Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice

by James Swallow

  The Andorian ambassador himself, Envoy Ramasanar ch’Nuillen, stood behind his men. He was stone-faced and silent, his antennae taut with annoyance.

  Togren caught sight of Troi approaching, and there was a flash of relief in his eyes. He gave a subtle nod, as if to say Yes, excellent idea, please help me!

  “Do you understand who this is?” one of the thaans said to the security men, his tone rising as he pointed at the envoy. “Do you know how far he has come, on the invitation of your government?”

  The larger of the two operatives stood his ground and raised a hand. “Please step back, sir. I won’t ask you again.”

  His colleague’s hand dropped to his hip, where Troi had no doubt a small phaser would be holstered. “We understand your dismay,” said the other man. “But you must respect that we are on the highest level of alert after recent events. We can’t afford to take any chances.”

  Troi cleared her throat and addressed the second operative. “I’m Commander Troi, senior diplomatic officer of the U.S.S. Titan. Perhaps I may be of some assistance?”

  The large man shot her a disinterested look. “Starfleet’s help is not required here, sir.”

  “Troi?” The envoy spoke for the first time, giving Deanna an equally frosty glance. “Your name is familiar to me. Are you here to give us more excuses?”

  Togren broke in, trying to maintain a moderated manner. “There has been a regrettable administrative error, Commander. It appears that the honored envoy’s diplomatic documentation has not been correctly processed.”

  “Our standing orders are clear,” said the security operative. “No entry to anyone without full clearance. No exceptions.” He produced a padd from an inner pocket and held it up so Troi could see a list of the guests at the memorial ceremony. “If your name’s not down, you’re not coming in.”

  Ch’Nuillen was mature for an Andorian chan, but he was tall with it, and he drew himself up to his full height as he pushed past his adjutants to look the operative in the eye. His face darkened to cobalt blue, and when he spoke again, the temperature in the annex seemed to drop ten degrees. “We have come here in good faith and in the name of all Andoria, our hand extended to the Federation. All we wish is to offer our condolences at the passing of a great leader. Now you expect me to accept that we may not do so because of a trivial point of regulations? You insult us.”

  The operative’s expression didn’t change. “We’ve already lost one president, sir. I don’t know you. I don’t have any proof you are who you say you are. So you’ll forgive us if we don’t let another potential assassin into—”

  “You dare?” One of the thaans rocked off his heels, hands cocked to strike out at the operative for his insult, but Troi had already sensed the moment coming and she was immediately interposing herself between them.

  “Gentlebeings, please!” she insisted. “I’m sure we can resolve this.”

  Ch’Nuillen snorted and turned away, stalking toward the far wall of the annex dome. His retinue trailed after him, muttering darkly amongst themselves. Togren and his assistant exchanged weary looks, uncertain how to proceed.

  The other security operative folded his arms. “If they wanted to be here,” he sniffed, “they shouldn’t have seceded in the first place.”

  Troi rounded on him. “That’s an astute political analysis, Agent,” she said mordantly. “Very nuanced. Your talents are obviously wasted guarding a doorway.”

  Togren’s brow knit with concern as she moved to speak to the diplomat. “Not a good start,” he said. “I’m to blame for this. I should have double-checked that the envoy’s credentials were all in order.”

  “They were,” insisted his aide. “There’s no reason for the clearances to have been delayed!”

  Unless someone in the administration is using this as a petty way of stonewalling the Andorians. Troi knew without resorting to her empathic abilities that the same thought was playing through Togren’s mind. She remembered Ishan’s opening remarks; while the currently political climate meant he could not be overtly critical of the Andorians, he still had the opportunity to make life hard for them. It wouldn’t be enough for ch’Nuillen and his people to come back to the Federation with cap in hand. She remembered an American idiom her father had sometimes used; they would have to “eat crow.”

  “We can’t undo this,” she said, “so let’s use the opportunity to get out in front of things.” Troi nodded toward the Andorian party. “Any second they’re going to beam back to their ship and be gone. But ch’Nuillen is here, right now. So let’s talk to him.”

  Togren held out his hand in a “you-go-first” gesture. “Be my guest,” he said. But as she crossed the floor, at her back Troi heard Ishan Anjar’s voice shift tone and inwardly she groaned.

  “Our Federation is one of magnanimity,” he was saying. “Together we can achieve great things. Look at what we have done in unity! We have helped our new friends on Cardassia Prime rebuild after the horrors of the Dominion War. We have pulled our member-worlds and associates alike from the ashes of the Borg Invasion. And only days ago, our brave men and women in Starfleet lent their strength to aid the people of Andor with their recent internal crisis.”

  “Aid us?” spat the thaan who had almost lost his temper a moment earlier. “They tried to deny us our future!”

  “Sholun.” The Envoy spoke his aide’s name with quiet force, silencing him. “This is neither the time nor the place.” He studied Troi as she approached, fixing a neutral aspect in place. “My people are passionate, Commander Troi. I’m sure you understand this situation would bring that to the surface.” And then ch’Nuillen very deliberately turned his back on the holoscreen and Ishan’s face, every member of his party doing the same a moment later.

  The message that sent wasn’t lost on her. “Of course,” she went on. “Please accept my apologies on behalf of the United Federation of Planets.”

  “These are fraught times,” Togren added. “And unfortunately mistakes do occur. . . .”

  Troi nodded. “Sir, I hope this will not cast a pall over your endeavors here.”

  He turned his gaze on her, and for the first time, Troi got the impression that the envoy was really, truly looking at her. His thoughts were careful and guarded, and his next words were as cold as his gaze. “These things happen. We move on. Andor has paid its respects to Nanietta Bacco in its own way. Our friends on the Federation Council, although they may not be the loudest voices there, wish to welcome us back. That, Commander, is what we shall concentrate on.” He bowed slightly. “Now, I will return to my courier and—”

  “Before you depart,” she said, stepping closer. “There’s something else I’d like to say.”

  He glared at her. “As you wish.”

  “Andor has more friends than you may realize, Envoy. And not just on the council, but in Starfleet.”

  “I know of the Titan,” ch’Nuillen allowed. “And your ship’s recent contacts with our people.”

  “Then you know that we respect you and share great sympathy with the trials your species has faced. I hope that we can be—”

  “Allies?”

  Troi couldn’t be sure if he was mocking her. “At the very least.”

  The Andorian became unreadable, giving her nothing; then after a moment he spoke again. “That would be agreeable.” Ch’Nuillen gestured to Sholun, who spoke quietly into a communicator, and with a crackle of matter displacement, the envoy and his party vanished into a haze of blue-white light.

  Togren released a heavy sigh and gave a weak grin. “I knew it was a good idea to recruit you, Troi! Thank you; I’m not sure I would have been able to salvage anything from today.”

  “I’m glad I could help,” she told him. And for the chance to see into what is really going on.

  Troi turned back to the screen to see a woman in a black dress stepping onto the dais, opening her hands to deliver the first lines of “Amazing Grace” to the silent, reverent crowd.

  * * *


  Christine Vale took a moment in the restroom before she crossed to the transport station at Starfleet Headquarters. She, along with many others in uniform, had stood silently in the great atrium beneath the screen showing the live broadcast from New Berlin. Vale had heard Ishan Anjar speak before, and although she kept her political views to herself most of the time, when he had talked about a strong Federation and a firm response to those who would threaten them, the commander found herself agreeing with the Bajoran. Law and order were in her bones, and acts like the killing of Bacco struck right at the heart of what she believed in. Listening to him talk now, as the late president’s name joined the roll of honor, she wasn’t ashamed to admit that she had shed tears. They came from a place of sorrow and of anger.

  But it wouldn’t be right to set foot aboard her first starship command with that air upon her. Alone, she wiped her eyes and put aside her personal feelings. For now, she would need to project strength and purpose, because her new—albeit temporary—crew would look to her to set the tone.

  Within minutes she was stepping off a transporter pad, sensing the familiar background hum of a working starship all around her.

  The first person Christine Vale saw was a muscular woman with three gold commander’s pips on her collar. She had a classical face, like something from an ancient marble sculpture, but she was severe with it. Coils of wine-dark hair were artfully draped over the shoulders of her uniform, and she stood ramrod straight. “Commander Vale,” she snapped. “Greetings. Welcome aboard Lionheart.”

  “Commander Atia, isn’t it?” Christine hadn’t had much opportunity to familiarize herself with the medical cruiser’s full crew complement, but she’d made sure to skim the high points of the first officer’s file. “Thank you.”

  The other woman was the same age as Vale, from a planet commonly known as Magna Roma. Atia’s people were the descendants of humans transplanted from Earth’s distant past to that world by an alien race known as the Preservers. They had carried their culture—based on the Terran Roman Empire—with them and evolved a civilization based upon its tenets. The Magna Romanii had long since grown out of the more objectionable elements of their society and become active members of the Federation; but they were said to be a fierce, strident people, and Vale’s first impression of her new executive officer did nothing to dispel that view.

  “Aye,” said Atia crisply. “The Lionheart is yours.”

  Straight to the point, thought Vale. “I relieve you,” she said, voicing the formal statement for her acceptance of the center seat.

  “I stand relieved,” Atia replied, completing the exchange. “Captain,” she added, tapping her combadge. “Computer, log date and time. Command of U.S.S. Lionheart NCC-73808 now custody of Brevet Captain Christine Vale.”

  “So noted,” came the reply.

  Vale nodded. “Okay. That was simple enough. At ease, Commander.”

  “I am,” said the other woman.

  That seemed unlikely; Atia was so much at attention that she could have served double duty as a hull brace, but Vale decided not to press the point. She handed over a padd with all the official paperwork in place. “That’s the red tape. There’s also some additional notations about extra cargo to be brought aboard.” Atia took a snapshot look at the device and handed it off to the noncom at the transporter controls. “So. Do we start with a tour?”

  “No, sir,” said the first officer, leading the way out into the corridor. “Bid to follow.”

  Lionheart’s corridors were narrower than Titan’s, and her smaller crew more thinly spread. At first, something seemed a little out of place to Vale, and it took a few moments for her to realize what it was; the cruiser’s complement was almost completely bipedal, oxygen-breathing humanoids, and after spending so long aboard Titan, with its panoply of various alien species on board, it felt odd to be in a place filled with beings more or less like her.

  She frowned as they made their way aft. “Isn’t the bridge in the other direction, Commander?”

  “Correct. Ship’s senior doctor asks audience first. The matter speaks to urgency.”

  “Well, I guess on a medical cruiser that counts as important.” She paused. “I didn’t have time to read the chief medical officer’s file before I boarded.”

  “Doctor Rssuu serves well. You have encountered Lahit before?”

  “That’s his race? No, I don’t know them.”

  “Lahit have no sexes,” Atia said, shaking her head. “Rssuu takes male pronoun for ease of conversation. Sight will make clear.”

  “Right.” Atia’s clipped diction was taking a little getting used to, but Vale guessed it was an artifact of going from her native language to Federation Standard. She hoped it was that. The Magna Romanii woman’s sharp manner could easily be interpreted as hostility, and to some degree, Atia had cause to be unreceptive to Vale’s arrival. Before Riker had cut Vale’s command orders for the Lionheart, it would have fallen to the ship’s first officer to take temporary captaincy for its journey across the quadrant. A last-second change of orders would be enough to put anyone’s nose out of joint.

  Best to air that out now rather than later, Vale thought. “Commander.” She halted by a maintenance duct. “This assignment has come out of nowhere for both of us, and I’m sure we share a sense of having our routine disrupted. But I hope that isn’t going to be an issue. My posting here isn’t a reflection on the performance of you or the crew of the Lionheart. I want you to be clear on that.”

  Atia watched her for a moment, and then the other woman’s expression softened slightly. “Know that questions were asked and answers found absent. In light of dark days, those who know not find solution in rumor.” She stiffened again. “Such things are quashed aboard Lionheart if they fall to earshot. Service is of paramount concern at all times. Ship stands ready to obey Admiral Riker’s orders. And yours.”

  “Glad to hear it. Carry on.”

  “Sickbay is over here.”

  Vale followed Atia through the doors and stopped abruptly. “Did we just take a wrong turn and end up in the ship’s arboretum?”

  “No such place,” Atia noted, walking across the compartment under a canopy of branches and leaves.

  It certainly was an infirmary, Vale reflected, because she could see ranks of bio-beds and medical monitor screens. In keeping with the mission profile of the starship, the larger-than-standard sickbay extended away into other compartments, including a secondary ward, observation chamber, labs, and an operation theater, but in the middle of it all, someone had decided to plant a tree.

  The thick trunk was big enough that she could have just about got her arms around it, and at its base there was a dense nutrient tray packed with moist dirt and a thick root system. It resembled a strange merging of a mighty oak and an exotic banyan. Over her head, branches crisscrossed in a complex network that extended to every corner of the infirmary, and ropy vines dangled from them, shifting as if in a breeze.

  But not a breeze. The vines were moving by themselves, animated by an intelligence. Vale watched as one delicately picked up a sensor wand and used it to scan a human officer in Science blue who was seated on one of the beds.

  There was a rhythmic creaking sound, like wood twisting, and then a moment later she heard a man’s voice with an English accent and a deceptively light tone. “Ah. Good. You’re here.” It came from a metallic vocoder module embedded in the bark of the main trunk. “Commander Vale, I’m Doctor Rssuu.”

  “Rssuu,” said Vale, half grinning. “Right. Sounds like rustle.”

  “I suppose so,” he replied airily. “Pardon me if I don’t get up. I’m rather set in my ways.” A vine dropped out of the canopy and gave her a welcoming tap on her forearm.

  “He is the tree,” noted Atia.

  “Yeah,” Vale said dryly. “I kinda got that.”

  Another vine-limb emerged from the foliage bearing a tricorder, which Rssuu ran over the length of her. “Just updating my medical records,” he said.
“Speaking of which, Commander Atia, I don’t need to remind you that I still want a blood sample.”

  “Tasks have been many, time short for trivial matters,” she shot back.

  Rssuu’s synthetic voice became a stage whisper. “Our steadfast first officer suffered a bout of food poisoning on shore leave, but she’s a rather poor patient and deliberately avoids me. I think I may have a cutting of mine put in her cabin to keep watch on her health.”

  “Good to know you’re conscientious,” said Vale. “Commander Atia said you wanted to see me urgently?”

  “Indeed so, Captain. You are aware that Lionheart’s mission calls on us to be a first responder to medical emergencies across the sector. To do that, we require full stocks of supplies before we set sail. Biomimetic substrate gels for our dedicated replicators, raw batches of hyronalin, leoporazine, stokaline, and other medicines . . .”

  “And you don’t have them?”

  “No. Sadly, because Admiral Riker assigned you to us out of the blue, a quirk of shipping protocols means that we cannot complete final loading of supplies from Starbase One until our new captain signs off on the manifest. There are pallets of drugs waiting on the deck down there, and they’re in danger of spoiling.” A thick, leafy tendril offered her a padd. “If you could address this before we depart?”

  “Of course, Doctor.” She tapped the authorization tab and the padd beeped acceptance. “As I told the commander, I’m sorry for any disruption. We’ll get under way as soon as all the cargo is on board.”

  “Much obliged.” Vale turned to leave, with Atia trailing behind, but Rssuu shot out a vine that wrapped around the other woman’s wrist. “First Officer?” said the vocoder in a hectoring tone. “Do I have to take your blood the unpleasant way? On my planet the flora eat the fauna, you know.”

  The officer Rssuu had been examining got to his feet and nodded at Atia. “Don’t worry, Commander. I’ll take the new CO up to the bridge.” He flashed Vale an easy grin. “Lieutenant Seth Maslan, sir, ship’s science officer.”