“For example: Many officials on Rigel II are in the pocket of the First Families. They are implicated in many criminal and corrupt acts—acts that violate local planetary laws, or that would alienate their customers, partners, or power bases were they to become known. So long as they have an incentive to keep those ties secret, we can pressure them, keep them from acting too aggressively to increase the Families’ power. As long as they are free to serve the Families’ interests to a limited extent, it mollifies the Families enough that they do not push too far. But if the officials’ ties and other secrets were exposed, then they would no longer have a check on their behavior, and neither would the Families.”
“That’s . . .” Archer stopped himself from saying it was crazy. He supposed many things in human political history would seem just as irrational to an outsider. “How did a system like that ever come about?”
Ambassador Jahlet fielded that one. “It is a legacy of our history,” the beaded Jelna said. “The early Trade Commission was stabilized by the mutual exchange of secrets. The members used the leverage of those secrets as a hedge against betrayal, a deterrent against corruption and exploitation. It has actually served over time to reduce such selfish actions, to encourage us to be forthright and ethical toward one another. The keeping of secrets is a mutual responsibility for the good of all. Many of those secrets are innocuous now . . . but there are still some that hold power and danger, especially those involving the Families and others outside the united Rigel community.”
“Those who need greater ‘leverage’ to be kept in check,” T’Pol interpreted.
“Exactly,” Hemnask said. “But the stolen files could expose other secrets, secrets that are necessary for any business. Patented designs, proprietary formulas and techniques, the particulars of confidential deals and agreements. Information about a company’s health or future profit potential which could lead to insider trading or disruptive runs on the market. The Families could use this information to blackmail countless businesses across Rigel and beyond—or to intentionally destabilize them. They could cripple Rigel’s economy and weaken our ability to keep their piracy and corruption in check.”
“Or weaken your defenses,” Reed said from the screen. “Admiral, our forensic scans show evidence that the assailants beamed themselves and their captives out of the vault. They’re working with someone who has transporter technology. Maybe the Orions, the Malurians, even the Klingons. Whoever it is, they must have something to gain by undermining the RTC.”
Jahlet frowned. “But the vault is deep inside a mountain. Even transporters should not penetrate.”
Reed’s science officer, Lieutenant Sangupta, fielded that one. “They had a portable transporter relay stationed near the entrance to the mountain. It beamed them out of the vault and into its own buffer, and from there to a waiting ship.”
“Have you identified the ship?” T’Pol asked.
Sangupta grimaced. “Unfortunately, it sent out decoy signals to half the ships in orbit, several of which left orbit minutes later.”
Reed’s armory officer, Valeria Williams—whom Archer knew well, for his right-hand man Marcus Williams was her doting father—elaborated. “We and the Rigelian authorities have already searched and cleared several of them—we think they were uninvolved and just had signals beamed to them to throw us off. But we think most of the rest were deliberate decoys. And several of them made stops at other planets or stations in the system before they could be searched. They’ve had plenty of time to move their captives elsewhere—especially if they’re using transporters. Grev and Sam could be anywhere in the system by now, if they’re even still in the system.”
“It doesn’t help that this attack has elements pointing to multiple worlds,” Reed added. “Vons is from Rigel V, the killers used knives made by the hill people of Rigel IV, and the DNA evidence suggests they got past the guards using a reptilian creature native to Rigel III—something called a hypnoid, which can project telepathic illusions. Not to mention whatever offworld power provided the transporter. Our problem, Admiral,” he finished, a grimace distorting his goatee, “is that we have too many leads.”
Archer frowned, taking in the bad news. “But why would they take our people?” he asked.
“The secure files are heavily encrypted,” Hemnask replied. “Even Vons would not be able to access them without at least two other directors’ codes. Starfleet communications officers are renowned for their skills with language and translation. Code breaking is a similar art.”
“And, sir,” Hoshi Sato said to Archer, “I know Ensign Grev. He’s got a real gift for languages, and he’s studied all my methods for translation and decryption—even improved on a couple.”
T’Pol considered. “The historian may have been taken to help assess the context and relevance of the deciphered data. Or perhaps he is simply a hostage for Mister Grev’s cooperation.”
“They are friends,” Reed verified. “But then, most everyone on Pioneer is a friend of Grev’s. We’re determined to get him back any way we can. And Mister Kirk, of course.”
“You will have the Commission’s full cooperation,” Hemnask told him.
“I appreciate the gesture, Director,” Reed said. “But we both know your highest priority is the recovery of your archives.”
“And it must be yours as well, Captain,” T’Pol told him, “given the risk to the stability of the Rigelian system if they are not recovered in time.”
Reed exchanged a look with her for a moment, then nodded. “Of course, Captain. I understand.” Archer knew that Malcolm Reed would be the first to remind him of a Starfleet officer’s duty to sacrifice oneself for others. If Grev and Kirk had absorbed any of their captain’s values, Archer knew they would both place the archive’s rescue—or destruction—over their own survival, given the need to choose. But being captain, Archer also knew, had a way of changing a person’s perspective. Sacrificing those under one’s command was a far harder call to make than sacrificing oneself.
But he shouldn’t have to bear that burden alone, Archer decided. He turned to Commander Sato. “Hoshi, contact Babel and have them send up a shuttlepod for myself and the Rigelian delegates.” As Sato acknowledged the order and began to carry it out, he turned to T’Pol. “Captain, as soon as we disembark, I want you to head for Rigel, best speed. You’re going to join Pioneer in searching for our people.”
On the viewer, Reed looked hurt. “I see. Well, if you think that’s necessary, sir . . .”
Archer could guess what Malcolm was thinking. He hadn’t been a captain very long, and T’Pol was his former commanding officer. And Reed always had been prone to a certain insecurity. “I have every confidence in you and your crew, Malcolm,” Archer assured him. “These are your people, and there’s nobody who’ll fight harder to bring them home safe. But you know the situation. Rigel’s a huge system, so the more ships we have searching, the better our chances.”
Reed straightened and nodded stiffly, not looking very reassured. “Understood, sir. You’ll have our full cooperation, Captain T’Pol.”
“Thank you, Captain Reed.”
Archer smiled at T’Pol’s emotional insight—stressing Reed’s title to demonstrate her respect for his authority. Speaking of which . . . He turned to the Rigelians. “That is, if it’s all right with you.”
“Of course, Admiral,” Hemnask said. “Starfleet sensors are significantly more sensitive than any we have. A second starship is more than welcome.”
“Thank you, Director. Shall we?” At Hemnask’s nod, he escorted her and Jahlet to the turbolift. “Good luck, T’Pol. Malcolm.”
The captains acknowledged his benediction and he left. Once in the lift, Hemnask studied him. “Do humans truly believe that luck guides the outcome of events? That such a blessing will bring some favorable cosmic influence to bear?”
“Once, I guess. These days it’s more just an expression of hope. Letting someone know that you wish them success.” He thought for
a moment. “Personally, I think success comes from the effort and determination we put into achieving our goals.”
“Then should you not say ‘good effort’?”
He smiled. “That’s just it. With captains like T’Pol and Malcolm Reed, I don’t have to say it. I already know I’ll get it.”
Tregon, Rigel V
“We do not need outside assistance,” Jemer Zehron insisted. Though the Jelna endomale’s words were nominally addressed to his fellow directors, he was all but glaring toward Travis Mayweather. As this was an impromptu emergency session, Mayweather and the board members were in a small, secure meeting room rather than the council hall, and while there was a table present, the four had all chosen to stand. “This is the Commission’s responsibility, and we should deal with it ourselves.”
“Do not be obtuse, Jemer,” intoned Director Sajithen. The Chelon clicked her beak and clutched the hems of her ornate robe. “We need every available resource to search for the missing archives.” She peered through hooded eyes at the other two directors present. “And there are other factors to consider.”
“That’s right,” Director Tenott agreed, gesturing with a stubby yellow finger. “Pioneer personnel were taken as well. They have a stake in the search themselves.”
“Thank you,” Mayweather told the Xarantine.
“While that is true,” Sajithen acknowledged, “it is not what I meant. This raid was an inside job. Vons may not be the only one who was compromised. He may not have been working alone.”
Tenott scoffed. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that Sedra was involved! She has more reason to hate the Families than any of us.”
“We all have our secrets—as you well know, Nop. Like certain payoffs for an environmental inspector on Colony Three to look the other way?”
Tenott wrinkled his noseless face. “You know I made amends for that mistake years ago. I worked hard to restore the dome’s stability. What, what about Jemer?” the colonial director went on, gesturing toward his counterpart from Rigel II. “He’s taken kickbacks from Family-run businesses before.”
Zehron ignored the charge, instead keeping his red-eyed gaze on Sajithen. “And you’re so pristine, you sanctimonious reptile? If certain radical ties were to come out—”
“As I said,” Sajithen interrupted, bowing toward him with sardonic courtesy, “we all have secrets. This is the value of accepting Starfleet assistance. An outside, neutral party—”
“And are you so sure their hands are clean? Undermining our authority could serve their interests, open a power vacuum they could fill. Maybe they faked the abduction to conceal their collusion.”
“Excuse me,” Mayweather said, his words far more polite than his tone. He’d been listening patiently up to now, but he’d had enough. He stepped forward and loomed over Zehron. “We did not fake the death of Kenji Mishima. He was a member of our crew, part of our family, and we have to grieve for him. Our captain is going to have to write a letter to his mother and his kid sisters back on Alpha Centauri, explaining why he’s never coming home again. Now, I know you aren’t thrilled about the idea of joining the Federation. But that’s no excuse to use a good man’s death as fodder for playing politics.”
The Jelna’s red eyes met his unflinchingly for some moments . . . and then the director’s expression softened marginally. “You are correct, Commander. It was inappropriate. I apologize.”
“On behalf of Crewman Mishima,” Mayweather told him, “I accept your apology.”
The room was quiet for a moment. But then Mayweather began to pace before the directors, meeting their eyes one by one. “Now. We’ve got a time-sensitive situation here. If there’s anything you know that might help us get a handle on where to look, now’s the time to speak up.”
Sajithen rumbled in her throat. “What concerns me most is the use of hypnoids,” the Chelon said. “They are rare creatures—for obvious reasons, difficult to capture. And not easy to train, either. Only certain isolated tribes in the inland forests are adept at finding and taming the beasts.” She hesitated. “Tribes that . . . have ties to a radical nationalist faction on Three. Chelons who believe we are still treated as a backward minority, imposed upon by those who consider themselves our betters.”
“Oh, imagine that,” Zehron muttered. “Leading a primitive existence in the wilds, and they complain that we consider them backward.”
Sajithen made an effort to ignore him. “What they wish most, Commander, is to eliminate what they see as offworld domination. Their militant leanings have been kept in check by . . . certain sympathizers in official positions, who are able to offer peaceful alternatives for advancing their agendas.”
Okay, Travis thought. The look on Zehron’s face reinforced the first officer’s suspicion that those sympathizers included Sajithen herself, though Zehron could not be considered the most trustworthy observer. “So if they don’t like offworld interference, why would they work with the Families and whoever provided the transporters? I assume the Families couldn’t have just stolen the hypnoids—they would’ve needed help to train them.”
“Exactly. What I fear is that they may have made a deal with the most radical nationalists. If the archives’ secrets are revealed, those officials’ ties to the radicals will be exposed, nullifying their appearance of legitimacy and their ability to keep the radicals in check. The result could be open revolt.”
Mayweather frowned. “But what would the Families get out of that?”
“It could weaken the Commission if our members were fighting among themselves,” Zehron replied. “Or divert our effort and resources to Three while they pursued goals elsewhere.”
“Like Two,” Tenott said, “where we know they crave more overt control.”
“Or the Colonies,” Zehron shot back, “where they collude with out-system syndicates or governments seeking an illicit edge.”
Are they always like this? Mayweather wondered. Were they rehashing what were clearly old arguments in hopes of convincing him to take their sides, or was it a habit they’d carry on even without a spectator?
“We can figure that out later,” Mayweather told the directors. “If we know where the kidnappers got the hypnoids, then that’s our lead. We need to track those people down and find out what they know.”
“They will not listen to you,” Sajithen said. “Only to another Chelon. One they know and trust.”
“Can you suggest anybody?” he asked as innocently as he could manage.
She emitted a series of rapid-fire clicks that seemed equivalent to a resigned sigh. “I am from those parts. It would be best if I accompanied you myself.”
“I really appreciate it, Director. It’d be fastest if we took Pioneer . . .”
“Ahh, perhaps your vessel would be more useful elsewhere,” Tenott said. “Our search for the ship that traveled to the colonies around Six has hit a snag. Our scans lost their trail in a shipyard facility. While your drives would be trivially faster than ours over interplanetary distances, your sensor systems may be better able to search than ours.”
“You are welcome to accompany me in one of our ships,” Sajithen said, “while Pioneer tends to that matter. That is, if you agree, Commander.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Mayweather said. “I’ll clear it with the captain.” He glanced toward Zehron. “I don’t suppose you have anything helpful to suggest.”
“Only that you not raise your hopes,” the pale-skinned director said. “The abductors have gone to great effort to impede your ability to track down your crewmen. Wherever you go, you will likely face deceptions, traps, and other dangers. If you and your crew come through them alive, it may well be too late to stop the exposure of our secret files.”
The commander met his spiel with an irritated glare. “Do you have a better idea?”
Zehron smirked. “Not at all. I enjoy a good gamble. I’m simply reminding you, Commander . . . that the odds always favor the house.”
7
June
19, 2164
Orion homeworld
DEVNA’S HOPES WERE RAISED when she was told she would be servicing a human.
The last human male she had encountered, last year on Rigel V, had been a member of Starfleet’s most secret, off-book intelligence agency, sent to stymie the Three Sisters’ plan to manipulate the Federation into a potentially crippling war. He had interrogated Devna’s handler, learning that she was no mere sex worker but, in fact, an Orion Syndicate agent using her seductive arts to goad a Federation commissioner into embracing a more aggressive policy. The fair-haired Starfleet operative had confiscated her knife before confronting her and was somehow immune to her pheromonal allure. She had been at his mercy, and he could have easily arrested or assassinated her. And yet, instead, he had spoken to her kindly, reasoned with her in a way no male ever had. He had shown her his vulnerabilities and extended his trust, prompting her to respond in kind. In exchange for being allowed to go free, she had alerted him to a planned raid in the Deneb system. It had not been the Sisters’ true endgame by a long shot, but it had been enough to appease Starfleet and make them feel they had scored a victory. More important to her, though, it had been a gift—a gesture of gratitude to the one man who’d ever earned it from her. She still did not know that man’s name—though she had her suspicions. She had searched for his face in computer records and discovered that he bore a strong resemblance to the deceased Commander Charles Tucker of the Earth vessel Enterprise—the very man who had defeated the Three Sisters’ attempt to capture that ship years ago. If he truly were the same man, having been bested by him would be something of an honor. Yet she had kept this suspicion to herself, as another gift.
Devna had paid for it, of course. She had been spared physical punishment, for her master Parrec-Sut knew she had been conditioned to derive pleasure from pain; but she had been stripped of her privileges as an agent and infiltrator and reduced to the lowest level of sex slave, existing only to service the whims and fetishes of any who would have her. Devna had accepted this fate philosophically, aware that it could have been far worse. Devna had gambled that Parrec-Sut and his own superiors, the Sisters, would understand the strategic calculus behind her choice. Giving up Deneb had let her escape and preserve a valuable intelligence asset for the Syndicate with minimal consequences to their long-term objectives. The short-term loss of revenue had been offset by the gain of making Starfleet complacent. It had been a risky move on her part, but one that had shown initiative. She knew that Navaar appreciated such qualities in her agents. That was surely why Devna was still alive.
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