by Ilsa J. Bick
“How did they know to start looking, Captain?” Tyvan asked. “Did you inquire?”
Garrett and Stern exchanged glances. “You want to answer that?” asked Garrett.
“Not really.” Stern fidgeted an instant then said, “Me.” She continued, a little defensively as if someone were about to take her to task for going behind her captain’s back, “I got an old friend on the horn. I asked him to do some checking up on a couple of things, and he asked questions, and that got back to Batanides, and then she started digging around, and well,” Stern’s voice trailed off. She punctuated the silence with a shrug.
“Okay,” said Tyvan, in the silence. He gave Stern a bland look. “Just asking. Didn’t know if I’d been making myself too scarce to have been in the loop.”
“Good thing she did,” said Garrett, amused despite the current situation. Ah, Jo, someone who gives as good as he gets, how do you like them apples? “Anyway, there’s no doubt. Burke’s ship was sabotaged. The recovery team found traces of divalent triceron.”
“An explosive,” said Glemoor. “Very powerful, highly unstable. Also illegal.”
“Clearly, whoever blew up Burke’s shuttle wanted to make it look like an accident, or pilot error. Starfleet Intelligence thinks the Qatala planted the bomb.”
“And Burke’s body?” asked Bat-Levi.
“Vaporized. Burke also had a passenger. Batanides said that Burke had been undercover for months, infiltrating the Qatala. Her mission was to make contact, gather information, and, if possible, secure a contact willing to turn on the Qatala and provide detailed information on the Qatala’s drug distribution network as well as arms sales to various parties, particularly the Cardassians. Two weeks ago, the real Burke informed SI that she’d secured a contact and was on her way back.”
“Any idea about the contact?”
“Not a clue. Starfleet Intelligence believes that someone caught on to Burke and alerted Qadir, who then arranged for her accident. That way, Qadir could take care of Burke and the traitor at the same time.”
“I’ll wager the Burke we saw was the real Burke’s passenger,” said Tyvan.
“Probably, and the person Qadir used for the job. Except she seems to have her own agenda.” Garrett nodded toward Bulast. “What do you have?”
“I ran an analysis on Burke’s transmission to Starfleet,” said Bulast. “Remember, she was the one who gave me the coded frequencies. By filtering successive frequencies, I found a coned signal inside a real secured channel, like a hand in a glove. This coned signal rerouted the Enterprise’s transmissions to a subspace transceiver programmed with Starfleet authorization codes. You talked to the real Batanides at first, of course; that’s how Burke was able to get aboard the ship. Thereafter, you were talking, for all practical purposes, to a computer program. If we’d been on visual, which we weren’t, you’d have seen a holographic projection. The technology exists, of course; it’s a variant of cloaking technology, but more primitive. When I traced the subspace transceiver signals, I found they emanated from Enterprise, specifically from a shielded compartment in the floor panels of that shuttle Halak brought back from Farius Prime. Burke probably planted the transceiver when she searched the shuttle. She had to have stolen the transceiver, though. It’s programmed with top-secret authorization codes that SI confirms are the genuine article. Anyway, this probably explains why we were ordered to the Draavids. Burke must have known that, eventually, Starfleet would contact us with news about the real Burke, or that we might use another channel to raise Starfleet. The nebulae were insurance; it kept us in a communications blackout.”
“But they—she, whoever she is—had to know we’d find the transceiver eventually,” said Bat-Levi. “Why leave it behind?”
Garrett scooped her auburn hair with her hand, wincing as she tugged on her scalp wound. Gingerly, she fingered the lump on her forehead. Stern was right; the lump was the size of a small orange. “I think eventually is the operative term. All she needed was to get away, and she has. But I’ll just bet those records Burke found in Halak’s log and the shuttle are fakes. Bulast, any word from the V’Shar?”
“Confirmation received just before you called this briefing, Captain. Vulcan Space Central reports that the warp shuttle T’Pol disappeared twelve days ago. The shuttle’s last known position was 30 light-years from Farius Prime. Sivek really is a V’Shar operative, only he’s really quite dead: murdered. Body was found today in a cave outside Naweeth City, on Vulcan.”
Bat-Levi was shaking her head. “Captain, who are these people? And what do they want with Commander Halak?”
Garrett weighed her response. “I think it’s safe to assume that these people are Qadir confederates. That would explain why they know so much about Halak. Some of what they presented is, apparently, the genuine article—Halak’s family, the Qatala connection, and the falsified information he gave on his Academy application.”
She waited for the general shuffling as her crew absorbed that to die away before continuing. “As for why they want him, I don’t know. Right now I don’t care. Our job is to find him and worry about the rest later.”
Bat-Levi gave a little laugh. “It’s a big galaxy, Captain.”
“A ... what do you call it?” Glemoor frowned then brightened. “Needle in a haystack, yes?”
“Worse,” muttered Kodell.
“Not necessarily.” Garrett glanced at Stern. “Doctor?”
Stern crossed her arms over her chest. “I examined Halak before he left the ship, and I injected him with a nanosubcu-transponder. And no,” she glowered at Tyvan as if daring him to make an issue of it, “there was no loop, and no one ordered me to do it. Did it all on my own. Captain Garrett didn’t know a thing. Just had a feeling, that’s all.”
There was a moment of shocked silence. A beat-pause. Garrett saw Tyvan hide a grin behind his hand. Then Bulast said, “Well, okay. All I’ll need is the transponder code. You get me that, and we backtrack, I’ll find him.”
“But they could have gone anywhere from there. Like I said, it’s a big universe,” said Bat-Levi. “Really big.”
“Well, SI’s got some ideas about that,” said Garrett, hoping her tone didn’t betray a shred of the anxiety she felt. Then she told them.
This time the silence lasted for a good thirty seconds. Kodell broke it. “Cardassian. Space. Cardassian?”
“Oh, this just keeps getting better and better,” said Stern.
“Well, not exactly Cardassian,” said Garrett, with no more inflection than if they were talking about Halak being in orbit around Mars, or somewhere equally benign, and not somewhere in the tinderbox of disputed Cardassian space. “SI thinks. They’re not sure, and they didn’t really get into why they think that he’s even there.”
“You mean, they decided we didn’t have to know,” said Kodell, a man who, in Garrett’s opinion, never minced words. He was prickly—downright obstinate, sometimes—but she actually liked him more because he spoke his mind.
“Maybe.” And then because Garrett didn’t like SI anymore than Kodell did: “Yes.”
“Ah,” said Glemoor, “then they want to play, how do you call it? Russian roulette. Only we are the ones pulling the trigger of our own pistol.”
Bat-Levi frowned. “What’s Russian roulette?” When Glemoor explained, she made a disparaging noise. “That’s a stupid game. You could end up getting killed.”
Kodell looked baleful. “Which is why they’re sending us in.”
Garrett eyed Kodell. “You have a problem?”
“Frankly, yes. With all due respect, Captain, we’ve just come through a run-in with a black hole. We’re lucky there’s only minor hull damage from radiation pitting, but the inertial dampers are just a little cranky, and our gravity could use some work. I’m not happy with the antimatter injectors, either. Now you’re talking space that’s in dispute between the Federation and the Cardassians. We all know about the Cardassians. Shoot first, and shoot later. Now, we’re being as
ked to go in covertly. How long before the Cardassians claim we’re making incursions into their territory, and do the same to us? We show up without authorization, we spark a conflict, and if we’re forced into a fight, I can’t vouch for the ship.”
“Well then, you’ll be pleased to know that our orders are not to fight. Our orders are not to engage the Cardassians. Our orders are to locate Commander Halak, period.”
Kodell was undaunted. “You mean, evade the Cardassians, find Halak, and apprehend this Burke and Sivek, or whoever they are because if Halak’s there, so are they. That’s the real agenda, Captain, and that’s business for Starfleet Intelligence.”
“But Halak’s one of us,” said Bat-Levi.
“I know that,” said Kodell. “I’m just pointing out the risks involved, and it’s justification I’m asking about. Why doesn’t Starfleet Intelligence just send their people after Burke and Sivek, retrieve Halak, and then go from there? Personally, I don’t think they care one bit about Halak. All they care about is what happens to their own.”
“And it comes down to that, doesn’t it, Mr. Kodell?” asked Garrett. “Caring for your own people? Normally, I’d agree with you on SI cleaning up after itself. To tell the truth, I intend to file a formal protest with Starfleet Command, after. Batanides hasn’t been on the up and up. No intelligence agency ever is. I accept that, but I move on, Mr. Kodell, because it’s my job. Make no mistake. Until we understand the whole truth, I’m unwilling to throw a member of my crew on my ship to the wolves.”
She spared Glemoor a brief admonishing glance: Don’t ask. Now, she reasoned, was not the time to explain the vagaries of aphorisms. “This is not a debate, Mr. Kodell, nor is it a democracy. We have our orders. If it were captain’s discretion, I would make the same decision. We get Halak. Then we decide what to do after that.”
Kodell wasn’t put off. “And the Cardassians, Captain?”
“If that’s where Halak is, and if Cardassians show up, we don’t fight. Period. Nothing provocative.” She didn’t add that she understood their presence was likely provocation enough. “We defend ourselves, if need be.”
Kodell looked displeased but said nothing more. Shortly after, Garrett dismissed them with orders to rendezvous with the U.S.S. Blakely, also in that sector, and transport the survivors from the colony ship to that vessel before proceeding. Except for Stern, the rest filed out without conversation—at least, within earshot.
Stern waited until the briefing room door hissed shut. “He hit it on the head, you know.”
“Please.” Closing her eyes, Garrett pinched the bridge of her nose between her right thumb and index finger. Her head was raging. Concussions, she concluded, were worse than any migraine. “Not you, too. Glemoor’s bad enough.”
“I see we’re on the same page,” Stern said, straight-faced. “Isn’t it nice that I don’t have to explain every idiomatic expression?”
“You hanging around for a reason, or just on general principle?”
“Two things. Want the bad news, or the observation first?”
Garrett groaned. “What?”
“I told you I asked Mac to do some digging around. Damn good thing he did; it alerted Batanides to check up on Burke. But here’s another thing he found: those autopsy reports on Thex and Strong.”
“Halak’s crewmembers from the Ryn mission. And?”
“Thex’s autopsy results were consistent with death as a result of his injuries.”
“Oh.” Garrett blinked. “Well, that’s not bad.”
Stern held up a hand. “Wait. Strong’s results were a little more problematic.”
“No explosive decompression?”
“Oh, no, there was that.” Stern made a face. “You don’t tend to miss that, air-filled spaces like heads and guts and lungs popping tending to be fairly splashy.”
“But?”
“But a more detailed analysis of Strong’s intact tissues does not demonstrate persuasive evidence of a preexisting hypoxia.”
“Jo, in English.”
“Rachel, he wasn’t suffocating. He had plenty of air. Halak said Strong popped his seal because he was desperate for air. Halak’s story fits, if you’re hypoxic. People do the damnedest things in those situations. But the evidence says that Strong wasn’t that far gone. In fact, Halak’s tissues demonstrated a more severe and sustained hypoxia than Strong’s, and that does jibe. Strong’s suit was damaged and Halak said that he gave the lion’s share of Thex’s air to Strong to compensate. But the bottom line, Rachel: When Strong died, he had plenty of air. Strong had no reason to pop that seal. Absolutely. None. Burke, or whoever she is ... she was right.”
“Oh, hell.” Garrett exhaled, closed her eyes. “Hell.”
“Told you it was bad.”
“Damn it, Jo.” Garrett fixed Stern with a despairing look. “Where is the truth anywhere here?”
“Beats the hell out of me. But that brings me to my observation. Since when did we volunteer for the espionage business?”
“When Starfleet Command volunteered us.” Garrett sighed. She was so tired of lies and subterfuge. “Look, I know Kodell’s got a point. I even agree: Starfleet Intelligence isn’t being straight with us—not that anyone is, it seems. Burke and Sivek—I guess I’ll just call them that until I know who they really are—they’re only part of the equation. There’s something else SI knows, or suspects but doesn’t want to say. Something the Cardassians have, or SI thinks they have.”
“Like?”
“Theory? The Cardassians are into expansion. We know that. So maybe they’re developing a new weapons system. Cloaking technology, maybe. I don’t know. I’ll tell you one thing, though.” Garrett looked grim. “This isn’t about drugs, not anymore.”
“If it ever was,” said Stern.
Garrett made a vague gesture with one hand. “Oh, Starfleet cares about the Qatala, and the Orion Syndicate, but they’re much smaller headaches compared to the Cardassians. In the end, the Cardassians are a bigger threat than all the red ice the Qatala or Syndicate can deliver. Starfleet’s out to prevent a war before it can start.”
“Well, let’s hope we don’t give the Cardassians an excuse.” Stern scraped her chair back and stood. “You know, Rachel, you said you didn’t want to throw Halak to the wolves. I’m with you on that, if for nothing else than I want to understand what’s going on once and for all. But you sure as hell didn’t say anything about a lion’s den.”
Chapter 28
Stewing in his own juices: that’s what Dalal would’ve said. This was apt, seeing as he hadn’t showered in two days or changed his clothes. Halak had turned things over so many times in his head, his brain felt like a bruised apple. Things just didn’t compute. First, Starfleet Intelligence showed up. Then they produced records. Some of them were true. Most of them weren’t. They claimed Dalal never existed and that Arava was gone. And then to top it all off, after disgracing him in front of his captain and crewmates, SI wanted him to do them a favor. Actually, blackmail was more like it. They needed a fall guy, pure and simple. So they’d picked Halak, just as they’d done before.
A fall guy. Halak lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling of his tiny quarters, finding nothing of interest there and not expecting there to be anything of interest in the near, or distant future. He had nowhere to go, no place to be. Well, not yet, anyway. Soon enough: Burke said they’d come out of warp within the next five hours. Then things were bound to get dicey, and Halak probably wouldn’t have time to ponder an obscure idiom that so neatly summed up his situation. Glemoor would have been pleased.
First scenario: If anything went wrong—if the Cardassians discovered him—he’d be the one who took the blame for Starfleet Intelligence. He’d be painted as a rogue officer who’d escaped while in custody and gone off on some personal vendetta.
Or second scenario: If he didn’t run into the Cardassians but managed to end up getting himself killed in the process—by one of Qadir’s men, s
ay—Starfleet Intelligence still came up smelling like roses (an idiom even Glemoor understood without requiring an explanation). Getting himself killed would tidy things up considerably for Starfleet Intelligence, actually. It might even be preferable because it would prove SI’s theory that Halak had been in on Qadir’s network of operations all along.
Either way, it was win-win for SI, with Halak the loser in any scenario except one. He just might succeed.
“Are we absolutely clear on this?” Burke had asked after she’d explained what Starfleet Intelligence wanted. “Do you understand exactly what you’re supposed to do?”
Halak had nodded. After recovering from the initial shock of Burke’s overture, Halak had listened, very carefully, as the Starfleet Intelligence agent outlined the mission. So he understood the implications, perfectly. “No problem on the details. I think the gist is that I’m supposed to do something fairly illegal. Trespass into disputed territory, secure the specs and schematics of this intradimensional portal, or whatever you call it, then manage to get back to the T’Pol without getting caught by the Cardassians, or murdered by one of Qadir’s men who you claim are, at this very moment, crawling all over the same area, looking for a portal that may, or may not exist. I just don’t get why you think this portal exists at all. On the basis of what? A couple of legends about a race no one knows for sure existed?”
“The fact that the Qatala’s financing this operation tells us something,” said Burke. “Money may not mean anything to us, but there are many to whom it does. It comes down to this, Halak. If the Hebitians were on this planet, then they got there somehow. Ships, maybe. But a portal is much more likely given what the Cardassians believe about them. The Cardassians have never, so far as we know, found any artifacts consistent with a spacefaring race. So if they’re Hebitian ruins, they got there through a portal. It’s the only explanation.”
