by Dayton Ward
He said nothing else, but Crusher still heard the unspoken question lacing his words. For security purposes, she and Jean-Luc had chosen not to inform Konya and Cruzen as to the real reason for their assignment, at least until such time as the Dordogne was well away from the Enterprise.
“I know you have a lot of questions, Lieutenant,” she said, feeling uncomfortable with his scrutiny. “To be honest, so do I. My friend Ilona Daret only gave me the bare essentials, as he also was worried about eavesdropping. He’s waiting until we get to Jevalan before he tells us everything.”
Konya said, “Commander Worf said you might not be able to tell us much, at least not until we get to the planet.” He smiled. “As you might imagine, Kirsten and I are pretty curious. All we know is that it’s classified and possibly dangerous, and we’re supposed to keep a low profile even from our own people. Captain Picard is running cover for us so that people think we’re heading to Deep Space Nine, and he’s hoping he can keep certain unnamed and oh-so-mysterious individuals off our backs until we get to Jevalan and your friend tells us this whole, odd story.”
“Now you know almost as much as I know,” Crusher said. “Once I talk to Ilona, I hope to know more, and whatever I learn, I’ll share with you.” She smiled. “Promise.”
“Good enough for me, Doctor,” Konya replied.
She knew from past experience that the lieutenant was being genuine with his response. Rennan Konya was an experienced security specialist and no stranger to classified missions and the “need to know.” He had not balked at his captain or first officer informing him that details of his assignment would be kept from him and Cruzen until the appropriate time. Crusher knew that other people, and perhaps even Konya himself, might not be so ready to trust their superior officer if he was any other person, and it was a testament to the trust and loyalty Jean-Luc Picard commanded that Konya had raised not one question or doubt. That same confidence had without hesitation been extended to Crusher, as well.
Stepping back across the threshold and into the narrow corridor leading from the bunk area, Konya asked, “Can I get you anything else?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“I’m heading up front, then. I promised Cruzen a break.” With that, Konya disappeared, his footsteps fading as he made his way toward the Dordogne’s cockpit.
Tea, Crusher decided. Tea would be good.
In the dining area of the crew compartment in the runabout’s aft section, she instructed the replicator to produce a cup of her favorite tea, a blend she had come to love thanks to Marthrossi zh’Thiin, a professor with whom she had worked for a time during the Enterprise’s visit to Andor, just prior to the incidents that had resulted in the planet’s secession from the Federation. Even now, three years after those events and after all the turmoil Andor’s withdrawal had caused, zh’Thiin still saw to it that a shipment of the tea leaves made its way to Crusher on occasion. It had taken some time to perfect the replicator’s re-creation of the blend, which served well enough when she lacked the actual tea leaves.
The sacrifices one must make for duty.
After a moment, a cup and saucer materialized in the replicator’s alcove, and Crusher paused to inhale the tea’s sweet aroma, sighing with contentment. Jean-Luc, she decided, could keep his Earl Grey.
As Konya had promised, the computer station in the crew cabin’s far corner was active, with a status message on one display screen informing her that the communications protocols she had requested were input and standing by. Settling into the workstation’s lone seat, Crusher paused for one sip of her tea before calling out, “Computer, open a hailing frequency and activate communications program Crusher Sanctuary Five Seven Alpha.”
“Working,” replied the computer’s feminine voice. “Communications parameters established. Enabling subspace transceiver protocols and transmitting hail message.”
The station’s primary display screen shifted from its image of the Federation seal to a field of static, which faded after a moment to reveal the face of a Cardassian male, Ilona Daret. As she had noticed after viewing the short, pre-recorded message Daret sent her, Crusher saw again that he looked much older than the last time she had seen him. Their communications over the past twenty years had been infrequent, but during those earlier conversations Daret seemed to be wearing his advancing age with grace. Now, however, he looked tired, almost haggard. His once deep black hair had gone gray, though she still saw in his eyes the intelligence and compassion she had first come to know all those years ago on the Sanctuary.
“Ilona,” she said, smiling, “it’s good to see you again.”
On the viewscreen, Daret replied, “It is good to see you again as well, Beverly. It truly has been too long. I only wish we could be communicating under more agreeable circumstances. Hopefully, once these matters are behind us, we will have more time for more pleasant conversations.”
Aware that despite all of Konya’s assurances, any communications from the Dordogne might well be subject to monitoring, so Crusher wanted to keep this conversation short. Just after their departure from the Enterprise, Konya had debated with her the wisdom even of trying to contact Daret before reaching Jevalan, but the unusual circumstances that had put into motion her current mission had not allowed her to depart with any more information than her friend had provided on the data chip. She had to know more before they arrived at the planet, if for no other reason than to get some idea as to whether she might want to contact Jean-Luc to send more help.
“So, what’s the big mystery, Ilona?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat. “We’re going to an awful lot of trouble to avoid attracting any unwanted attention.”
“I know, but I believe these precautions are necessary. You’ll understand once you see the evidence we have collected, Beverly. One of my colleagues, who left here on a mission to share this information with a trusted confidant on Bajor, has disappeared. I fear the worst for him, and for us, if the wrong people realize the scope of what we’ve found here. So, please forgive me if I seem overzealous in my desire to protect not just the information, but also my safety. Yours, too, for that matter.”
“Safety?” Crusher frowned. “You mean from Ishan? How? Does this have to do with why you’re on Jevalan? What are you even doing there, anyway?”
Despite the continued speculation that the Federation’s interim president might well have some involvement in the assassination of Nanietta Bacco and the Bajoran’s insistence on seeing to it that the movements of key Starfleet vessels—and their commanders—were closely monitored and even controlled in the case of the Enterprise, nothing yet had pointed to Ishan Anjar posing an actual, credible threat. Then again, that people like Ishan were able to work their way into positions of power was due in no small part to their ability to carry out all manner of dreadful deeds without raising suspicion.
Sighing, Daret said, “You were witness to the role this world played during our oppression of Bajor. As one of several continuing efforts to heal the grave wounds we inflicted upon their people, we have committed to helping with the location and identification of those who died at labor camps here on Jevalan and other worlds. I joined the team here almost a year ago now. It is slow, painstaking work, with thousands of missing Bajorans still waiting to be found, but we have achieved some success.”
Crusher frowned. “What does any of this have to do with Ishan?”
“It is a matter of record that your president is a survivor of the ordeal inflicted here upon him and his fellow Bajorans, though very little is known about his activities at the time of the final uprising and Cardassian evacuation.” Daret paused, reaching for a glass of some unidentified beverage. To Crusher, it was obvious that her friend was uncomfortable discussing this dark chapter in his people’s history. “There are stories of mass killings leading up to the revolt, and rumors persist to this day of a handful of Bajorans collaborating with the Cardassians. As you know, such traitors have been hunted and prosecuted by the Bajoran gov
ernment—as well as vigilantes—in the years since the Occupation.”
“What are you saying, Ilona?” Crusher asked, already sensing what her friend was about to reveal, but not wanting to believe it. “Do you think Ishan was a collaborator during the Occupation?”
Daret at first did not say anything, though his own expression told her that he saw her skepticism and uncertainty. Crusher watched him look around the confines of whatever room he was using for this conversation, as if verifying that no one might be nearby, eavesdropping. He then reached to something she could not see, but she did hear a string of telltale beeps indicating he was interacting with a computer or other console.
“You are certain your communications frequency is encrypted?”
“Of course,” Crusher replied, though she still looked at her own workstation to confirm that the scrambling and encoding protocols Konya had prepared were still active. She knew the lieutenant was monitoring sensor readings and would notify her if he suspected any sort of attempt to tap into the secure communication.
After another brief interval spent in silence, Daret leaned closer to his own comm station’s visual pickup. “Forensic analysis of remains that recently were uncovered here by one of our excavation teams have been identified with veritable certainty as those of a Bajoran laborer named Ishan Anjar.”
Eleven
Ferenginar
“Hey, what do you know? It’s raining.”
Turning from the large transparasteel window set into the guest suite’s rear wall, Lieutenant Chen regarded Picard with one of her trademark sardonic grins. “Was the weather mentioned in the travel brochure? Because if it wasn’t, then I think we owe it to ourselves to visit the nearest tourism office and lodge a formal complaint.”
“Perhaps we’ll do that after we’re done here for the day,” Picard said, sitting at a table positioned before the window and sipping from a cup of tea. “It’s not as though you have to walk around in it.”
Like most of the major population centers scattered across the planet, Ferenginar’s capital city was protected from the incessant storms by a giant dome. Lightning streaking across the cloud-riddled sky reflected off the dome’s transparent surface, resulting in a constant, beautiful light show that had captured Picard’s attention for the past several minutes.
“But it sure does put a crimp in my sunbathing plans for after lunch, sir,” Chen replied. She made a show of offering an exasperated shrug. “I guess that means I can go to the afternoon conference.”
Picard smiled, setting his tea back onto its coaster. “If I can’t get out of it, you have no chance of avoiding it.”
“I’m well aware that rank has its privileges, sir,” the lieutenant said, moving from the window to take a seat in one of the chairs opposite Picard, “but is torturing your subordinates listed among them?”
“It’s one of my personal favorites,” Picard replied.
“I knew it.” Saying nothing for a moment, instead casting her gaze around the ornately appointed suite that had been given to the captain as a place where he could take a break between the conference sessions or even conduct private business. All of the fixtures were gold, and gold also was prominent in the tapestries adorning the walls as well as the area rugs beneath their feet and the curtains framing the windows. A crystal pitcher sat at the center of the table with a set of glasses, and Picard already had watched Chen scan them with her tricorder to determine that the table setting had been fashioned from a rare mineral native to Ferenginar that was quite valuable.
“This place is incredible,” she said after a moment. “It’s nice to look at, of course, but hardly practical.”
Though the unchecked materialistic display did nothing for Picard, he still could appreciate its aesthetic beauty. “The Ferengi aren’t typically known for their appreciation of the arts, but it does exist, even if it still lends itself to their more typical, capitalistic pursuits.” Over the years, he had seen several paintings and sculptures by renowned Ferengi artists, though common tastes for such things tended to run to the “sophisticated,” as others might label it. Picard had noted the odd, even lewd fixtures in the guest suite’s lavatory and made a mental note not to bring René down here for a visit.
Before Chen could offer a rebuttal to his observation, the chime for the guest suite’s door sounded.
“Are you expecting anyone, sir?” Chen asked.
Picard shook his head. “Come,” he called out, and the door slid aside to reveal a Romulan dressed in dark, ceremonial robes that contrasted with his pale, yellow-green complexion. His dark hair was cut in the familiar style worn by most Romulan males, and his eyes, peering out from beneath his pronounced brow, seemed to bore into Picard as he regarded him from the doorway.
“Captain Picard,” said Ambassador Teclas, nodding his head in greeting. “I hope I am not intruding.”
Though surprised by the unannounced visit, Picard nevertheless decided to play it as though he had been expecting his caller. Rising from his seat, he said, “Good afternoon, Ambassador. I was only taking a brief respite before returning to the conference. What can I do for you?” So far as he knew, this was the first time any member of the Typhon Pact’s diplomatic delegation had ventured behind the conference room or their own guest suites since arriving on Ferenginar.
Teclas waited until Picard directed Chen to take her leave before he entered the suite. His curtailed stride and restrained gait coupled with the length of his robes and how they covered even his feet gave him the appearance of floating across the carpeted floor as he moved farther into the room.
“Before we proceed any further,” Teclas said, “I wish to correct an oversight I made at the beginning at the conference. On behalf of Praetor Kamemor, I offer condolences on the loss of President Bacco. Her death was a tragedy, not just for the Federation, but also for the peace that exists between all our people. I have expressed this sentiment to your diplomatic representatives, but Ambassador Sherwood seemed . . . less than convinced of my sincerity.”
Picard replied, “Don’t take it personally. Ambassador Sherwood normally is less than convinced of my sincerity, as well. However, you can be assured that I will pass on your sentiments to President Ishan and the Federation Council at my earliest opportunity. I know that Praetor Kamemor and President Bacco worked tirelessly to forge a lasting peace between our peoples.” He paused, offering a small smile. “For what it’s worth, I greatly respect your praetor and what she strove to accomplish.”
“I felt the same way about President Bacco,” Teclas replied. “Captain, I know this meeting is unusual, but your reputation is that of an individual with an open mind and a predilection for diplomacy over military action. Your standing as one of Starfleet’s senior and most-respected officers gives you a perspective and perhaps even an attention not afforded to your contemporaries. I suspect that your status also serves you well with respect to gaining an audience with your superiors.”
“I do well enough,” Picard said. Prior to attending the first conference sessions here on Ferenginar, he had reviewed what information was available on Teclas and came away thinking he—like most Romulans—was patient and analytical, preferring to listen rather than speak: a trait uncommon to diplomats, in Picard’s experience. Indeed, he had said little during the previous conference sessions, allowing his colleagues to engage in the debate with representatives of the Ferengi government. However, Starfleet’s intelligence file on the ambassador was thin, giving Picard little insight into Teclas’ background other than what he presented while engaged in activities such as these negotiations.
Picard indicated for the ambassador to have a seat at the table. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked as he ordered a fresh cup of tea from the room’s replicator.
“No, thank you,” Teclas replied. He waited in silence as Picard retrieved his tea and took his own seat at the table before saying, “Captain, there has been much speculation that the Typhon Pact is somehow culpable in Presiden
t Bacco’s assassination. In particular, some faction from within the Tzenkethi Coalition is believed responsible, at least according to a handful of your own government leaders. Despite whatever ideological differences may exist between us, we would never condone such a barbarous act. Further, we stand ready to offer any possible assistance in bringing the assassins to justice, whoever they may be.”
Taking a sip of his tea, Picard asked, “Do you have any information as to the identity of the perpetrators?”
“I do not. What I do know is that our praetor has made it a priority to determine whether anyone within the Romulan Empire may have been involved in the plot. It is my understanding that the other Pact members are conducting similar investigations, but as you no doubt realize, these sorts of matters tend to be handled with varying degrees of . . . commitment . . . depending on the party in question.”
“Indeed I do, Ambassador,” Picard replied. While there existed little evidence implicating the Tzenkethi or any of the Typhon Pact’s other members in President Bacco’s assassination, it was heartening to hear that the Pact itself—or, some of its elements, at least—seemed determined to prevent the heinous incident from sparking open hostilities between it and the Federation. Similar resolve between Praetor Kamemor and President Bacco had prevented war between the two powers following the destruction of Deep Space 9 two years earlier. Kamemor already was on record denouncing Bacco’s murder almost from the moment the news had spread across the quadrant. Was it all a ruse, a desperate attempt to cast suspicion away from the Pact and perhaps even the Romulan Empire itself? Of course, Picard had no intention of sharing with Teclas the information he possessed regarding the culpability of the True Way for Bacco’s assassination. There was no real proof to substantiate the allegation, for one thing, but Picard also figured there was no harm in allowing the Pact members to think they—or yet another rogue element within the upstart coalition—were suspected by the Federation of having at least some involvement. If nothing else, it might foster greater communication between the two powers as both sides worked to avoid war.
