Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice

by James Swallow

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  Historian’s Note

  On August 27, 2385, the new Deep Space 9 was dedicated (Star Trek: The Fall—Revelation and Dust). The tragic event that occurred during the ceremony and the chaos that followed created ripples across the quadrants, including the election of a new castellan to the Cardassian Union. Starfleet vessels have been deployed to bolster the Federation’s security and ensure the safety of its allies (Star Trek: The Fall—The Crimson Shadow).

  The stunning announcement that a rogue ex–Starfleet officer, Doctor Julian Bashir, solved the Andorian reproduction crisis has stunned the Federation Council, and within the corridors of power there is a disquieting scramble for power (Star Trek: The Fall—A Ceremony of Losses).

  This story takes place just after the arrest of Bashir, between September 20 and October 12, 2385.

  But in these cases

  We still have judgment here; that we but teach

  Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return

  To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice

  Commends the ingredients of our poison’d chalice

  To our own lips.

  —Macbeth,

  Act I, Scene VII

  One

  The blackness rippled with the faint onset of precursor radiation, and from a velocity-distorted glimmer, a vessel emerged, falling under the light of familiar stars.

  Sleek and uncluttered, the Starfleet-clean lines of the U.S.S. Titan’s ice-gray hull and warp engine outriggers caught the distant luminosity of Earth’s sun as she turned inward, from the egress point past the orbit of Mars. Impulse grids flared with orange fire as Titan moved on to a speed course, cutting across the commercial civilian shipping lanes on a high-priority path in toward the third planet.

  At another time, under other circumstances, the return of one of the fleet’s most advanced explorer ships to home base would have been met with some measure of celebration; but not on this day. A long shadow had fallen over the United Federation of Planets, and every citizen of that great coalition seemed to be holding his or her breath, uncertain of what would come next.

  * * *

  Captain William Riker folded his arms across his chest, his expression grim and distant as he watched the motion of the stars on the bridge’s main viewscreen. The circumstances of Titan’s expedited return to the Sol system troubled him greatly. Not for the first time, his ship’s grand mission to explore the unknown territories of the Beta Quadrant’s vast Gum Nebula had been interrupted by an urgent recall order from Starfleet Command. Before, it had been the herald to invasion by a massed Borg armada. And now, much to Riker’s dismay, once again Titan was called away from her core purpose because of an act of brutal violence.

  He turned the moment over in his mind, as he had done time and time again in the last few days, examining it from each angle, trying to make sense of it.

  Nanietta Bacco is dead. The president of the United Federation of Planets, the woman who had guided the Federation through some of its most challenging, most harrowing trials of recent times lay murdered at the hand of an assassin, shot while aboard the newly constructed Deep Space 9 space station at Bajor. The images of the assassination, captured as they happened by reporters present for the dedication ceremony, still burned hard in Riker’s thoughts. The Shot Heard Round the Galaxy, they were calling it. One simple act, the mere pressure of a finger upon a trigger, and the troubles of the UFP had grown darker and more ominous overnight.

  Riker never had the honor of meeting Bacco in person, although she had personally contacted the Titan in the wake of the Borg crisis in order to bestow a presidential unit citation upon the vessel; the ceremonial pennant for that award hung belowdecks on the wall of the main crew lounge. Will’s admiration for the no-nonsense, hard-stock colonial woman had risen greatly when she had gruffly dispensed with “all the formal crap” and told him with clear-eyed honesty that every serving crewman on his ship had an open invite to have a drink with her at the presidential office in Paris.

  “Just don’t all come at once,” Bacco had said and smiled. Riker regretted that he would never get that chance now.

  “Earth Space Central signals we’re clear for approach.” Seated to his left, Riker’s first officer, Commander Christine Vale, glanced up from the panel beside her, reading off the message. “McKinley’s ready for us, sir.”

  Riker acknowledged the report with a terse nod, letting Vale relay orders to Lieutenants Aili Lavena and Sariel Rager at the conn and ops consoles. For the first time, he noticed that his second-in-command had dyed a streak of her hair white, something he recalled was a traditional color of mourning among the people of the Izar colonies.

  The bridge was uncharacteristically silent. Along with Rager and Lavena at the forward stations and Vale at his right, Riker’s second officer Commander Tuvok stood behind him at the tactical console, with ship’s security chief Ranul Keru nearby. Tuvok’s composed Vulcan manner was as stoic as ever, but Keru, along with Titan’s Cardassian science officer Zurin Dakal and Karen McCreedy, one of the engineering team, seemed to have lost themselves in their work.

  Titan’s captain kept a loose rein on officer discipline and his crew was professional enough to know that didn’t imply any lack of restraint, only a relaxed informality. That openness was seemingly absent now. No one was in the mood to talk.

  Riker tensed in his command chair. He resisted the urge to rise to his feet, as if the action of physical movement would somehow shake off the bleak mood clouding him and his crew. The fact was, he had as many questions as his officers did, and it gnawed at Riker that he could not give his people something to hold on to.

  Bacco’s death and the storm of half-truths and unknowns that surrounded it were in danger of doing more damage to the morale of the Federation than the horror of the act itself. Even as Titan had been recalled to Earth, new reports were coming in, fractured and contradictory stories about an incident in the Andor system. All Riker knew for certain was that serving members of Starfleet had been detained—including people he considered friends—pending an investigation at the highest levels.

  Some rumors said that the ongoing genetic problem regarding the Andorians and their complex reproductive processes had been solved, others said that it had passed a catastrophic tipping point and triggered anarchy. Titan’s own Andorian crewmembers, who so recently had faced jeopardy from their own kind after the incident with the Starship Therin, now waited fearfully for news of their planet and the fate of their people. Andor’s succession from the Federation was still an open wound for many; a decision motivated by Starfleet’s unwillingness to pass on classified data that could have been used in finding a resolution to the fertility crisis.

  What concerned Riker the most were the allegations of armed intervention by the Federation. The old adage was true: the only thing that traveled faster than warp speed was scuttlebutt—and there was talk about Starfleet firing on Starfleet. As Earth grew into definition on the viewscreen, the captain hoped that here, in the nerve center of the United Federation of Planets, some kind of truth would make itself clear.

  “Approaching McKinley Station,” said Rager, as the iron-red space platform rose over the curve of the planet. Illuminated from behind by the glow of a rising sun, the station’s curved frame resembled a great metallic claw reaching
out to snare the Titan.

  Riker shook off the forbidding portent of the image and cleared his throat. “Maneuvering thrusters, Lieutenant. Bring us in.”

  “Thrusters, aye.” Rager’s careful focus led the ship into the dock and there was a slight bump as tractor beams took hold to guide Titan to a safe berth.

  “We have you, Titan,” said the dock controller’s voice over the hailing channel. “Welcome back to the barn. Wish it could be under better circumstances.”

  “Titan concurs, McKinley, and thank you,” said Riker, nodding to himself. He turned from the screen and found Vale watching him intently.

  “So here we are,” she began. “You think we’ll get some answers now?”

  Riker hesitated before speaking. The orders that had cut short their mission in the Gum Nebula had been curt, to say the least. The answers Vale wanted were as much to questions of those orders as they were about the presidential assassination and the Andor confrontation. Finally, he said what had been on his mind since the command had come in. “I wish I knew, Chris. All I’m certain of is that an expedited return to Starfleet Command does not bode well.”

  A chime from one of the consoles sounded before Vale could respond. “Incoming signal,” reported Tuvok. The Vulcan glanced up from his tactical station over Riker’s shoulder. “A priority one message from the office of the commander of Starfleet. Admiral Leonard Akaar requires the immediate presence of Captain William T. Riker at Starfleet Command, San Francisco.”

  “That was fast,” Vale said dryly.

  The captain got to his feet and his executive officer followed suit. “You know Akaar,” said Riker. “Never a man to let the grass grow under his feet. The ship is yours, Commander. Let Lieutenant Radowski know I’m on my way down to transporter room three.”

  He tugged his uniform tunic straight and walked toward the turbolift. Vale followed for a couple of steps, speaking in a voice that only Riker would hear. “Word of advice? Try not to look like you’re marching to the gallows.”

  Riker stopped on the threshold of the lift and shot her a look. “Tell my wife . . . I have a feeling I may very likely miss dinner.”

  * * *

  The high, curved ceiling of Starfleet Command’s transporter station sketched itself in around Riker. As the humming chorus of rematerialization faded, he took his first breath of Earth air in years and stepped off the pad.

  Gangly arms folded around a padd, a thin and dark-furred felineoid stood waiting for him off to one side; a mustard-yellow collar denoting assignment to operations was visible at his neck, along with the rank pips of a junior grade lieutenant. “Captain Riker, sir. I am Ssura, assigned to you by Admiral Akaar.” He extended a paw and blinked nervously. “If you would accompany me?”

  “Lead on.” Riker studied Ssura’s gait as he walked and noted the patches of white on the back of his head that broke up the otherwise night-dark tone of his fur. The young officer was a Caitian, and like those of his species who served on Titan, Ssura went barefoot and barely made a sound as he moved.

  “If it is not an imposition, I will say I am honored to meet you,” Ssura said over his shoulder. “Your mission logs, the voyages of Enterprise. I studied them at the Academy. Inspiring.”

  “It’s the job we do, Mister Ssura. I just happened to be there on the right days.”

  The Caitian cocked his head. “How can you determine which day is the right day?”

  “You don’t,” Riker replied. “That’s the rub.” He frowned; he was in no mood to discuss the finer details of missions past. “Lieutenant, let’s cut to the chase. Am I going to be wasting my time if I ask you exactly why I was summoned?”

  “Yes, Captain, you are,” Ssura said with a nod. “Are there any other questions you have that I cannot answer?”

  “A ship-ful,” Riker replied, the frown deepening.

  They entered a turbolift and the slight junior officer tapped in a destination code with a clawed finger before looking up at him, his green eyes wide. “Sir, you are possibly thinking I am being obstructive. That is not my intent. May I speak freely?”

  Riker gave a wary nod. “Until I say otherwise, you can consider that a standing order.”

  “My colleagues . . . fellow officers of junior rank . . . they sought to compel me to ask you as to what you may have heard out in the greater quadrant about . . . events at hand.”

  Despite himself, Riker gave a bitter chuckle. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  Ssura gave a shrug. “Again, another waste of your time, sir. There have been few official statements in the immediate aftermath of President Bacco’s death. The Federation Council speaks of it as required for issues of security.”

  Riker raised an eyebrow. “And yet there are unconfirmed reports and gossip on every media channel in the quadrant.”

  “Indeed so. Who can tell what is true, and what is supposition?” said the lieutenant. The turbolift halted and the doors opened. “Here we are.” Ssura led Riker along a corridor lined with conference chambers and briefing rooms.

  Riker’s first clue that this would be no ordinary meeting had been when Ssura ordered the lift to go to the conference levels of the complex instead of directly to Akaar’s office on the upper floors. Now as they approached one of the doorways, he saw four men in the dark, nondescript suits that were the typical uniform of the Federation Council’s security detail.

  Each of the Protection Detail operatives wore optical-aural comm devices that looped over one ear, suspending a small holographic lens over their eyes. One of them made no attempt to hide the fact he was scanning Riker and Ssura with a military-specification tricorder, but they all stepped aside as the doors opened.

  Riker’s lips thinned as he heard the echo of Vale’s words about a gallows march, and he entered.

  * * *

  It was a tribunal chamber, and Riker was standing on the wrong side of it. This wasn’t the first time he had been in places like this, a curved raised bench ahead of him and a panel of unsmiling senior officers arrayed behind it. But in the past, each time he had known what he was walking into. Here and now, Riker came up short, suddenly wondering.

  Had he done something wrong? In the midst of all the concerns washing over the Federation at this moment, had something important slipped past his notice? Suddenly, Will felt like a midshipman again, about to be called on the carpet for some infraction of regulations.

  Ssura halted at a respectful distance behind him as Riker walked to the podium. Directly in front of the captain sat Fleet Admiral Leonard James Akaar, his hard-eyed and craggy face framed by shoulder-length hair the shade of gunmetal. The Capellan, tall and broad like all the males of his species, was a head higher than the olive-skinned Vulcan woman to his right and the Benzite male to his left—even while Akaar was seated. The other two admirals shared Akaar’s steady, unwavering focus.

  “Captain William T. Riker, commander Starship Titan,” he announced formally, “reporting as ordered.” As the words left his mouth, Riker noticed another group in the chamber. Seated off to one side were figures in civilian garb, and by their manner he immediately pegged them as staff of the Federation Council. He made a point of memorizing their faces for later review. Among them sat a Tellarite with heavily braided hair and a shaggy beard; a deep, disdainful scowl showed across his face.

  “Riker,” began Akaar, his voice a low rumble of thunder. “You are fully aware of our current situation?”

  He decided to risk being completely candid with the superior officer. “In all honesty? Not fully aware, Admiral.”

  “That will be rectified in due course,” said the Benzite.

  Akaar went on. “Unfolding circumstances require an immediate reorganization of certain Starfleet assets and personnel.” Riker caught the momentary flicker of the admiral’s gaze toward the civilians. “Despite concerns from some quarters, I have deemed it necessary to issue a series of priority commands and re-tasking orders. You are subject to such an order, and so is
the Titan and her crew.”

  Riker felt the blood drain from his face. My ship. His first thought was of his command, suddenly slipping from his grasp. He’s going to take away my ship. He swallowed hard, feeling the metaphorical noose tightening around his career. No, he told himself. Not possible. Not after all we’ve done. Titan has earned her place!

  The Vulcan officer read from a padd on the desk in front of her. “As of this stardate, the U.S.S. Titan’s mission of exploration is hereby suspended and her primary area of operations redesignated to Sector 001 and surrounding zones. The Starship Ganymede will extend her mission profile in the Gum Nebula in the Titan’s stead.”

  “You are hereby relieved of your post as commanding officer,” Akaar went on, and the words landed like a punch in the gut. “New tasking to commence simultaneously.” He stood up and beckoned Riker. “Step forward.”

  Riker did as he was told, his legs leaden and heavy. As Akaar approached, he found his voice again. “Sir, what is—?”

  Akaar didn’t give him the chance to finish the question. Instead, he reached up to Riker’s throat and with remarkable dexterity, tugged at the side of his collar. Akaar’s hand came away and in his fingers were four gold pips; the signifiers of a captain’s rank.

  Riker met Akaar’s gaze, but the stern Capellan gave him nothing in return. With his other hand, the commander of the fleet pressed something into Riker’s grip and stepped back.

  Will looked down, outwardly rigid, inwardly in shock. There, in the palm of his hand, was a new rank sigil, a two-gold pip inside a gold rectangle. What the hell?

  “William T. Riker, you are summarily promoted to the rank of rear admiral, with all the requirements and responsibilities thereof.” The Vulcan officer said the words, but Riker was still trying to keep up.