Star Trek: TNG: Cold Equations II: Silent Weapons

by David Mack

  “What’s this about?”

  La Forge held up the device. “I just got a message from Data, on this quantum transmitter he gave me before he left the ship a couple of months ago. Listen.”

  He pressed one of the cylinder’s controls, and Data’s voice filled the room as if he were there with them. “Geordi, this is Data. I am on the Orion homeworld. I need your help. Please come at once.”

  “That’s the entire message,” La Forge said. “I’ve tried hailing him. He doesn’t answer.”

  Picard was troubled by the brevity of the message. “You’re certain it’s genuine?”

  “Data has the only quantum device linked to mine.” La Forge frowned. “If he sent that, he’s in trouble. And if someone else sent it posing as him, then he’s in even more trouble.”

  It was a reasonable argument, and Picard shared La Forge’s sense of obligation to their old friend, but he didn’t have the luxury of simply defying orders and abandoning his mission. He looked at Worf. “Number One? Where do we stand with the search for the Sirriam?”

  The Klingon wore his disappointment like a crown of shame. “So far, we have no leads. The Roanoke has detected no sign of a crash site on the third planet, and none of our shuttles have found any sign of the interceptor on the gas giants’ moons. If the pilots did survive a crash landing in this system . . . they likely ran out of air more than two hours ago.”

  “Then, even in our most optimistic scenario . . . those men are dead.”

  Worf breathed an angry sigh. “Yes, sir.”

  He shared his first officer’s frustration. As remote as the likelihood of a successful rescue had seemed, Picard had dared to hope they might save the lost agents and bring them home to their friends and families. But if there was no way the men could be saved, if the Enterprise’s mission to the Tirana system was now little more than a glorified salvage effort, then he had to place the needs of the living ahead of the needs of the dead, regardless of what his superiors might have to say on the matter. Still, he knew it would be wise to make certain he and his crew had at least a modicum of legal cover for their actions.

  “Number One . . . based on your reading of Starfleet’s general rules and regulations . . . would you classify Mister Data’s message to Commander La Forge as a distress signal?”

  A smirk indicated that Worf understood Picard’s implicit suggestion. “Yes. I would.”

  “Then our course of action seems clear.” Picard stepped back behind his desk. “Number One, recall our search teams and have Lieutenant Faur plot a course to Orion. Mister La Forge, when Commander Worf gives the order, we need to be ready for maximum warp. Understood?”

  La Forge smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  A devious gleam shone in Worf’s eyes. “Will you be informing Starfleet Command of our change in plans, sir?”

  Picard sat down. “I shall. Though I have been rather absent-minded of late, Number One. If I haven’t contacted Starfleet by the time we reach Orion, please remind me to do so.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Dismissed.” Worf and La Forge turned to leave. The door slid open ahead of them, but they halted at its threshold when Picard called after them. “Gentlemen?” He waited for them to turn around, then he continued. “As far as the rest of the crew is concerned, treat the reason for our change in plans as need-to-know information.”

  Both men nodded, then continued on their way. The door closed after them, leaving Picard once again sequestered with his thoughts. For a moment, he considered contacting his superiors and apprising them of Data’s call for help and the Enterprise’s response, but years of experience with Starfleet’s endless layers of bureaucracy had taught him the inestimable value of discretion; if one never asked permission, one could never be refused.

  He made his decision and resolved to stand by it. If, after all was said and done, apologies needed to be made, there would be time for that later.

  We’ve only just welcomed Data back from the dead, he reminded himself, and I quite literally owe the man my life. . . . If he needs our help, he’ll have it—no matter what.

  • • •

  Data sat in silence at the minimalist monotanium table inside the claustrophobic interrogation room, waiting to see who next would walk through its lone door. The gray thermocrete walls were bare, and feeble light came from a naked fixture high overhead. No surveillance devices were visible, but Data was sure they were there, and that he was being observed. He was shackled at his wrists and ankles with magnetic manacles. The chair beneath him—also monotanium—was bolted to the floor. It would take only a token effort for him to rip it free, and he knew at least three ways to use his internal circuits and power supply to deactivate and remove his restraints, but he knew such actions would only worsen his already poor situation.

  Though he had been moved around via transporter beams a few times in the hours since his arrest, he had noted enough details on signage and accoutrements in the institutional-looking corridor outside the interrogation room to deduce that he was being held inside the Federation Embassy. Most likely I am on one of its secure underground levels, from which I cannot be rescued by a transporter beam. According to his memory of the layout for this embassy—one of many seemingly trivial facts he had accumulated during his decades of Starfleet service—there were many layers of armed Starfleet security between him and the closest exit, and multiple redundant safeguards to prevent him from getting there.

  The door slid open. In shuffled a lumbering, bovine-featured hulk of a humanoid, a Grazerite. He wore a Starfleet uniform accented with the burgundy turtleneck of a command officer and carried a thin briefcase of brushed nickel-aluminum alloy. As the door closed, the Grazerite set his case atop the table, pulled back the chair opposite Data’s, and sat down.

  “Good morning, Mister Data.”

  “Good morning. Who are you?”

  “Lieutenant Commander Peshtal-Azda.” He extended a beefy hand, then retracted it when he realized Data was in no position to accept the friendly gesture. “I’m your attorney.”

  Data eyed him with dubious curiosity. “I do not recall asking for legal counsel.”

  “The Starfleet JAG office sent me. But don’t let that fool you—I’m actually competent.” He opened his case and took out a padd. “So, let’s see, here.” Scrolling through the files stored on the device, he subvocalized a number of worrisome murmurs. He looked up and squinted. “I want to make sure there’s been no mistake—you are Lieutenant Commander Data, yes?”

  What an odd question. “Yes.”

  Peshtal-Azda held the padd at arm’s length while squinting even harder. “No offense, but you look a bit different than your service record photo.”

  Data cracked a sly smile. “I had some work done.”

  “Apparently.” He tapped at the padd. “Has anyone told you why you’re here?”

  “Not yet.” He leaned forward, hoping for a look at the padd’s screen, but the Grazerite kept it tilted just out of view. “Am I correct in assuming I am inside the Federation Embassy?”

  The lawyer nodded. “For now. Starfleet asked the local police to pick you up, but they refused because no one can produce any evidence against you.”

  Lifting his shackles as high as he could, Data replied, “Yet I am in custody.”

  “Well, that’s because the evidentiary standard for a military tribunal is significantly lower than for a civilian criminal trial.” Data started to voice an objection, but Peshtal-Azda cut him off with a raised hand. “I know you think you’re a private citizen, but Starfleet considers you an officer on reserve status, which means you remain subject to its authority.”

  Starfleet’s regulations were vague with regard to the status of officers who were returned to life after being declared dead, but Data had no difficulty believing someone had persuaded the admiralty to reactivate his commission without his knowledge or consent. He let out a low, bitter chuckle and shook his head. “Would it be too late for me to resign?”r />
  A sour look telegraphed the lawyer’s reply. “A bit.”

  “With what crime, exactly, have I been charged?”

  “So far? Attempted breaking and entering, and criminal trespass. But there are more charges under investigation, and if the JAG office gets its way, you’ll be facing all of them.” Peshtal-Azda picked up the padd and navigated its contents with a distracted air. “My job is to defend you, here and in court. But I can’t do that unless you trust me.” He leaned forward. “Let’s start by having you answer a few questions to set up your alibi. Why are you here on Orion?”

  Data had been afraid this line of questioning was coming. “I cannot say.”

  Peshtal-Azda scowled at him. “Commander, I’m your lawyer. Anything you tell me is protected by attorney-client privilege. And don’t worry about the surveillance systems in the room—by law they have to be deactivated whenever a defense counselor is meeting with a client. Now, let’s try that question again—and answer truthfully. Why are you on Orion?”

  “I am here because of a private family matter.”

  His answer was met by narrowed eyes and a glum frown. “Can you be more specific?”

  “I can. I choose not to be.”

  The lawyer tapped a fat index finger on the tabletop. “Data, you’re in serious legal trouble, and it’s only going to get worse if you don’t cooperate with me. The JAG office tells me you met with Starfleet Intelligence section chief Hilar Tohm twice during your stay on Orion, and that she helped you acquire copies of top-secret files from the Bank of Orion. Is this true?”

  “It is.”

  “What was in the files she obtained for you?”

  He knew his next answer would not be well received, but that could not be helped. “I am sorry, counselor, but I believe you lack the requisite security clearance for that information.”

  The Grazerite made a fist, closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Then he stared at Data. “Commander, we don’t have time for this. Tell me what was in those files.”

  “I will not. Perhaps you can ask Commander Tohm to share that information with you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He wondered why his lawyer hadn’t already pursued this line of inquiry. “If you doubt my description of my business on Orion, speak with Commander Tohm. She can corroborate my explanation, and attest to the personal nature of the intelligence she shared with me.”

  Peshtal-Azda regarded Data with a long, silent glare. “Commander Tohm is dead.”

  In just four words, the true scope of Data’s legal predicament began to come into focus. He hoped his initial assumption was wrong, but he needed to be sure. “How did she die?”

  “She was murdered in her apartment, here inside the embassy compound. Medical scans have confirmed her time of death was between five and six hours before your arrest.”

  “Does the JAG office currently consider me a suspect in her murder?”

  “Let’s just say you’re definitely a ‘person of interest.’ Especially since, roughly two hours before your arrest, the energy signature of a Soong-type android was detected trying to break into the Bank of Orion.” He raised one bushy eyebrow with accusatory flair. “Do you happen to have a ready explanation for that, Commander?”

  “No.” The first sickening sensation of fear twisted in Data’s gut and filled his mind with panicked loops of questions. “I have no explanation for that whatsoever.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” The lawyer put away his padd, closed his case, and stood up. “I know you could escape. Don’t. Stay here, and don’t talk to anyone except me, about anything.” He knocked on the door. A guard on the other side unlocked and opened it. Peshtal-Azda grumbled under his breath as he left. “Why must I get all the interesting cases?”

  8

  From across the lab, Konar took note of Hain’s hunched posture over her console, her defensive, pulled-in body language. Her head was down, and though she must have heard his steps as he approached, she didn’t turn to observe him as she normally did. Even when she was engrossed in her work, she rarely exhibited a focus this intense. It boded ill.

  He stopped behind her shoulder. “I need a progress report on the Orion operation.”

  She cringed, then looked back over her shoulder. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  The update was off to an even worse start than Konar had feared. He’d already been forced to contend with unrealistic schedules, unrelenting superiors, and untested technology; now he could add a paranoid colleague to his legion of impediments. “What happened?”

  “The break-in at the bank failed.” Hain called up multiple screens of synchronized data set for accelerated playback. “This was recorded during the mission. We followed the plan the Spetzkar sent us, to the last detail.” She pointed at a map of the street grid in the Orion capital. “The team approached through the underground passage, as directed. They cut through the outer barrier, and everything seemed to be on schedule. Then Dolon hit some kind of energy field here, just inside the bank’s sublevel.” One of her screens became a jumble of code and static. “He took some heavy damage from a feedback pulse inside the field. Half his body’s motivators are fried, and there’s damage in his sensory hardware.”

  Konar studied the mission logs and was impressed by their tremendous clarity and the wealth of raw information the team had been able to relay back to the lab, even from such a great distance. “What happened next?”

  Hain skipped ahead in the data playback. “The team withdrew and used preplanned escape route six. One hour and nine minutes later, they returned to the safehouse.”

  “With Dolon?” Konar asked. Hain nodded. “Is the damage reparable?”

  “No, not with the limited resources they have.” She looked up at him, and the pitch of her voice climbed, her anxiety detectable even in the garbled noise from her vocoder. “It wasn’t my fault, sir. The mission protocols from the Spetzkar expressly forbade me from modifying the plan in any way. I couldn’t add precautions or countermand questionable tactics. All I could do was walk them into a trap. I didn’t even have the option of aborting the mission.”

  She was so excitable. If only she could master her passions, Konar thought, she could go far. But she suffers from the curse of short-term thinking. “No one will hold you accountable for the mission’s outcome. I assure you, the Spetzkar design these operations with great care and attention to detail. As long as you followed the protocol, you have no cause for concern.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, sir: there is cause for concern.” She summoned another screen of technical data. “Dolon’s sensor-blocking circuit shorted out on contact with the energy field. Before his power cell failed, he was exposed to the bank’s sensors for several seconds. During that time, he would have emitted an energy signature unique to Soong-type androids.” Her hands moved with frantic grace across her console, calling up more and more information from various sources. “The Orion police don’t seem to know what the readings mean, but they shared them with the Gorn and Starfleet ships in orbit. I don’t know if the Gorn have accurate intel on the androids, but Starfleet is almost certain to recognize it.”

  Konar saw her point. “You’re right, they will. And if we can’t repair Dolon, we can’t risk bringing him back on line. The moment he powers up, he’d lead Starfleet straight to the other three androids. Have the rest of the team dismantle him and melt him down.”

  “Destroy him? But that’ll leave only three to complete the rest of the mission.”

  “I’m aware of that. But under the circumstances, we have no choice. At best, he’s dead weight; at worst, he’s a liability that could expose the rest of the team.”

  Hain regarded her wall of screens with a posture that conveyed despair. “How are we supposed to rewrite the rest of the mission profile to work with only three androids?”

  “That’s not our concern. I’ll file my report with Command and let them deal with the loss of Dolon. As soon as they send back a revised
mission plan, we’ll proceed.”

  Even translated, Hain’s reply was rife with bitterness. “Let’s hope their next plan proves more successful than the last one.”

  He couldn’t tell her that the last plan had been more successful than it had appeared, and that it had achieved every one of its true objectives—none of which had been known to Hain. Instead, he told her the only thing that he could: “Begin preparations for Phase Two.” He walked toward the long corridor that led from the lab to his quarters, but before he started down the passageway, he turned back. “Hain.” She turned to look at him, and he saluted her with a subtle lift of his mask’s snout. “Good work.” She accepted the compliment without a word and acknowledged his praise by returning to her labors.

  There was still much to be done on Orion, Konar knew. Before it was over, he and Hain would be called upon to accomplish a feat without precedent in local history, one that would send political aftershocks throughout all of known space. And despite the enormity of what they had been asked to do, he knew that if the mission went as intended, their true roles would not be remembered by history. In the annals of the galaxy, the two of them would not merit so much as a footnote. Despite the river of blood they would be compelled to shed, they would die forgotten.

  But the Breen Confederacy would live on. It would be remembered forever.

  • • •

  From her first step inside the uplink center, Hain felt the intense, dry heat that filled the dim room. The culprit was the transmitter, a bizarre construction of black crystal infused with indigo fires unlike anything else Hain had ever seen. In addition to making possible the control of their androids across vast distances, it bled heat like a dying star.

  Arrayed at ninety-degree intervals around the transmitter were four uplink pods, bulky cylinders more than two meters long that extended from the transmitter like spokes on a wheel. Each gray cocoon was barnacled with subsystems—heat exchangers, power regulators, feedback buffers, and dozens more. Hain moved from one pod to the next, checking to make sure they were functioning correctly and that their signal outputs were correct and within tolerances.