that the Treishya have launched an assault on the parliament grounds,” ch’Zandi replied. “At least sixty, by our count, possibly more. They only seem interested in non-Andorian personnel, particularly you and your people, Captain. We need to get you to a secure location.”
“I need to verify the status of my people,” Picard countered, “and contact my ship. Our communications have been cut off.”
Nodding, ch’Zandi said, “Ours, as well. We’re operating under the assumption that the Treishya has assistance from someone on the grounds.”
“Probably the same people who disabled our security grid,” Beverly said.
“We can worry about that later, Captain,” ch’Zandi said. “I have orders to take you to Presider sh’Thalis’s secure bunker on the complex’s lower level.”
Taking Beverly by the arm, Picard said, “Very well, Captain.” Light reflected off the sidearm on ch’Zandi’s right hip as the Andorian turned to lead the way down the corridor, and Picard glanced at the holstered weapon. It took an extra second for him to realize that its handgrip was the same as the tranquilizer pistols the intruders had carried.
No.
Something clapped in the near-darkness and Picard heard a whimper of surprise from behind him. He turned to see one of the Andorian soldiers stumbling before he crashed into the nearby wall. To his left, he saw sh’Anbi, the weapon she had taken in her right hand as she crouched low, taking aim at the other soldier accompanying ch’Zandi.
“Jean-Luc!”
Picard heard Beverly’s shout of alarm at the same instant he sensed motion next to him. He ducked just before a blue fist sailed past his head, and ch’Zandi’s hand struck the wall. The Andorian grunted more from frustration than pain, drawing back his hand and reaching for the pistol on his hip. The weapon had not yet cleared the holster when Picard ran into him, forcing the Andorian backward until he slammed into the wall behind him. Reaching for the weapon, Picard rammed the heel of his other hand into ch’Zandi’s jaw, snapping back the Andorian’s head. Somewhere behind him he heard the now-familiar reports of at least two of the tranquilizer guns firing, but he ignored them as his hand wrapped around ch’Zandi’s own weapon and pulled it clear of its holster. Ch’Zandi released a howl of rage, his eyes burning with fury as he yanked his arm free and lunged toward Picard, raising a fist to strike. Then he jerked to an abrupt halt and Picard saw the dark stain on the Andorian’s neck where the tranquilizer had struck him.
Not waiting for the sedative to take effect, Picard lashed out with the pistol in his hand, striking ch’Zandi across the face. The Andorian drew back, wincing, and Picard pressed forward, knocking him backward until he tumbled off-balance to the floor.
Picard whirled at the sound of an anguished cry to see sh’Anbi kneeling next to Konya, who was lying on the floor and all but consumed by a series of spasms. His skin had gone pale and his eyes were wide with terror. “What happened?” Picard asked as Beverly moved to kneel beside the stricken lieutenant. Even in the dim light, the captain could see that sweat had broken out on Konya’s forehead despite the moderate temperature inside the vast meeting hall.
“He was hit,” Beverly said, reaching to where the small projectile had entered Konya’s left arm. She placed the first two fingers of her right hand against the side of the lieutenant’s throat. “Pulse is racing, and he’s got a fever. She reached for the tricorder secured to Konya’s waist and opened it, running it over the lieutenant’s body. “He’s having an allergic reaction to the sedative.”
“How bad is it?” Picard asked.
“It’s slow moving, but if we don’t treat him . . .” She looked up at Picard. “He probably has about ten minutes. I need a medkit, or sickbay.”
Despite his concern for the well-being of one of his officers, Picard forced training and experience to guide him. “Ensign sh’Anbi, where’s the nearest security checkpoint for our people?” He had to repeat the question before the young Andorian focused her attention on him.
“Section B7, sir,” she said, pointing past him. “About a hundred meters in that direction.”
Nodding, he pointed to Beverly and Konya. “Stay with them.”
“I can go, sir,” sh’Anbi countered.
“Stay here,” Picard said. “That’s an order. Watch out for other intruders, or any of our people. I’ll be right back.”
“Traitor.”
The single word, barely audible, stopped Picard just as he was turning to leave. Looking down, he saw the prone form of Captain ch’Zandi, who was glowering at sh’Anbi with unfettered hatred.
“What did you say?” sh’Anbi asked, her expression one of horrified disbelief.
Ch’Zandi’s eyelids fluttered and his speech was slurred, obvious effects of the tranquilizer he was fighting. “You forsake your rac
e for those who would watch our world die. You’re . . . you’re worse than they are.” The last few words trailed away as the Andorian slumped to the floor, succumbing to the sedative injected into his body.
“Ignore him, Ensign,” Picard snapped, his voice hard. “He’s the traitor. He has betrayed you, along with everyone who would stand with him and actively impede those who work to save your people. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Jean-Luc,” Beverly said, “I need that medical kit.”
Picard nodded. “I’m on my way.”
Shar dared not breathe, holding his hands away from his body as he stared down the muzzle of what to him appeared to be a rather large weapon.
“What do you want?” he asked the gun’s wielder, a tall, muscled thaan wearing simple reddish-brown clothing of a type commonly available at merchants throughout the city. As for the Andorian himself, he appeared to be of mid-age, with deep lines around his eyes and mouth, and thinning white hair atop his head. Behind him, standing outside Professor zh’Thiin’s office, was a second Andorian, also brandishing a weapon like his companion, though he was dividing his attention between the scene before him and the door.
“You, off our planet,” the Andorian said, offering Shar an insolent sneer.
Scowling at that, Shar replied, “Your planet? I’m a citizen of this world, as well, in case the obvious escaped you.” He indicated his own visage with a wave of one hand.
The thaan reacted to the sudden movement by tightening his grip on his weapon. “Don’t do that again,” he hissed through gritted teeth, the tone behind his words leaving no doubt as to their meaning. “You shed any claim to your birthright the moment you put on that uniform. You submitted yourself to willing slavery for the very people who would destroy everything we value; everything with which we identify ourselves as Andorian.” Glancing at Professor zh’Thiin, who stood next to Shar, her hands also raised, he added, “You’re no better than he is, polluting our children with that filth. What’s the point of saving us if we’re going to be nothing more than crossbred clones you engineer in a lab?”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” zh’Thiin snapped, her tone forceful. The Andorian’s response was to turn the weapon toward her, a silent warning that future such outbursts might be costly.
Satisfied that the professor understood his threat, the Andorian returned his attention to Shar. “Well? Where are your reasons? What justifications do you offer in your own defense?”
Shar had heard his rhetoric, or some variation of it, on numerous occasions, and as before, he rolled his eyes in contempt. “I have plenty of reasons, but trying to explain them to you would be a waste of time. You don’t possess the minimum number of functioning brain cells necessary to understand the more complex words I might use. Stop regurgitating what your Visionist mouthpieces feed you over the newsnets and then, perhaps, we might have an actual, constructive dialogue.” In actuality, his response was far harsher than he normally would offer when confronted by people of this Andorian’s ilk, but there was a reason for that, as well.
The response from the thaan was exactly as Shar hoped. Baring his teeth, he stepped closer, aiming the weapon’s muzzle at a point between Shar’s eyes. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. We have no use for politicians of any ideology who put their own interests above those who elect them to office. This is about doing what’s necessary to preserve the purity of our people.”
“You’d rather die than explore every option science might provide to help us through this crisis?” Shar said, adding an edge to his voice. “Is that what you truly believe?”
“If we’re meant to survive, then Uzaveh will show us the way,” the Andorian said. “Otherwise, I accept the fate ordained for me.”
Shar shrugged. “Then what are you waiting for?” He gestured toward the gun with a nod. “Put it in your mouth and pull the trigger.”
Now genuinely angry, the Andorian stepped closer, the weapon’s muzzle mere centimeters from Shar’s face, so close that his eyes began to blur from trying to keep it in focus.
Close enough, Shar decided, lashing out with his foot and driving it into the Andorian’s groin. The thaan howled in pain, but by then Shar had ripped the gun from his hand. Outside the office, the thaan’s companion, startled by the sudden explosion of movement, turned toward him, but zh’Thiin was faster, her hand slamming down on the control pad set into her desk. The door to her office slid shut.
Shar, not yet finished with his opponent, brought the butt of his purloined pistol down on the back of the Andorian’s skull and the thaan dropped, barely able to extend one arm in an attempt to keep himself from crashing face-first into the floor.
“The door’s locked,” zh’Thiin said, her expression anxious as she regarded him, “but I don’t know how long it will keep them out.”
Ignoring the pounding on the other side of the door, Shar gave his captured gun a quick examination. It was not a disruptor or other particle-beam weapon. “What is this?” he said, ejecting the pistol’s magazine and examining what appeared to be projectiles loaded into it.
“Those are sedatives,” zh’Thiin said, pointing to the Andorii text inscribed along one side of the topmost dart. “Nonlethal, if that label can be believed.”
“We’re not supposed to kill you,” said the thaan, from where he lay on the floor trying to reorient himself. “Only capture you.”
Shar frowned. “For whom? Are you with the Treishya or the True Heirs?” The thaan nodded, but did not respond further. “And why? I thought they wanted us off the planet.”
“Maybe they wish to make some sort of example of us,” zh’Thiin offered. “As for how and to what end, I’d rather not speculate.”
Shar nudged the thaan with his foot. “Is this true?” He shook his head in disgust when the Andorian did not respond. The pounding on the other side of the door was louder now, and more insistent. Then the door itself shuddered as though struck by something heavy. “We should get out of here.” Looking about the room, he nodded toward the window. “Can we go that way?”
Nodding, zh’Thiin said, “Yes.”
“Get it open,” Shar said just as he heard another heavy thud against the door and a dent appeared in its surface. They did not have much time.
Reinserting the magazine into the weapon, he checked to see that a tranquilizer was loaded before turning his attention back to the thaan. “Did it ever occur to you that Uzaveh may have already shown us the way to save ourselves, rather than sit around and wait for salvation to be handed to us? Have you considered that perhaps the professor has found that way for us?” When the thaan did not answer, Shar regarded him with a mixture of pity and derision. “It’s so easy to be misled when you let someone else do your thinking for you.”
Without another word, he aimed the tranquilizer gun at the thaan and fired a single shot into his leg. The snap of the weapon as it spat forth the low-velocity projectile rang out in the office’s cramped confines, and the effect of the sedative was immediate, with the Andorian collapsing unconscious to the floor.
“We need to go, Shar,” zh’Thiin said, her voice anxious.
Regarding the insensate thaan, Shar sighed in resignation. “They’re such fools,” he said, more to himself than to the professor.
The next impact against the door pushed it out of its frame, creating a gap wide enough to see into the room beyond. A shadow appeared in that aperture and Shar greeted it with another of the tranquilizers. The figure fell away and Shar stepped to one side, out of any line of fire and listening for other movement on the opposite side of the door. Hearing nothing after a moment, he was satisfied that there were no additional intruders lurking in the outer office. Despite that confidence, Shar turned and directed the Professor to the window.
“Where are we going?” zh’Thiin asked as he helped her over the transom and onto the narrow ledge running the length of the building, one floor above the ground.
“The Starfleet command post at the E
nclave chamber,” Shar said, levering himself up and through the window. “We’ll find help there.”
Using the surrounding foliage for cover and trying to navigate a path beyond the compound’s exterior floodlights, Shar led the professor away from the building, his senses on the alert for danger as they disappeared into the cool, foreboding darkness.
38
“Found it.”
Reaching for the underside of the engineering workstation, T’Ryssa Chen moved her hand until her fingers brushed across the smooth-edged object that most definitely was not any standard component for a Starfleet control console. She held it up as Taurik and other members of the Enterprise engineering staff approached her.
“What is it?” asked Ensign Hogan, one of the junior engineers.
Chen held the device in front of her tricorder. “Scans say it’s a miniaturized transceiver array, but I’m not picking up any activity.”
“Excellent work, Lieutenant,” Taurik said. “How did you find it?”
Holding up the transceiver, which was contained within a black octagonal shell two centimeters in thickness and ten centimeters in diameter, she said, “Its battery’s composed of zantraetium, a mineral indigenous to Andor, but not used in Federation starships.”
“So, an Andorian put it there?” Hogan asked.
Taurik said, “It would be unwise to jump to conclusions, Ensign, but based on circumstantial evidence alone, it would seem to be a rational hypothesis.” Nodding toward the device, he asked, “Lieutenant Chen, have you found any information of value on the device?”
Shaking her head, Chen replied, “Its data-storage module is wiped clean. If th’Gahryn or one of his friends was in contact with it while he was communicating with us, then he may have instructed it to erase itself so as not to leave anything we might use to track him.”
“But if it’s clean,” said another engineer, Lieutenant Whitsitt, “and we still can’t get back control of the computer, that means it must have inserted something into the system: some kind of software addition or modification.”