STAR TREK: The Lost Era - 2336 - Well of Souls

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “Qatala.” Burke favored Stern with a frosty brown stare. “The Asfar Qatala.”

  “Right.” Stern grunted, returned her gaze to Garrett. “Like I said, not involved.”

  “With red ice,” Burke added.

  “That’s enough.” Garrett rapped her knuckles on the table. God, she didn’t like this woman. “You’ve made your point, Burke.”

  Burke sat back without a word of protest. Garrett suppressed a sigh. Not fair to be angry: Garrett might hate what Burke did for a living, but Burke was doing her job, and Halak had plenty to explain. Garrett still didn’t understand what had happened, but then again, she hadn’t confronted Halak herself either.

  Stern had argued. “You’re the captain, for crying out loud. More importantly, you’re his captain. Talk to him, Rachel. He’s a decent man, and I’ll bet there’s some explanation for this. I have to admit I don’t have a clue what that might be.”

  “That’s because there isn’t,” Garrett had said. “Jo, you’re the one with the evidence. He’s lying, and he thinks he can get away with it.”

  “And you’re not interested why? You’ve never lied when you’ve been in a jam?”

  Garrett knew what her friend was referring to, and she inwardly cursed that she’d ever told Jo Stern about what had happened on that night long ago, when she was eighteen and scared to death.

  Instead, she’d said, “Don’t start. The situations aren’t the least bit similar.”

  Stern had thrown up her hands in disgust. “Jeez, there it is again. The truth is you don’t want to hear Halak’s story. You’ve already made up your mind about him.”

  And was that true? If Garrett had gone to Halak as his captain—no, his friend, as she would have done for Nigel—would they even be sitting here now? Probably not, and the realization made her feel petty and small. Maybe Stern was right.

  No. Garrett felt her heart harden. Halak was Halak, a man with a history and his own baggage and questions dogging his heels, and he’d taken what trust she’d had—precious little—and betrayed it by getting one of her officers killed and then concocting an outlandish story that leaked worse than a sieve.

  And Starfleet Intelligence? Garrett’s eyes went to Burke and then Sivek. Wild cards. Still, Garrett felt a premonitory thrill up and down her spine: They had something.

  Garrett said, “Burke, is there anything you’d like to ask before we move on?”

  As Garrett expected, Burke moved her sleek, groomed head from side to side. Garrett doubted that one blonde curl was ever out of place. The woman was more placid than a Vulcan—or a viper waiting for a chance to pounce.

  “No, thank you, Captain, not at this time,” she said, her voice as polished as very smooth glass, “though I am curious. Dr. Stern, so far your report focuses on the nothings: no drugs, etc. But Commander Halak was severely wounded. That’s a something.”

  Clever girl, Garrett thought. A statement begging a response.

  “Thanks, I was getting there,” said Stern, her tone dry. Whatever she felt about Starfleet Intelligence, being intimidated didn’t seem to be one of Stern’s problems. She plucked up her padd. “But, in my line of work, it’s customary to list the things that are normal, too. Just so everyone knows you checked.”

  Reading from her padd, Stern began with Halak’s knife wounds. She described the pattern of the wounds and the type of blade that was likely responsible. “The wound to the arm was likely defensive,” said Stern, illustrating by bringing her own left arm up at an angle and across her face. “First of all, it’s a slash, not a stab. Still, it’s a gaping wound because of the direction the blade was moving at the time of contact, moving across Langer’s lines. These are elastic fibers in the dermis. Slash along the lines, and the wound is narrow and slitlike. Slash across, as in Halak’s case, and you’ve got a large gaping wound. The second point is that the slash has a beveled margin. It’s easier if I show you.”

  Pushing back from her seat, Stern crossed to the viewscreen mounted in the left wall of the conference room and had the computer bring up images scanned during her examination of Halak. A color image that was clearly the wound to Halak’s left bicep wavered into focus. The image must have been scanned almost immediately after Halak was beamed aboard; Garrett saw how the skin was so pale the hair along Halak’s forearm looked like corkscrews against white paper. The wound itself was fleshy and filled with blackish-purple blood clots.

  “First of all, the weapon was single-edged. You can tell because one end of the stab wound, here,” said Stern, using her finger to illustrate, “where the stab wound starts, is pointed. The other end is blunt, and there’s a divot that got taken out of his arm when the knife was withdrawn. So his assailant comes at him; Halak throws up his arm to take the hit, and the assailant stabs him with a downward slashing motion, like this.” Stern illustrated.

  “That squares with what Halak said,” Garrett offered.

  Stern was nodding. “Yeah, so far so good. They’re jumped. This other guy—and he’s right-handed, by the way—rushes Halak, and Halak deflects the first blow. But here’s what doesn’t jibe. The first wound is a clean slash. Down, in, out. The second, the one on Halak’s right flank, isn’t so clean.”

  Stern called up another image and this time Garrett saw from the knobs of Halak’s spine and the curve of his right hip that the image had been scanned as the commander lay on his stomach. She also saw, immediately, how different this wound was from the first. The stab wound was larger and very long, easily ten to twelve centimeters. The wound wasn’t gaping, but it wasn’t a line either. It was very deep, and the wound almost looked like a V, with the point jutting toward Halak’s spine.

  “Now, that’s not a straight slash because the knife changed direction,” said Stern. “Part of it you can explain because of where he’s been stabbed, right? Unless you’re unconscious, lying down, not resisting, or being held very tightly, a slash that long and in that particular place isn’t going to be straight. That V, though, that’s caused by movement, probably by Halak twisting to get away. See? You can tell where the cut changes direction and the skin is torn. Now what’s wrong with this scenario?”

  Garrett’s forehead furrowed. “I’m not sure I see anything wrong. That’s what Halak said happened.” She saw Tyvan and Stern exchange glances, and Stern give the other doctor a slight nod. “Dr. Tyvan?” asked Garrett.

  “I think Dr. Stern is suggesting he left out a few things, Captain. If I’m hearing this correctly, there are several problems with Halak’s account. First of all, unless he’s behind you, a right-handed assailant can’t stab you on your right side. If he’s coming at you from the front, or slashes around at your back, then the wound will be on the left, just like the wound on Halak’s left forearm.”

  “So he got behind Halak,” said Garrett.

  “Yes, but the question is: how?”

  “Distracted? He managed to get away, but the guy jumped him? You know,” said Garrett, stroking her chin between thumb and index finger, “it could work just the way Halak said if the Bolian puts a pulse gun to Batra’s head. That would make Halak stop whatever he was doing and leave plenty of time for his assailant to get around behind him. Then, for whatever reason, Halak is stabbed; in the confusion, Batra elbows the Bolian, gets away, makes a grab for the knife ...” She trailed to a halt, shook her head. “That doesn’t feel right.”

  “Because it probably isn’t.” Tyvan looked over at Stern. “No wounds on Batra’s hands, are there?” When Stern shook her head, he turned back to Garrett. “So it’s unlikely she made a grab for a weapon that way. She’d have gotten cut. But this begs the question. Where are the defensive wounds on Commander Halak? If I were being stabbed from behind, I’d do something about it. But the wound is far too deep and far too regular, even with that divot, unless Halak was standing still. And the only way for that to happen would be if he were held from behind, with his arms pulled back and out of the way.”

  “You see what I’m driving a
t, Captain,” said Stern. “There had to be more than just the Bolian and this other guy. Or he was knifed at a different time. I say the knifing happened first.”

  Quickly, Stern went through what Garrett already knew: Halak’s blood loss, the fact that the wounds were a good six hours older than the time frame Halak had given, the traces of antimicrobial packs on Halak’s skin, traces of Bolian blood and brain matter under Halak’s nails, and the absence of ionized residue from the pulse gun or a phaser on Halak’s hands or clothing.

  “But Batra fired a phaser, not a pulse gun,” said Stern. “There was evidence of mitochondrial disruption in the cells of her right hand consonant with phased energy exposure.”

  Garrett gave Stern a weary look. “And I take it that Halak didn’t check a phaser out of the weapons locker.”

  “Nope, and nothing in the shuttle. Had to be his personal carry and then either he ditched it, or it got left behind. There’s no regulation against that, though.”

  “Anything else?” When Stern shook her head, Garrett looked at Burke. “Questions?”

  Burke made a pass motion with her hand. Garrett directed her attention back to Stern. “What else about Batra, other than evidence of there being a phaser involved?”

  Stern summarized what she’d already told Garrett. “Then there’s the dirt.”

  “Dirt?” Tyvan echoed.

  “Dirt,” Stern repeated. “Look, I don’t have any doubt that most of what Halak said is true. Really,” she added in response to a skeptical snort from Burke. “I believe that he was attacked; I believe that he defended himself. I believe that a Bolian killed Batra. All that squares with the evidence. But the time course is off. The sequence is wrong. I didn’t start to put it all together until I began comparing what I found on Halak with what I found on Batra. Just like Halak, Batra had Bolian blood on her hands, under her nails, on her clothes, in her hair, and the blood spatter’s consistent with her stabbing the Bolian. Then the Bolian shoots her at point blank range. The impact knocks Batra off her feet onto her back, but she’s dead before she hits the ground. Death was virtually instantaneous. The lieutenant’s heart stopped pumping. No blood flow, no bleeding.

  “But here’s the kicker: the dirt. The dirt on her clothes, especially on her back, doesn’t look much like what you’d find in a city. And there’s dirt on her jaw—actually, minute fragments embedded in tissue. But it’s not the same dirt.”

  “I’m not following,” said Tyvan.

  “Look, we know she was hit because of that bruise on her jaw and those bite marks on her tongue. But I assumed someone hit her, because Halak said they were jumped. Made sense. But that’s wrong. She had abrasions on her jaw, and there was dirt in the wound. Only it wasn’t dirt. It was brick.”

  Burke stirred. “But why couldn’t she have been hit by a fist?”

  “Because the lieutenant’s skin was torn. Her skin had come into contact with something sharp, jagged, and hard. Someone hits you across the face with his fist your skin’s not going to tear, not unless what he’s wearing, like a ring, catches on skin. And there should be marks that look like fingers, or a fist. There should be prints. Now, I found nothing that smacks of fingers or an imprint from a ring, and there were no prints. There were, however, latent prints on her clothing. The Bolian’s easy to spot; their ridge patterns are species-specific, can’t confuse them. And Halak’s. Hers. But that’s it.”

  Tyvan sat up. “No fourth person. Halak said there was another man.”

  Stern’s eyebrows arched. “See the problem? Halak says there was another guy when Batra was killed, and I just showed you that in order for Halak to get cut the way he did, there had to be at least two more: one to hold him, the other to take care of Batra. Only where are they? And somehow Batra got the knife only no one noticed? No one tried to grab her? Unless something happened much earlier than he says and then the brick ...”

  Tyvan finished for her. “Comes from the city. Meaning they were attacked, first, in the city.”

  Stern took aim with a forefinger. “Bingo. There’s no mistake. Brick’s very porous. It crumbles. This stuff is cheap, so I’m guessing some slum on Farius Prime. But there’s no brick anywhere on her clothing, just her skin. So Batra got herself cleaned up. Probably changed her clothes. That’s why the dirt on her clothes is different from what’s embedded in her jaw. She didn’t get hit. She slammed into a brick wall. But the dirt on her clothes was a mixture of quartz and mica, some decomposed organic matter ...”

  “That would still be consistent with a city,” said Tyvan.

  “There was also a fair amount of bentonite. That’s volcanic ash. And there were high levels of triuridium.”

  “Farius Prime’s got triuridium mines.”

  “That’s right, except those mines have been closed a good long time. It’s why that Asfar-whatsa got so powerful to begin with, because the mines dried up. So if the mines aren’t active, that means there are no workers bringing the stuff back into the city. There’s nothing being released in the air; there’s been no volcanic activity on that planet for centuries. So the only place you’re going to find volcanic ash and triuridium ...”

  “Is at the mines,” said Garrett. She was past anger now. She’d sat through Stern’s dissertation, knowing where it led but still not wanting to believe it. I may not like him much, but maybe that’s my fault, and he’s still my XO. Now, she felt only a creeping weariness, as if an enormous weight had settled on her shoulders. “So there were two separate events.”

  “That’s how I see it, Captain.”

  “Me, too.” Garrett scrubbed her face with her hands. Then she rolled her eyes toward Tyvan. “You have anything germane? Anything to explain this?”

  But it was Burke who answered, flashing Garrett a smile that was infuriating because it was so disingenuous, and just a little too smug. “Captain, there’s nothing a psychiatrist can say. Nothing at all.”

  Tyvan stiffened, but Garrett didn’t reply. Instead, she reached for the companel before her on the conference room table. “Security, get Halak in here. Now.”

  Chapter 18

  “Well, Commander?” Garrett asked, not sure that she didn’t want to shake Halak until his teeth rattled. “Can you shed some light here?”

  There was a pause, as if it had taken time for Garrett’s question to register. Then Halak moved his head fractionally in a weary negative. “I can’t explain it, Captain. I’ve told you what happened. I loved Ani, and I wouldn’t have done anything to harm her. I simply don’t know what else you want me to say.”

  “The truth would be a good start.”

  “Captain, I’ve told you the truth,” said Halak. His voice was hoarse. “I received a message from an old family friend. I detoured to Farius Prime to see her. I admit I should have reported that change in my itinerary. I didn’t, mainly because I had no intention of staying on Farius Prime for long. Ani followed me. I don’t know how she figured out where I was going; I didn’t tell her. But she ended up on the passenger transport from Starbase 5, and there was nothing for it but have her tag along.”

  “Stop.” Garrett hacked the air with the side of her hand. “Stop right there, Halak. I don’t want to hear this again. That’s not what we’re interested in, and you know it.”

  “Captain.” Halak ran a hand through black hair that was greasy and matted, like lumps of cooked tar. “Captain, I don’t know how to resolve the discrepancies. I don’t know how the dirt that you say shouldn’t have been there got there. Dirt is dirt, and I don’t know. The simple truth is that we were attacked. She was killed and there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t know what you want from me.”

  She heard the genuine undercurrent of pain, and Halak looked awful. His eyes were dull, their whites etched with a tracery of thin, red lines. The lids were swollen and the skin beneath his eyes looked smudged, puffy, and bruised. The olive cast to his skin had turned sallow, and his features were pinched and sharp as if he’d lost weight. When he walked, he f
avored his right side, and it was obvious he was still in pain. And he was grieving: no faking there.

  But it was a grief Burke wanted to exploit. Garrett cast a swift glance at the Starfleet Intelligence officer. The lieutenant was all attention, her brown eyes sparkling and bright. She looked like a Perettian glare-hawk just itching for its chance to swoop down and strike. Well, if Halak couldn’t do better, she’d have her chance. Garrett wouldn’t have any alternative.

  Damn Halak, why was he sticking to that story? Impatience gnawed at Garrett’s gut like the sharp beak of hunger. Didn’t he realize that he was throwing everything away—his career, the shreds of what little trust she had in him? Work with me. She tried willing the thought into the gulf between them. Help us help you before it’s too late and it’s out of my hands. Later, she would be surprised that, yes, she did want to help.

  “Halak.” She edged her voice with the imperiousness of a command. “That’s not good enough. I don’t know what the real story is, but it’s somewhere between the lines. I’m going to make this extremely easy for you, Commander. Either you address these discrepancies here and now, or I have no choice but to remand you over to Starfleet Command for a more formal inquiry, and probable disciplinary action.”

  Burke spoke. “Captain, if you would please let me ...”

  “Stow it, Burke.” Garrett didn’t even glance her way. “If Halak goes anywhere, I talk to Starfleet Command first.”

  “That’s not what ...”

  Livid, Garrett swung her head around and glared. “What part of shut up don’t you understand, Burke?”

  Burke’s cheeks flared red, and Garrett felt a vicious stab of satisfaction. “I understand perfectly, Captain, but ...”

  “Obviously, you don’t. Be. Quiet. When I want to hear from you, I’ll ask. If you can’t comply, then you leave and I’ll take my chances with Starfleet. Got it?”

  Without waiting for Burke’s reply, Garrett spun her chair back toward Halak and pinned him with a hard look. “Now, Commander, I want the truth. This is an inquiry. You are under oath as a Starfleet officer and a member of my crew. Don’t make me recommend you be charged with perjury. Now, on your word, as an officer in Starfleet and a member of my crew, my first officer, what the hell happened?”