As he mused on this, the Vulcan became aware of someone moving past the edge of his booth. A human male, dressed in the jumpsuit and gear vest of a dock worker, slid into the seat opposite him. Only the lower half of his face was visible, the rest hidden behind dark pilot’s eyeshades and a grimy gray ushanka hat. Tuvok’s immediate sense was that this was a disguise of some sort; it did not match the man who wore it. He had an ill-trimmed beard that split into a smile that Tuvok found immediately familiar. “Mind if I join you?”
“I am waiting for a friend,” Tuvok said automatically, appending the code phrase he had been given. “From the barge.”
“The barge sank,” came the correct counter. “What a shame.” The man reached up to remove his hat and glasses, and what Tuvok had taken at first glance to be a mistaken observation on his part was revealed as quite the opposite.
“Sir?” he whispered.
William Riker’s face looked back at him, a humorless twist to his lips. “Yeah,” said the newcomer with a shrug. “I get that a lot.”
Tuvok’s eyes narrowed as the moment of surprise faded. It was almost impossible that this man could be Titan’s commander, and equally there were myriad explanations for who or what else he might be. Anything from an android simulacrum to another hologram or a Changeling. . . . There were many possibilities, all of them troubling.
“Come on, Tuvok, let’s cut to the chase,” said the other man. “You remember me, don’t you? Think back. We met on the Spartacus, you and me and your Maquis friends. That whole incident with the plague outbreak at the Helena colony? Of course, at the time I didn’t know you were with Starfleet Intelligence.”
“You are Thomas Riker,” said the Vulcan, with a sudden rush of insight.
“Most people just call me Tom, for simplicity’s sake.”
For all intents and purposes, Tuvok was looking at William Riker’s identical twin, but the circumstances that surrounded the two men did not stem from something as natural as sharing a mother’s womb.
Tuvok had first encountered this man while under deep cover with a cell of Maquis renegades, later learning the full details of the incident that had led to Tom Riker’s “birth” through mission reports from the Enterprise-D, under Jean-Luc Picard.
In 2369, the Enterprise had returned to the planet Nervala IV after a science team that included William Riker had been forced to evacuate eight years earlier; there, Picard’s crew encountered a duplicate of the Enterprise’s first officer, created by a freak combination of atmospheric effects and a transporter malfunction. That duplicate—the very man who sat across from him now—had eventually taken Riker’s middle name and set out to live a life of his own. But he had become disenchanted with life in Starfleet and thus was prime material for recruitment into the Maquis resistance movement.
“You left after Helena,” Tuvok noted. “You abandoned the Federation for the Maquis.”
“Yes. But that didn’t work out so well for me in the long run.” The other Riker’s approximation of events was somewhat understated; he had gone on to impersonate his so-called “brother” in an effort to steal the U.S.S. Defiant from Deep Space 9, an endeavor that ultimately failed and left Tom a prisoner of the Cardassian Union. He looked away. “I eventually got out, but I did some things I’m not proud of along the way.”
“Curious,” Tuvok allowed, measuring him intently. “The surface similarity is remarkable.”
Tom’s brow furrowed. “Surface similarity?” He reached up and traced the thin line of a scar that was almost hidden by the beard. “This give it away? It was a present from my Cardassian jailers.”
“Indeed, but the scar is not the larger tell.” Tuvok cocked his head. “As I observe you, I note several points of dissimilarity. Your body kinetics differ in several subtle but noticeable ways from those of Admiral Riker.”
“Admiral?” Tom’s eyes widened at the mention of the rank. “Well, how about that? It seems my brother is doing pretty well for himself these days. I heard he got his own ship. . . .”
“The Titan,” noted Tuvok.
“About damn time.” A shadow passed over Tom’s face. “And he and Deanna . . . they finally got together, had a kid? Is that right?”
“A daughter. Her name is Natasha.”
“Huh. What’s she like?”
“A pleasant child of above-average intelligence for a human.”
Tom gave a brief, brittle smile. “That’s great. I . . . I’m happy for them.” The tone of the man’s voice suggested otherwise, but the Vulcan chose not to draw attention to it.
Instead, Tuvok raised an eyebrow. “Mister Riker, you will pardon me if my next question is indelicate . . . but it was my understanding that you had perished during the Dominion War.”
He chuckled. “What’s that Mark Twain quote? ‘The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.’ It’s not like the Jem’Hadar didn’t try their damnedest to make it happen, though. The fact is, it gave me a chance to drop out of sight and put my life back together. Since the war, I’ve been keeping off the grid as much as possible, maintaining a low profile. I guess you could say I’m an ‘independent contractor’ now.”
“A mercenary.”
Tom’s smile cooled. “I do what I have to. You may have noticed that it’s not so easy a galaxy out there these days. Not all of us have a family we get to go home to.”
“That is so,” Tuvok said, keeping his tone neutral. “And now you are here.”
“For the same reason as you,” Tom replied. “I was chosen to be your contact because they thought a familiar face would make it easier.”
“They?” asked the Vulcan.
“You’re the last recruit. The rest of the team is waiting for us on the ship.” The other man stood, replacing his hat and glasses. “Come with me. I’ll introduce you.”
* * *
The chilling wind had brought black clouds with it, and as Tuvok followed Tom Riker across the thermoconcrete apron, rain began to fall, hissing off the surface of the port’s wide landing platform.
He pulled the hood tighter over his head and peered at their destination. There, hazed by the glow of running lights, sat an ungainly cargo ship on four heavy support skids, streamers of water running off the hull.
Tuvok did not recognize the model or make of the vessel, but it was of a common enough configuration, and it bore baseline similarities with many ships of similar tonnage. He estimated the hull to be approximately 275 meters in length, almost comparable to the size of the saucer segment of the Titan. The freighter was rectangular in section, with rounded surfaces on the dorsal and ventral hulls. He saw the lines of large cargo hatches along the aft quarter and amidships. A short distance from the blunt bow of the ship, stubby pylons protruded from the sides of the fuselage at ninety-degree angles, and connected to each was an angular warp drive nacelle, similar to the ones in use across Starfleet in the 2270s. Rising from the upper surface of the hull, offset from the centerline toward the port side, was a large conning tower. An orchard of sensor masts extended upward around it, some of them flexing in the stiff breeze. A registration code—NAR-1337—was visible in large white letters across the tower.
Tom gestured up at the ship as they approached it. “Say hello to the S.S. Snipe. She may not look like much, but I’m told she’s got it where it counts.”
Tuvok didn’t reply, his gaze running over the hull of the craft, looking for anything that seemed anomalous. He noted the nubs of military-surplus shield emitters and the shuttered mouth of a photon torpedo launcher. Both were prohibited by Federation shipping regulations on a civilian craft with an NAR registry, but he kept the observation to himself for the moment. Overall, the ship seemed spaceworthy, but her outward appearance had been poorly maintained. Cosmetic damage from micrometeorites and radiation scarred the hull. In many places the Snipe was patched with mismatched sheets of tritanium and ugly retrofits.
They passed under the starboard warp nacelle and a platform came away from the hull
over their heads, dropping like an elevator to the rain-slick ground. A large humanoid male rode the platform down, leaning on a support rod, scowling at the inclement weather as if it were somehow personally spiting him.
Tom raised a hand and nodded a greeting. “You came to meet us, Khob. I’m touched.”
The other being snorted. Dappled skin the color of sand pulled tight around his broad face. Tuvok saw his glittering eyes and recognized his species as Suliban. Much taller than the Vulcan and broader across the chest, Khob had an endomorphic physique more suited to manual labor on some heavy-gravity world than to a clandestine mission. He was doubtless some kind of aberration among his race; Suliban were more typically of slighter build.
He stepped off the elevator and waved a tricorder over Tuvok. “Hold still,” he rumbled. “Won’t take a second.”
“I am carrying no weapons or concealed devices,” Tuvok told him.
Khob’s face shifted, showing disappointment. “Not looking for guns. Making sure you’re not sick. Not carrying any viral vectors.”
“This big fellow is our medic,” Tom explained. “Another contractor, like me.”
“Clean,” Khob reported, as the tricorder beeped. He stepped back onto the elevator, beckoning them after him. “Time to go. Place is too damp for me.”
“We’ve only been here a day,” noted Tom.
“Day too long,” corrected Khob. “Ferengi may like it. I don’t.”
“There are Ferengi on this ship?” asked Tuvok.
Tom nodded. “Just the one. Another one of yours, actually.”
Tuvok didn’t immediately follow the other Riker’s meaning at first, but then the platform rose back into the Snipe’s cavernous cargo bay and the first face he saw had the distinctive ridged nose, pronounced forehead, and wide ears of a Ferenginar native.
“Commander Tuvok?” The Ferengi offered a handshake, then seemed to realize that was incorrect protocol for greeting a Vulcan. He gave a crooked smile. “Oh. Hello there, sir. I’m Nog.” He tapped at the civilian jacket he was wearing, at the spot where a Starfleet combadge would have sat on a uniform tunic. “Lieutenant Commander Nog from Deep Space Nine.”
“Indeed?” Tuvok considered this. “You were also summoned for this operation?”
“I was pulled from my engineering posting a few days after . . . after the incident.” His smile faded as he remembered the moment, and Tuvok guessed that the young officer must have been there to witness the shooting of President Bacco in person. Nog seemed to push that thought away and nodded. “We’re not the only Starfleet officers here, sir.”
“Speaking of which,” said Tom, “I’m going to check in with Ixxen, let her know we’re good to go.” He gave Tuvok a sideways look as he walked away. “Nog here will get you settled.” Khob had already drifted off, his attention focused on his tricorder.
“He means Lieutenant Yal Ixxen,” Nog explained. “She’s our pilot. A Bolian ops specialist off the U.S.S. Blake. She was assigned just before I came on board.” He inclined his head and bid the Vulcan to follow him.
Tuvok gave a nod, and they crossed the largely vacant cargo bay, both of them ducking to pass through a steel hatchway into a long, narrow corridor.
The interior of the cargo ship was as unkempt as its exterior. There were no panels covering the walls to hide away the power conduits, EPS taps, and cable bundles, such as one might find on a Starfleet ship. Instead, pipes and thick trunks of wiring snaked along the walls, vivid hazard labels warning of live plasma streams or energy feeds. Gridded deck plates rang beneath their footfalls as they worked their way aft. Tuvok smelled machine lubricant and rust.
“Mister Nog, how many so-called ‘recruits’ are there aboard the Snipe?”
“Ten of us, along with a small crew for the ship,” said the Ferengi. “Didn’t they tell you that?”
“They have not imparted much information to me, Lieutenant Commander,” he noted.
Nog gave him a look. “Ah. Because we were sort of hoping you would have some idea as to what this is all about, sir. As you’re the last to arrive, and all.”
“Your assumption is incorrect,” he replied. “As, clearly, was mine that you would have that information to impart to me.”
“So you’re as clueless as the rest of us?” Nog gave a brief, cynical chuckle. “Well, in a way, I feel better.” He paused, thinking about it. “No, actually, I feel worse.”
A dull rumble sounded through the hull and the Snipe groaned as its thrusters powered up. A speaker horn overhead crackled, and a woman’s voice spoke. “Secure for lift-off. We’ll be going to warp as soon as we break orbit.”
Tuvok sensed the subtle shift in gravity as the Snipe left the surface of the planet and rose into the stormy sky.
Nog led him past a set of compartments, each one a cramped crew cabin with a pair of bunks and fresher unit in one corner. He indicated one as they approached. “This is us. We’re, uh, sharing. I hope that’s okay?”
“I will make an effort to adapt,” Tuvok replied. His attention was on the open hatch directly opposite; inside one of the other compartments a pair of diminutive Bynars were engaged in a conversation in their native language. A stream of high-speed data code raced back and forth between them, atonal and irregular in pitch.
“They’ve got really long name-designations,” Nog noted, seeing his interest. “We’re just calling them One-One and Zero-Zero for now. They’re specialists in communications and information security.” He pointed ahead. “The mess hall is up here.”
The Snipe creaked around them as pressure changes exerted themselves on the hull, and the gravity gradient shifted once again as Tuvok followed the Ferengi into an open area that was part crew lounge, part dining hall. Metal benches and tables were bolted to the deck, and along one wall were a series of food dispensers that had seen better days.
At one of the tables, a tawny-skinned Elloran female gave him a quick, measuring look, the bony crest extending from the back of her skull bobbing as she turned back to her conversation with a pale human man of stocky build. Tuvok noted that the human had a series of tattoos about his neck; he recognized the glyphs depicted there as part of devotional texts from the planet Zeon. Neither of them seemed particularly interested in the new arrival.
A human female rose to greet them from another table, her flame-red hair cut close to her head and her eyes intent. She wore a tan ship-suit covered in pockets and gear clips, and Tuvok could not miss the holstered phaser at her hip.
“Commander,” she began, with the brisk manner of someone used to the intricacies of rank and military service. “Lieutenant Colonel Jan Kincade, Starfleet ground forces. I’m what passes for in charge around here. Welcome aboard.”
Tuvok inclined his head in return, considering her words. Technically, his rank was directly equal to Kincade’s, but there had been no mention in his orders of assuming command of this mission over her, and at present, he had no inclination to pursue any question of seniority. “Colonel. May I inquire as to our destination?”
“Straight to business, eh? I heard that about Vulcans.” She folded her arms. Kincade was slightly taller than he, but she had a whipcord build to her, an athlete’s physique. “We’re heading to coordinates out past Beta Rigel. My guess is we’ll get a target then.”
“A target?” echoed Tuvok.
Kincade snorted. “You’re a tactical officer. Nog here has extensive battlefield experience. So do Khob, Ixxen, the Bynars. . . .” She indicated the Elloran and the Zeon. “Sahde and Ashur were private military contractors in the Triangle. You met Tom, someone you could call a ‘jack-of-all-trades,’ I guess. . . . And then there’s me, trained by Starfleet to shoot at people on those occasions when all the ‘we come in peace’ stuff doesn’t work. So you tell me, Commander Tuvok. What reason is there to gather a group of people with our unique combination of skills if not for a combat mission?”
He considered her words. “We are not currently in a state of war, Colonel.”
“Maybe so.” Her lips thinned. “But given current events, I wouldn’t exactly say we’re at peace either.”
Four
Coastal weather in California was a mercurial thing, so Christine Vale had learned when she first came to Earth from Izar to enroll in Starfleet Academy. Those days were a good way behind her, but she still remembered clearly how the skies over San Francisco Bay could be filled with thick clouds one minute and blow clear to show perfect blue the next.
The cowl of rain that had recently swept over the city and the surrounding environs was gone today, and a bright sun beat down. The only signs of the previous night’s precipitation were the fading puddles that grouped in the lee of paving stones and the damp patches on the concrete.
Still, the morning air was chilly, and as she stepped out of the Sausalito public transporter station, Christine caught a breath of the briny scent of the ocean. Even after all this time, it still seemed a little alien to her. Izar had only small inland seas, which she’d barely seen growing up in cities, and the expanse of Earth’s oceans made the planet as unusual to her as water-worlds like Pacifica or Droplet, the world the Titan had discovered a few years back.
The Cetacean Institute was already open by the time she arrived, but there wasn’t a lot of tourist traffic—a shuttle bus of schoolchildren up from Mexico, a few knots of early-bird sightseers. It was a weekday, and the place would be quiet.
She passed through the entrance atrium, under the shadow of a bronze statue that depicted a pair of humpback whales breaching the surface of the ocean. The memorial commemorated an event that had taken place decades before Christine’s birth, something to do with the repopulation of that species coinciding with an attack on Earth by an alien invader. She half remembered something about it from her Federation history classes and resolved to refresh her memory at a later date.
Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice Page 6
