Star Trek: The Next Generation - 113 - Cold Equations: Silent Weapons
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“It wasn’t your imagination.” He pulled Olar to his feet.
After a few seconds, Olar regained his balance. He nodded. “I’m okay.” He let go of Berro’s hand and pressed his fingertips to his remodeled face. “How did it turn out?”
“Better than mine.” Even though it was just a temporary visage on a distant avatar, Berro still felt mildly self-conscious about the aesthetic shortcomings of his android’s latest template. He imagined his new form—bald with a bulbous nose and bulging eyes beneath wild graying eyebrows—must have been modeled on the ugliest human male in existence. “Run your diagnostic. I’ll ping the lab coats and see if we have new orders yet.”
Olar turned away as he submerged into a full-system diagnostic scan, and Berro faced in the other direction as he accessed the circuit for the direct comm line to their handlers at Korwat. The hailing prompt buzzed only once before Hain replied, her voice like a disembodied presence inside Berro’s mind.
He concentrated on sending his response mentally rather than speaking aloud. All objectives completed. We’ve made the switch to our new identities. Olar’s running a system check, but I don’t expect any complications. We’re ready to receive the extraction plan.
An apologetic note in Hain’s voice heralded bad news.
The more Berro read of the mission plan, the more certain he became that someone had drafted it in error. Losing his focus, he muttered, “Control, this can’t be right.”
It was Konar’s brusque voice that replied,
Olar finished his self-analysis and turned to face him, signaling that he was joining the conversation. Berro acknowledged him with a look as he replied to Konar. Our tactical profile up to this point has been built around infiltration. This isn’t what we were trained for.
Konar was dismissive.
Close-quarters combat, yes. But this combines urban guerrilla combat with commando tactics. Did he truly not understand the problem? Or was he merely being obtuse in order to stifle discussion? Sir, this is a mission for the Spetzkar, not us.
Olar looked stunned as he pored over the plans. “Sir, do you have any idea what kind of collateral damage this plan will cause?”
Maintaining a cool demeanor was taxing Berro’s patience. Our original mission profile expressly forbade excessive collateral damage. We were told that neither the Orions nor the Gorn would tolerate any fatalities among their people. Has that changed?
The supervisor’s tone became strained.
Berro was prepared to accept the conversation as concluded until Olar silently pointed out a series of fine-print details in the mission profile. Once more incensed at the illogic of the SRD’s orders, he fumed, What about the endgame scenario you’ve sent?
Resentful and obviously weary of the argument, Konar replied,
Olar snapped, “Sir, did you even read it? Most of the expected outcomes involve our destruction. Even the most optimistic projection results in our avatars being damaged beyond repair. Never mind the potential risks to us, what about the sheer waste of resources?”
Konar’s response was infused with a low-key, barely contained rage.
“Yes, sir.” The two field agents exchanged worried glances. It was obvious now to both of them that despite all the time and resources the SRD had invested in the program, it was being treated as if it were worthless, just some expendable resource to be spent at will.
Understood, Berro projected back along the thoughtwave. We’ll need a half hour to prep. We’ll be in attack position in precisely forty minutes.
He let go of his petty grievances and kneeled to open the munitions crate. “I’ll prep the charges,” he said to Olar. “Make sure the rifles and sidearms are charged.”
The other agent shook his head and opened the wardrobe in which they kept their small arms. “I really hoped it wouldn’t come down to this.”
“So did I.” A rueful grimace broke through Berro’s stoic façade. “But I kind of figured it would.” He lifted a shaped demolition charge from the crate. As he studied the blue-gray cone, he felt the strange calm that comes from facing the inevitable. “So it goes. Let’s get to work.”
• • •
A gentle warbling of the door chime prompted Picard to bark, “Come!” The portal to the bridge slid open with a soft whish, and the captain trained scathing looks on his senior officers as they filed in by rank: first Worf, then La Forge, followed by Šmrhová. The last person to enter was Data, still garbed in civilian clothing. What a difference context makes, Picard thought with a hint of bitter reminiscence. If these same officers marched in here of their own accord instead of in response to my summons, I might expect them to announce a mutiny.
The door closed, affording them a measure of privacy. The three officers and Data lined up in front of Picard, who fixed his reproachful glare upon Worf. “Number One, did you inform the Orion Colonial Police and the Federation embassy that our departure was imminent?”
The first officer kept his chin raised and his bearing proud. “Yes, sir.”
Picard stood and circled around his desk in slow steps. “You are aware that the decision to leave orbit is a prerogative reserved for a starship’s commanding officer, are you not?”
“I am.” For one who had just committed a grave breach of protocol, he was quite calm.
Moving down the line, Picard stopped to confront Šmrhová. “It’s my understanding that you informed President Bacco’s protection detail of our decision to leave Orion.”
“Aye, sir,” the security chief replied, her manner cool and matter-of-fact.
Quick looks at La Forge and Data gained the captain no insight into their reactions, just a reminder of how solid their poker faces were. “Commander La Forge. Mister Data. Did either of you know about this sudden change in our plans?”
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br /> They overlapped each other’s replies, leaving Data’s dry “No, sir” buried beneath La Forge’s emphatic “First I’m hearing of it, Captain.”
That brought Picard back to his first officer. “Mister Worf . . . I trust you can explain?”
“I can.” He seemed content to stand on his terse reply until Picard shot him a look that made clear his query hadn’t been rhetorical. “Lieutenant Šmrhová showed me that all the clues we have followed in our search for the androids seem to have been fed to us on purpose, by someone with access to the details of their mission.”
Šmrhová added, “In each case, sir, the leads came from either an anonymous source or one whose identity was later found to be an alias. Commander Worf and I believe that we’re being manipulated, steered to find what someone else wants us to see, when they want it seen.”
Worf affirmed Šmrhová’s account with a nod, leading Picard to ask, “To what end?”
“We don’t know yet,” she said. “But whatever they’re up to, it seems really important to them that we keep playing along. Our hope is that by creating the impression the Enterprise is leaving orbit, we can force the enemy into action while they’re still off balance.”
The reasoning behind Worf and Šmrhová’s plan came into focus for Picard. “And since we don’t know which institutions have been compromised by the enemy, there was no choice but to misinform our embassy and the president’s detail, in addition to the Orions.”
“Correct,” Worf said.
Picard accepted the explanation with a slow, sage nod as he walked back behind his desk. “Very well.” He sat down and looked up at the Klingon. “In the future, Number One, I would appreciate being read into these plans before you carry them out.”
“Understood.”
Satisfied that he had made his point, he turned his attention to La Forge and Data. “Have we made any more progress in our study of the android’s transceiver system?”
“Not a lot,” La Forge said. “We’ve been narrowing down the possible range of subspace frequencies and harmonic subfrequencies it might use, but without a working transceiver, we have no way of knowing if we’re even close.”
“Keep working on it.” To Šmrhová he added, “Remind your security teams that capturing any hostile androids intact will be of paramount importance should we confront more of them.”
She nodded. “I will, sir.” Then her optimism dimmed. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the Gorn or the Orions. Depending on what their part in all this has been, if they get to the androids first, they might frag them just to keep them out of our hands. If it comes to that, I’m not sure I can stop them without causing at least one interstellar incident, maybe two.”
“Then it’s all the more imperative that we find the androids first, Lieutenant.” He looked at Worf. “That will be all for now, Number One, but I’ll expect regular updates as soon as—”
“Bridge to Captain Picard,” Chen interrupted over the comm. “We’re receiving an urgent message from the Orion Colonial Police.”
He sprang to his feet. “On my way.”
His officers and Data fell in behind him as he left the ready room and crossed at a quick step to his command chair. Noting the captain’s approach, Chen vacated the center seat and moved aft to the master systems display. As Picard sat down, Worf took his seat beside him, and Šmrhová relieved Balidemaj at the security console. Data, meanwhile, did his best to remain inconspicuous, standing near an unmanned console along the starboard bulkhead. Once everyone was in position, Picard pointed forward. “On-screen, Lieutenant.”
The curve of Orion was replaced by Commandant Essan. “Captain! Thank the spirits you haven’t left orbit yet! We think we’ve found the lair used by the assassin and her conspirators.”
“That’s excellent news, Commandant.” He shot a furtive glance at Worf and caught the faintest inkling of a self-satisfied smirk on the first officer’s face. Looking back at Essan, he resisted the urge to color his words with sarcasm. “How did you uncover its location?”
Essan hunched his shoulders. “I’m told it was an anonymous tip. Luckily for us, it’s panned out.” It was a struggle for Picard not to wince when he heard Essan utter the words anonymous tip. Through will alone he kept a straight face as the Orion continued. “We’ve already alerted the Gorn, who are sending more of those Imperial Guard brutes. I thought you’d want your people to have a chance to examine it before the lizards stomp all over it.”
“Most considerate, Commandant. Thank you. Please transmit the coordinates, and I’ll have a team there in two minutes. Enterprise out.”
Šmrhová closed the channel, restoring the image of Orion’s northern hemisphere to the viewscreen. Worf swiveled his chair toward Picard. “Orders, Captain?”
“Take an evidence collection team and an armed security detail to this alleged lair. Have Lieutenant Šmrhová, Commander La Forge, and Mister Data join you.”
“Are you sure that is wise, sir? This could be a trap.”
Picard shook his head. “I doubt that, Number One. As you suggested, I suspect this is merely the latest in a long trail of bread crumbs, meant to lead us to another dead end. Look past what our enemies want us to see . . . and find out why they want us to see it.”
• • •
Long banks of computers, rows of compact replicators, and a staggering variety of precision tools filled the spacious loft, making passage through the converted industrial space tedious. Blacked-out windows added to its claustrophobic atmosphere. Worf stood near the room’s center so he could observe all the members of the investigation team while they worked.
A few meters away, Data sat in front of a workstation into which he had linked himself with an optronic cable. A green blur of alien numerals and symbols scrolled sideways across the black screen of the terminal in front of him. On the other side of the low wall of computers, La Forge examined the meticulously arranged tools with his tricorder. Behind him, Šmrhová conferred in discreet whispers with Lieutenant Ilana Reichert, the team’s munitions specialist.
Two security officers from the Enterprise guarded the loft’s entrance, outside which a handful of Orion police paced while muttering angrily about “jurisdiction” and “sovereignty.” Worf understood the Orions’ hostility to the Starfleet team’s presence, but he did not care how they felt. They have no one to blame but themselves. They are corrupt and unreliable. If they could be trusted to investigate competently and impartially, we would not have to be here.
La Forge held up a fragile-looking metallic spike that resembled a surgical implement. “This is some high-tech equipment. Some of it’s Romulan; I’m guessing the implements made from obsidian are of Tholian design.” He eyed the assorted tools. “There’s almost enough here to build a new android from scratch—assuming we knew how.” Data shot a look of mild offense at the engineer, who added with a chastised frown, “Present company excluded.”
The android accepted the apology with a jog of his chin and returned his attention to the lateral stream of symbols coursing over his monitor. Loath as Worf was to interrupt Data in the middle of what might be a complex task, he asked him, “Have you found anything in their files?”
Data’s focus didn’t waver from the screen. “I have not. These drives were subjected to a secure-erasure protocol. None of their data remains, though I have found fragments of the original system software. It appears to be of Breen origin.”
“That’s consistent with our theory of where the androids came from,” La Forge said.
Their impromptu conference was interrupted by the arrival of Essan and Hazizaar. The Orion police commandant followed the Gorn imperial guard, who slalomed through the room’s myriad obstacles with a speed and dexterity Worf did not expect. As they met in the middle of the room, Hazizaar seemed to make a special effort to intrude upon Worf’s personal space. “We have completed our search of the rest of the building,” the archosaur said. “None of the other floors are occupied or show
any sign of recent visitation.” He hissed as he looked around at the busy swarm of Starfleet scientists. “What have you found up here?”
Worf inched forward, in an implicit challenge to the Gorn. “Not much,” he lied. Then he turned his glare upon the commandant. “Thank you for your assistance.” Meeting the Gorn’s stare, he added, “Both of you.”
Essan blinked as if Worf had spat in his face, and Hazizaar asked with uncamouflaged umbrage, “Are you dismissing us, Commander Worf?”
He yielded nothing to the rhetorical challenge. “Yes, I am.”
The archosaur and the Orion seethed, but as Worf had suspected, neither was prepared to argue without their own forces inside the room. Essan turned and beckoned Hazizaar with a tilt of his head. “The room is rather crowded, Sikta. Perhaps we should let them—”
Hazizaar poked a scaly, clawed digit against Worf’s chest. “This is a mistake, Klingon. We are on the same side here. We both want the same thing.”
Worf snarled. “We will see.”
The commandant used both hands to steer Hazizaar away from Worf. “We should go.” At first Essan’s effort to prod the Gorn seemed futile; then Hazizaar turned away from Worf and followed the Orion out of the room.
Šmrhová wended around the makeshift lab’s obstacles and sidled up to Worf. “Anonymous tips and dead-end clues. It would almost be funny if it weren’t so aggravating.”
“Indeed. Has your team found anything?”
“Chemical traces, all over the place. Based on the compounds and residues we found on the workbenches, it looks like they were putting together some heavy-duty explosives.”
Alarmed, La Forge put down the tools he had been studying. “What kind?”
“Thermokinetic charges with tricobalt cores. Old-school, but they’ll pack a punch.”
Dismayed frowns passed between La Forge and Worf, who both knew enough about military munitions to grasp the threat such weapons posed. Augmented by modern detonators and catalysts, a charge small enough to fit in one’s hand could unleash a nightmarish blast. Worf asked Šmrhová, “Do we know how many they might have?”