Takedown

by John Jackson Miller

  That meant she was dead.

  There was no time to feel regret, no time to feel guilt. Such a foolish woman, denying her chance to have everything. It was all up to him, now. There was no time to waste.

  D’varian began moving under cloak toward the tumbling station. The Federation defenders were ahead, occupied in combat with the other renegades. He would not attack the Far Embassy directly; Picard’s presence aboard it prevented him from acting with lethal force. But his allies in the other starships still thought the station empty—and he could help them by uncloaking in the right spot and breaking the line Enterprise had established with the other ships. Then his colleagues would destroy the Far Embassy, preventing the Cytherians from creating any more rivals for them.

  He would beam the holographic Riker’s body and the mobile emitter right out of the wreckage—and the future would be his.

  D’varian neared the Federation line. Too easy.

  FAR EMBASSY

  Picard knelt at the Romulan woman’s side. “She’s convulsing,” he said. “I think she’s been poisoned. She needs sickbay!”

  “Aventine’s sensors say the transport inhibitor went online again when the power started coming back,” Riker said.

  He turned. Caster was aware now, if woozy. Behind him, Proctor was only beginning to stir. Caster looked on the humans for a moment—and brightened with recognition. “Picard. Riker.”

  The admiral wasted no time with pleasantries. “Caster, this woman needs help,” Riker said. “We have to use our transporter to send her to our vessel. Will you deactivate your inhibitor field?”

  Caster stared for a moment at Picard and the fallen woman, as if trying to focus. Then his eyes widened—and then narrowed, as he appeared to concentrate. “Inactive,” he said.

  Picard hit his badge, ready to call back to Aventine to have the Romulan woman beamed to sickbay—when he saw her dematerialize. He let out a deep breath when he remembered that everything the holographic Riker saw, the real Riker saw. And he had access to Aventine’s systems.

  Which meant he saw something else. “D’varian’s uncloaked behind Enterprise,” Riker said. “Dax can’t get to her. The line’s broken. We’re in danger—all of us.”

  “Regret, remorse,” the enormous floating head said. A blast shook the station. “Newfriends offended. Difficulties unnecessary.”

  Picard got to his feet. “Our difficulties are outside—in the form of the people whose minds were altered by your technologies. Can you do something?”

  Caster’s big white eyebrows furrowed in concentration. His voice rumbled. “Something done.”

  D’VARIAN

  D’varian pummeled Enterprise’s shields from port and Titan’s from starboard—and from the brig, Bretorius watched as the Cardassian, Tholian, and Klingon ships broke away, racing for the Far Embassy. Aventine was giving chase, but it was a futile effort. The renegades were working together, he could tell, focusing their attacks on a point on the outer surface of the Far Embassy’s drum. He would need to keep the other Federations ships busy for only another moment.

  Then a funny feeling came over him. It was a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. An old familiar feeling.

  The feeling of being the old Bretorius.

  “No,” Bretorius said, seeing the lights go out on the Taibak Indoctrinator. “No, no! No!”

  He struggled to get out of the restraints. In vain.

  AVENTINE

  “Ready fire on three targets,” Bowers ordered. “I don’t know if we’ll make it, Captain. They’ve got too much of a jump.”

  Dax knew it. But something else had drawn her attention. “The renegades. They’ve stopped firing on the station.” She blinked. “Keep approaching—but hold fire. I think something might have changed.”

  “Good instincts, Captain,” Riker said over the communications systems. “All Federation ships, cease fire. Hold position. Let’s see what they do.”

  Dax’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know, Admiral?”

  “Caster has just revoked the Cytherian powers granted to the seven other diplomats. Anyone running their vessels through a mental interface is out of luck. They won’t be able to control a thing now.”

  “You said the seven others,” Dax said. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “No change down here in the VIP suite,” Riker said. The disappointment in his voice was clear. “I think I’m being kept after school for something.”

  Forty-seven

  Starfleet had learned long ago that while the universal translator could translate the words, it wasn’t always able to capture larger meanings. Picard had experienced that most memorably on El-Adrel with the Tamarian named Dathon and his language based on myths and metaphors. By contrast, the Cytherians used the exact words they meant to; they just used so few of them that listening to a complicated story was an exercise in extrapolation.

  Caster had spoken long enough that Picard and Riker had picked up the gist. When Proctor had roused—and realized the new situation—she had become willing to talk, too. Her perspective helped enormously.

  The Cytherians were, as Picard had expected, beyond simple concepts like political factions. It wasn’t even clear they were all distinct individuals. But the female face, Proctor, appeared to represent forces in their society opposed to contact. The Cytherians had things to attend to in their own realm; to Proctor, Caster’s earlier activities sending out probes was a childish act. To her, he was like one obsessed with a game, wasting time trying to interact with creatures whose lives had no real bearing on what happened in Cytherian society.

  However, nearly twenty years earlier, Caster caught a bite—and reeled in the Enterprise-D. And while Picard and his crew could not have known it at the time, their meeting had forever changed the Cytherians.

  Two decades were both a heartbeat and an eternity to them. The dissension among the Cytherians—who might even have been different personality aspects of the same being, for all the two Starfleet officers knew—grew heated. And it only worsened as Caster, having learned so much from his encounter with the Federation, set upon a new plan.

  The Enterprise-D had provided knowledge of many of the Federation’s neighboring races in its visit. The Cytherian simply had to see them for himself. But he had learned that individuals didn’t always like to be taken against their will to the center of the galaxy to meet curious aliens. It was only right and proper for the Cytherians to do the venturing.

  Caster designed a new probe, intended to be inhabited: a first of its kind for the Cytherians. It was a starship designed to carry a fragment of Caster’s persona, with a subspace link to the rest of it back home. Just as Riker, tied into Aventine’s computer, was able to make the holo-Riker act for him, Caster was able to partially inhabit the Far Embassy and its systems.

  He designed the vessel for friendship. It bore no weapons, no shielding. He used the schematics Enterprise-D had shared to add docking interfaces for several of the cultures he expected to meet in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants. Caster had learned from his visitors exactly how to contact the Federation and its neighbors. He would arrive—and reach out to all in the name of galactic peace and harmony.

  But reaching out ran afoul of what Proctor—and the forces she represented—thought was right and proper. Caster calling outsiders to the center of the galaxy to visit was bad enough; this presaged even wider contacts—and not all Cytherians thought that was a good idea. It wasn’t that they were xenophobes; neither was it a case of a good-intentioned Prime Directive–style fear of negative consequences for the less advanced races being contacted. Even now, Picard couldn’t quite tell what the reason was.

  “It’s almost like a hobby Proctor doesn’t want to compete with,” Riker said. But that wasn’t quite right, either. Sometimes Caster spoke of Proctor as a teacher and mother; sometimes as a spouse; sometimes as a daughter or charge. Whatever the roles were in Cytherian society, they were multidimensional and jumbled.

  And Caster’s
impending voyage promised to create enough havoc for the Cytherian family that Proctor had been moved to drastic measures. During the construction of the Far Embassy, she had implanted a fragment of her own consciousness aboard the vessel. She had triggered it to awaken on arrival in the Paulson Nebula, before Caster’s being emerged from hibernation. Locking him out of the vessel’s controls, she set about the next stage of her plan.

  It was never Proctor’s intention to harm any living being: that was anathema even to Cytherians who disagreed about everything else. But she could scare Caster’s prospective friends away from ever wanting to interact with the Cytherians again, like a mother warning off the undesirable neighbor children. Or, as Riker put it, “She was lighting a fire to scare off the wildlife.” The Far Embassy had arrived, and Proctor would start a fire with it. It would not cause death, but it would cause chaos—and it would ultimately be traceable back to the Cytherians.

  That was key. Of course, the affected powers would discover the Cytherians’ involvement. Of course, they would track the mischief back to the Far Embassy, and the false invitations she had sent to lure the locals to the assembly center. Everyone was supposed to turn on the Cytherians. They could never counterattack, not really; the Cytherians lived too far away.

  But the peoples of the region would never again want to interact with them. And that would be the end of Caster’s friendly exchanges.

  As a secondary measure, she had sent her thralls to target subspace arrays—particularly those that might be able to pierce the long distances to the Cytherians’ region of the galaxy. The Cytherians knew about the location of many of the long-range stations from their own observations; that was why they had sent their earlier probe to the Argus Array. They had learned about other stations from the Enterprise; quite a few were located near the Paulson and Azure Nebulae, not far from where Federation, Klingon, and Romulan territories converged. Every one of those arrays threatened Cytherian peace and order, as Proctor saw it.

  The destruction of dozens of arrays would not block all future communications with the Cytherians. But it would reduce such contacts in number, all while turning the natives against the alien puppeteers.

  It was a bold play, Picard thought. And efficient: attacking only communications arrays offered minimal casualties while provoking maximum panic. All of that fear and anger would bubble up, ready to boil over—just in time for the Cytherian hand to be seen. Picard thought about this as he looked up at Proctor, bobbing mutely above the table to Caster’s left. He fully understood her strategy now. “She’s Catherine de’ Medici.”

  “Local-context comparative,” Caster said, interested. “Elucidate.”

  Picard watched Proctor as she floated beneath the high ceiling. “Mother to three French kings on our planet Earth—and behind the scenes, the most powerful woman on her continent in her century.” Picard explained. “Some believe she provoked the incident that led to the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, killing off her religious rivals.”

  Riker nodded in agreement, quoting: “  ‘A false report, if believed . . . may be of great service to a government.’ ”

  Picard smiled. “I didn’t know you were aware of her story, Admiral.”

  “I’ve learned all sorts of things lately,” Riker said. “I also know that the situation quickly got out of Catherine’s control.” He eyed Proctor. “You thought you could frame Caster and have the natives turn their ire on the Cytherians. But you didn’t consider what the natives might do to each other in the process. You could well have started an interstellar war.”

  “Incorrect interpretation,” Proctor said. It was the first words she’d spoken in a long time. “Cytherian responsibility obvious. Risk minimal.”

  “Minimal risk to you perhaps,” Picard said. “But much has changed since you first learned of our peoples. This region has seen attacks by the Dominion and the Borg. Defense has become an important issue. Alliances have formed and shifted. Peace here is a delicate balance, easily broken.”

  “You should have known that,” Riker added. “You used a peace conference to attract the pawns you wanted.” He stared at Proctor. “I don’t think you cared how much chaos you caused us.”

  “Accusation misplaced.” She raised her nose to the domed ceiling, defiant. “Harm minimized. Precautions taken.”

  The floating head of Caster turned to face Proctor. His eyes were full of horror. “Newbeings threatened.” He raised his voice. “Proctor indifferent!”

  Proctor looked away from him. “Precautions taken!”

  “Precautions insufficient. Episode unnecessary.” Huge sad eyes looked down on Picard. “Friendships thwarted.” Then they turned to Riker. “Friends harmed.”

  Picard and Riker watched as Proctor, tentatively at first, sought Caster’s gaze. “Rationale established. Arguments made. Cytherian outreach unwise.”

  “Disagreement and discord.” Caster continued to look upon Riker. “Shame and remorse, Riker Newfriend. Convey apology to others affected.”

  “We will,” Riker said.

  Picard looked at the admiral. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Caster. Why didn’t the admiral return to normal with the others?”

  “Safety,” Caster said. “Reintegration requires hologram deactivation.”

  Riker nodded, seeming to understand. “He wants my attention in one place for me to be restored, body and soul.”

  Picard touched his badge. “Picard to Aventine. Prepare medical crew to stand by at the interlink chair if needed.”

  “The admiral’s already told us,” Dax said.

  Holo-Riker looked at Picard. “I could get used to this two-places-at-once thing.” He smiled wanly and bowed to the Cytherians. His hand moved for the control on the mobile emitter—

  —and then stopped abruptly. “Wait.”

  Picard looked at him, concerned. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m still an admiral—for however long—and a peace envoy. I came to this station for a diplomatic summit. I intend to have it.”

  Dax, listening in via Picard’s combadge, spoke up. “The other powers are leaving, Admiral.”

  “But the Cytherians remain,” Riker said, approaching them. “And they are in need of a peace conference.”

  Or some family therapy, Picard thought. The Cytherians watched Riker, dumbfounded, as he climbed onto the table and stepped between the two floating heads.

  “I offer the Federation’s good offices in arbitration of your differences,” Riker said, gesturing openly with his hands. A pause. “That is, if you think we mere humans can help.”

  Proctor and Caster looked at each other, astonished, and then back at Riker.

  “Response . . . contingent,” Proctor said. “Fairness questioned.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, while I’m near this facility, I’m an open book to you,” Riker said. “You were able to restore the minds of your minions outside the station; I would suspect you can read mine if you try. You can trust me.”

  Another pause, while the Cytherians studied one another. Picard could not know what was transpiring between the beings, either here or far away, where the larger part of their intelligences resided. But after a few moments, something seemed to change. Both turned to face Riker again.

  “Agreement,” Caster said, beaming. “Appreciative agreement.”

  “And humble regret,” Proctor added, looking down. “Peaceful goals uniform. Differentiation in methods reconcilable.” Her eyes fixed on Riker. “With helpful assistance.”

  Riker smiled—and held that expression as he looked back to the captain. “I guess we get a summit here after all.”

  Picard laughed. “Convenient.”

  Forty-eight

  D’VARIAN

  The Romulans who broke into the Ter’ak Pen had found their captain first, freeing him from his cell. Only then had they entered Bretorius’s chamber, disruptors raised.

  The weapons hadn’t been necessary at all. He may well have been the easiest capture in t
he history of interstellar piracy. For when Bretorius had lost all his other knowledge, he had forgotten how to get out of the restraints of the Taibak chair as well. He was sitting there, haplessly waiting when the guards entered.

  It may well have saved his life, because any anger they might have felt toward him melted into amusement. Yalok, looking grizzled and half-starved, had nearly injured himself laughing as he was helped into the room. D’varian’s crewmembers had taken their frustrations out instead on the cable and all the equipment Bretorius had attached to the seat, making absolutely certain that he had no more control over the vessel.

  “Bridge,” Yalok spoke into a communicator he had been handed. “This is Commander Yalok. Do you have control?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Full speed for Romulan space.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Yalok turned his gaze onto Bretorius, still locked up. His voice was full of tired malevolence. “I may die for failing to resist you, Senator. But I’ll go knowing I got to teach you a lesson first.”

  Another question came from the bridge. “Do you need anything, Captain?”

  “No, do not disturb me,” Yalok said. “This will take a while.”

  AVENTINE

  As diplomatic negotiations went, the conversations with the Cytherians had transpired in record time. The Cytherians had taken advantage of the fact that speaking with holo-Riker was, essentially, talking with Aventine’s main computer; the discussions thereafter had taken place on an exalted, electronic level.

  Riker wasn’t sure he fully understood the Cytherians, or the issues between them, any more than a counselor fully understood the people being counseled. More than once, he’d wished Deanna had been in the conversation—but she was never far from his thoughts anyway, and the last thing he wanted was for her to suffer the plight he’d experienced.

  No, Riker had worked through it, doing his best to find ways for human ethics to be relevant to the Cytherians and their differences. It helped that he had access to the wide swath of historical writings from countless worlds via Aventine’s database. This was a reason Starfleet vessels carried all this information.