by David Mack
Wazir Togor perched atop an ersatz rock ledge and basked beside one of the suite’s primary heating elements. “What would the Breen gain from killing Szamra?”
Sozzerozs stopped pacing and looked down his snout at his adviser. “Now I know you’re being obtuse. You watched the same security recordings I did—she was aiming at Bacco. Szamra was collateral damage—and I would have been, too, if not for Bacco’s bodyguard.”
“You assume Piñiero was aiming at Bacco,” said Azarog, with barely half his snout sticking out of the mud. “Based on what I saw in those recordings, we could make a solid argument that she was aiming at you.”
Togor added quickly, “A fact we can turn to our advantage when talks resume.” He stretched his long sinewy body across the faux-rock slab. “Let me leverage a scandal like that, Majesty, and we’ll be able to wring any favor we want from the Federation.”
Azarog sat up out of the mud, which clung to him like a new hide. “We’re not supposed to gain the upper hand, just keep them at the table. Using this incident to force them into concessions might jeopardize our primary mission by bringing the summit to a close.”
The imperator resumed his languid trudging back and forth between Azarog and Togor. “I have begun to doubt the value of our so-called mission. I agreed to waylay the Federation president and play the part of a distraction. I did not agree to act as live bait for an assassin.” He stopped midway between the wazir and the zulta-osol. “There is much the Breen aren’t telling us. If that really was Bacco’s chief of staff who went on that rampage, how did Thot Tran and his Spetzkar induce her to violence? If it was an impostor, how did they substitute her for the real Piñiero without being detected? And what if she had succeeded? What if she had killed Bacco and me before that bodyguard shot her and forced her to retreat?”
Uneasy looks traveled between Togor and Azarog. The zulta-osol asked, “Was that a rhetorical question, my lord?”
“It was not. Had the assassin succeeded, what do you think would have been the result?”
Togor rose to the challenge. “The crew of the Hastur-zolis would have interpreted your murder as an act of war and opened fire on the two Starfleet vessels.”
“Who would have overpowered it,” Sozzerozs pointed out.
Azarog added, “Giving your son no choice but to name himself imperator and declare war on the Federation.” He let out a long, low hiss. “Which would be most calamitous.”
“In less than a day,” Sozzerozs said, “our reserve forces in the adjacent sectors would attack all Federation targets within range. Based on wargame scenarios I have reviewed with our fleet commanders, the response from the Federation and the Klingon Empire would be swift and decisive. And under the terms of our mutual defense treaties with the other members of the Pact, the entire quadrant would be plunged into war in a matter of weeks.”
It was a chilling prospect, and it left the three of them hushed for a moment. When Togor broke the silence, he sounded baffled. “Why would the Breen risk that? Just as important, why would they risk your life, Majesty?”
“Forget about bullying the Federation,” Azarog said. “We should use this to force favors from the Breen. We honored our pledge to aid them in matters of mutual defense, and they have repaid us with treachery.”
“We don’t know that,” Togor warned. “We only suspect it. Unless we find evidence that proves this to be the work of the Breen, we can’t risk alienating them with baseless accusations.” He looked at Sozzerozs. “We can further both our agendas by directing your Imperial Guard to cooperate with Starfleet, by helping it investigate the attack. By presenting ourselves to the Federation as partners in the pursuit of justice, we can gain access to their findings about the incident. If they find evidence that implicates the Breen, they will have reason to share it, because doing so will exonerate them of responsibility. And that evidence will enable us to confront Thot Tran, and make him pay for his betrayal.”
Azarog was skeptical. “And if the investigation finds no such evidence?”
“Then at least we will have prolonged our interaction with the Federation delegation, thereby accomplishing our original mission of attracting the attention of their government, military, and intelligence agencies.” He lifted his snout with a hint of pride as he looked at Sozzerozs. “Honor will be served—and justice will be given its chance, as well.”
It was a sound plan—conservative, proportional, and strategically balanced. Advice such as this was why Sozzerozs had trusted Togor as his wazir for most of the past decade.
“Togor, order Hazizaar and his men to assist the Starfleet investigation in all ways possible. Azarog, I want you to make sure Szamra’s death isn’t used to fan political fires back on the homeworld.” The imperator straightened to his full height and imagined the day when he would make Thot Tran pay for treating him as if he were expendable. “I’ll make sure the summit continues. But mark my words: if we find proof that Thot Tran tried to have me killed, our proposal to forsake the Pact and forge a new alliance with the Federation will cease to be a ruse.”
16
The last time La Forge had used a holodeck to investigate a mystery, he had been dressed as Doctor John Watson and Data had been playing the role of Sherlock Holmes. Together, they had explored multiple interactive variants of all the stories from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s canonical tales of the great detective. Although he’d usually followed Data’s lead, in accordance with the stories’ designs, he had often found it hard to hold his tongue when he found the clues first.
However, standing with Šmrhová inside a holodeck simulation of Hilar Tohm’s apartment, complete with a detailed reproduction of the woman’s battered corpse, he had trouble finding anything to say. The two of them had paced around the body for close to an hour, and he had listened with muted revulsion as Šmrhová rattled off picayune observations about the abrasions on Tohm’s neck, the angles at which her cervical vertebrae had sheared, or what the blood traces scattered about the room suggested about the progress of her fight against her killer.
The security chief kneeled once again beside Tohm and leaned close to examine her. Like a child who had found a dead animal, she poked it with seemingly morbid curiosity. “Okay, so we’ve fixed the time of death based on the body’s internal temperature, the postmortem buildup of lactic acid in the muscle tissue, and overall rates of cellular breakdown in her brain tissue. But I think her attacker tortured her first.”
“Based on what?” Her hypothesis troubled him, but he was obligated to seek details.
She pointed at Thom’s head. “Look at all the bruising and blunt-force trauma. Not much of it looks as if it was meant to be fatal. I think whoever killed her was trying to beat something out of her. Her killer wanted something. Given her line of work, I’d guess information.”
Drawn in by her speculation, he kneeled on the other side of the body. “Are you sure? What if those were defensive wounds? You said yourself the place shows signs of a struggle.”
“True. But look at her left hand. The knuckles of her index, middle, and ring fingers are all broken, but she didn’t do that by punching someone. They were bent backwards.”
He inhaled sharply through his teeth, reacting to the imagined pain of such an injury. “Ouch.” In his thoughts, he could almost hear the sound of the knuckles breaking; it was a grotesque notion—and then he realized this was the first he’d heard of it in connection to Tohm’s murder. “Why wasn’t that in the original crime-scene report?”
Šmrhová shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe they missed it.”
“Or maybe someone covered it up.” He could see from Šmrhová’s raised eyebrows that she thought he was inventing bogeymen. “I’m not saying it’s some grand conspiracy. But think about where she worked. What if Starfleet Intelligence realizes she was interrogated by force? They might want to avoid a lot of difficult questions—for instance, the kind that might lead to people without the right clearance levels digging through all of
Tohm’s active projects.”
“There’s another possibility.” She stood up, and La Forge did the same. They looked down at the body as Šmrhová continued. “Tohm kept her superiors and Starfleet informed of what she was working on—that’s how they knew to pick up Data so quickly. Well, if they know what kind of intel she was digging up for him, they might already have a suspect in her murder—one they aren’t telling us about.”
La Forge’s thoughts turned to Data’s search for the Immortal known as Emil Vaslovik—or Flint, or Akharin, or any of a hundred other identities. The Immortal’s existence had been a subject of vital interest to Starfleet and Federation Security ever since the discovery a decade earlier that he had a number of foolproof shortcuts around their computer security protocols.
If she asked one too many questions, or maybe the wrong questions, about Vaslovik, there’s no telling who might have taken notice, he realized. Although the Immortal had tried to present himself as a benign figure during his last known encounter with Starfleet, his previous interactions had been confrontational and violent. La Forge had no doubt such a man was capable of committing murder to safeguard his privacy. By the same token, he could imagine a wide variety of parties who would kill to track down the Immortal and steal his secrets.
Šmrhová noted the faraway look in La Forge’s eyes and snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Hey! You still with me, sir?”
“Hm? Yeah, sorry about that. I was just thinking.”
“About . . . ?”
He knew he couldn’t explain the Vaslovik situation to her. Even though she was now the Enterprise’s chief of security, she lacked the necessary clearance to be told about the Immortal, his connection to Data and Noonien Soong, and why such knowledge would be worth killing for. He flashed his most disarming smile. “Nothing. Just got distracted, that’s all.”
A comm tone interrupted their simulation, and it was followed by a deep voice. “Lieutenant Commander Peshtal-Azda to Lieutenant Šmrhová.”
The security chief replied, “Šmrhová here. Go ahead.”
“Hello, Lieutenant! I’m the JAG defense counsel for Lieutenant Commander Data.”
“Yes,” she said, masking her impatience, “I know who you are.”
“Oh! Splendid. Well, I’ve been informed you’re heading up the Enterprise’s independent investigation into the murder of Commander Tohm, so I wanted you to be the first to hear the good news: I’ve secured Mister Data’s release from custody, effective tomorrow at 0900.”
La Forge and Šmrhová faced each other, both wide-eyed with shock.
“Excuse me, this is Commander Geordi La Forge. How did you get Data released?”
“Thanks to the evidence you and Commander Worf provided, I was able to demonstrate to the presiding JAG officer that Data has an alibi, and that there is at least one other Soong-type android on Orion who has infiltrated the bank with obviously hostile intentions. In legal parlance, that provided Data the benefit of something we like to call ‘reasonable doubt.’”
La Forge laughed with joy and relief. “That’s fantastic!”
“I can hardly believe it myself,” Šmrhová said. “No offense, counselor.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Peshtal-Azda said. “I understand completely. It’s easy to forget that sometimes our legal system actually works.”
• • •
It had been more than an hour since Picard and Commander Tezog of the Hastur-zolis had convened inside a secure conference room within the Bank of Orion, and the room—which under any other circumstances would have felt spacious to Picard—had begun to feel not unlike a jail cell. Adding to his discomfort was the Gorn’s insistence on keeping the room’s thermostat set above thirty-three degrees Celsius. While that created a cozy environment for Tezog, Picard had long since become soaked from head to toes in perspiration.
Tezog flicked his forked tongue and pushed a padd across the broad, lacquered wood conference table to Picard. “The report from Kinshal’s home.”
A glance at the padd made it seem clear why Tezog had called his attention to it. “No body, no signs of struggle. And not one fingerprint or trace of genetic material from Kinshal.”
“Almost as if it had been wiped clean on purpose.” A low growl churned deep inside the archosaur’s chest. “Which suggests Kinshal was murdered, and his apartment sanitized.”
Picard nodded. “Precisely.” He skipped ahead in the report. “The Orion Colonial Police seem to share our suspicions. They’ve listed Chairman Kinshal’s disappearance as suspicious, and as a likely homicide.”
“Likely? How much more proof do they need?”
The captain’s face slackened to a weary grimace. “Unfortunately, the law on Orion prohibits filing a charge of murder in the absence of a corpse or other incontrovertible evidence of foul play, such as an audiovisual record.”
The Gorn unleashed an angry hiss through his fangs. “Ridiculous! There are hundreds of ways to dispose of bodies without leaving a trace.” He pounded the side of one scaly fist on the tabletop. “This planet makes a mockery of the law!”
Commandant Keilo Essan of the OCP replied as he entered the room, “We prefer to think of our world as a bastion of individual liberty, unfettered by the controlling hand of the state.”
“You mean a free-for-all,” Tezog said through a snarl.
“Please,” Picard interrupted, “we’re all working toward the same goal.” Hoping to prevent the situation from spiraling out of control, he continued. “Commandant, is it safe to assume you’re here because your people found something?”
The middle-aged Orion wiped a fresh sheen of sweat from his balding pate. “Yes, in fact. We’ve found your would-be assassin, Ms. Piñiero.”
Both the starship commanders moved to the end of the table to flank Essan. Tezog reached him first and loomed over him. “Where is she?”
“We have her in our care. She’s being transferred to the Sieelek Medical Center.”
Picard kept his tone civil despite its urgency. “What is her condition?”
Essan seemed surprised by the question. “She’s dead, Captain.”
“Merde.” So much for questioning her, he lamented. “How did it happen?”
The commandant removed a palm-sized data device from an inside pocket of his jacket, activated it with a gentle tap, and checked it. “According to the first officers on the scene, she appeared to have been strangled.”
“How convenient,” Tezog replied, his suspicions of the Orions clearly intensifying.
“I assure you, Commander,” Picard said, his voice sharp, “Ms. Piñiero’s demise is anything but convenient.” He turned his ire back toward Essan. “Who knows about this?”
“The three of us,” Essan said, thinking as he spoke. “The half-dozen police and medical personnel who found the body and are transporting it to Sieelek. And after the body reaches the medical center, the coroner and probably at least one assistant.”
“Unacceptable,” Picard snapped. “This information needs to be contained before it goes any further. We need to have the body beamed up to the Enterprise at once.”
His demand rankled Tezog. “Why? So your people can whitewash the autopsy and force-feed us a report that miraculously exonerates your failed assassin?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Picard stepped past Essan to confront Tezog, nose to snout. “What would you have us do? Beam her to your ship for examination?”
A wider baring of fangs. “It was our imperator she tried to murder.”
Picard stood firm against the foul stench of Tezog’s breath, a hot gust that reeked of rotting flesh. “From where I stood, she seemed to be aiming at our president.”
Essan pushed his way between the two starship captains. “Enough of this! The crime was committed in our jurisdiction, and her body was recovered there, as well. What the two of you want is irrelevant. The coroner at Sieelek will perform the autopsy.”
The commanders backed away from each other. Picard
reluctantly broke eye contact with Tezog to confront Essan. “Commandant, you must understand what a volatile situation this is.”
“I never would have guessed.”
Picard ignored the Orion’s sarcasm. “The outcome of this investigation could be the spark that ignites a war. Surely, you must see that every detail needs to be treated with the utmost care. We can’t afford to let history’s course be dictated by a misunderstanding.”
Essan scowled. “It might shock you to learn, Captain, that we practice advanced medicine and investigation on Orion, just as you do in the Federation. But even if we had nothing but dull knives and candlelight, the fact would remain that while you and your people are on the surface of our planet, you’re subject to our laws. The autopsy happens here.”
“You’re suggesting that I stand by and let you autopsy a senior member of the Federation government, the president’s appointed chief—”
“Yes, I am. Right here, right now, as far as we’re concerned, she’s nothing more than a common criminal—one who broke our laws on our soil. This is nonnegotiable.”
Tezog edged closer to Essan, who backpedaled himself against the wall. The hulking Gorn stared down at the Orion as if sizing him up for an appetizer. “Why should the Hegemony trust an unverified report?” He let Essan squirm a moment. “Out of respect for your national sovereignty, I consent to your coroner performing the postmortem examination. But in the interests of transparency and political goodwill, I strongly suggest you invite medical doctors, one from each of our ships, to observe the procedure and advise your coroner as they see fit.”
Caught between Picard and Tezog, the commandant shed his imperious attitude. “A most sensible compromise, Commander Tezog. I’ll see to it that your ships’ physicians are welcomed at the medical center, and that the examination is held until they both arrive.” He leaned his head toward the door. “By your leave?”
