She remembered Maslan from her cursory look over the crew files. Young, handsome, and intelligent but a little flighty. Lionheart was his fourth posting in as many years. “Lead on, Mister.” Vale shot Atia a look, a wry smile on her lips as the exec grimly rolled up her sleeve. “I’ll see you up there when you’re done.”
* * *
The formation of three blue-liveried shuttlecraft lifted off from New Berlin’s starport and shifted back and forth in an elaborate shell game, each craft crossing over and under the others so that any observer—and any potential attacker—would be hard-pressed to determine exactly which shuttle was which.
Their departure completed, the ships tucked into a careful line of flight and followed a specially cleared transit corridor across the void between the orbit of Luna and that of Earth. It would take them down past the titanic spindle of Starbase One on a course that would carry them to land in Paris in short order.
Aboard the T’Maran, one of the identical shuttles, Ishan Anjar paused to shrug off his jacket and deposit it carelessly on a chair. “Cela tea,” he told the replicator. “Spiced, hot.”
The president pro tem didn’t offer his chief of staff anything, and he scooped up the cup, taking a seat and running a hand through his hair. “So that is over,” he said, his humorless expression threatening to become a scowl. “Now we can start moving forward.”
“That is the intention,” said Galif jav Velk, standing stiffly in the small cabin. He found the shuttlecraft somewhat cramped and uncomfortable, and he wished to be elsewhere. Glancing out of a viewport, he saw the sister-ships sh’Rothress and al-Rashid in close formation.
Ishan picked up a padd and skimmed through its contents. “These are the latest polls?”
Velk nodded curtly. “Data is still coming in, but it appears your approval rate is holding steady—”
“Steady?” He put down the teacup. “I don’t want steady. I want improved. I want spectacular.”
“That will take time,” said the Tellarite.
Ishan shot him a warning look, but he ignored it. “The Andorians were present today.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“It’s not important. They were sent a message, and they understood it.”
The Bajoran went back to his tea, discarding the padd. “I still can’t believe their temerity. Kellessar zh’Tarash seems to think she and her kind can just stroll back into the Federation and demand to be a candidate for the presidency. . . . The idea is laughable.”
“You waste effort and time dwelling on it,” Velk said bluntly. This conversation was old, and he did not want to go through it again. “Do not. It is counterproductive, and—”
Ishan eyed him. “What are you doing to improve the situation? I keep hearing about failures.”
“It was a mistake to rely on our Klingon contacts.” Velk found it difficult to admit to his error in that. “I’ve scaled them back to tasks better suited to their nature.”
“Tell me more,” Ishan insisted.
“Plausible deniability—”
“I’m not a child, Velk,” snapped the Bajoran. “Explain.”
He took a breath, framing his reply. Even at the highest levels, “need to know” was always foremost in his mind. “I have committed Active Four to operations. They will locate and capture Bacco’s killers.”
“Good.” Ishan nodded, accepting this. “It will do no harm to my political capital to be seen as the man who brought them to justice.”
Velk said nothing. Ultimately, if correctly presented, such an action would serve the president pro tem’s hawkish agenda and help to rally the people of the Federation against the rising threat of the Typhon Pact. It was a goal that had for so long seemed out of reach, but now events were turning toward an arrangement that could bring them success, and all that was needed was to make full use of them.
“A question does occur, though. . . .” Ishan added, his tone deceptively light. “The Tzenkethi are the plotters and the schemers, the conspirators of the Typhon Pact. That is a widely known truth.”
“Quite so,” Velk said warily. He did not like where this conversation was going.
“So one might wonder: What would the public reaction be if another group were found to be responsible? If it was revealed to the quadrant at large that it was not a Tzenkethi finger on the trigger, so to speak?” He fixed the Tellarite with a steady gaze, waiting for his answer.
“Such a revelation . . .” Velk began. “It might not be for the best.”
* * *
Maslan led Vale to the nearest turbolift and paused, indicating the small kit bag she was still carrying over her shoulder. “Sure I can’t take that for you, sir?”
“I’m good,” she told him. “And less of the sir, Mister. I know they say command ages you, but you’re making me feel ancient.”
“Far be it from me to do that, uh, Captain.”
She frowned. “Yeah. That’s also going to take a little getting used to.”
The science officer was silent for a moment. “Would it be rude of me to say you’re not what I expected?”
“Not rude yet,” Vale countered. “I’ll let you know when you are.”
Encouraged, he went on. “Lionheart’s not a much sought-after posting. It’s a good ship with a good crew and an important brief, don’t get me wrong. But most command-track officers are looking to land a vessel with something more to it. Exploratory missions, border patrol, that sort of thing.”
“I’m not most officers,” she told him. “And I’m certainly not here because it’s a career move.” Vale could see he was waiting for her to say more, but she left it at that.
Maslan continued. “You were first officer of the Titan. That’s an amazing ship. I imagine you’ve seen some incredible things out in the Gum Nebula.”
“Some,” she admitted. The turbolift arrived and they boarded.
“I applied for a transfer to Captain . . . uh, I mean Admiral Riker’s command a couple years back, before the invasion.” His smile dimmed a little as the lift set off. “I didn’t make the cut.”
“You don’t like your posting here?”
He shook his head. “No! It’s not that. But just for once I’d like to see some space where no one has gone before. Our routes are pretty well traveled.”
“Saving lives is just as important, if not more so,” she told him. “Don’t lose sight of that. Besides, there’s always more space out there.”
“You’re right, of course.” He paused. “I hope you won’t mind if I ask you more about the Titan’s missions along our way to Starbase 47.”
“I’m not really that much of a storyteller.” The doors parted to show the Lionheart’s command deck beyond, and she stepped out.
“Captain on the bridge!” called Maslan, and the crew snapped smartly to attention. Vale could see Commander Atia’s hand at work there.
“Stand easy,” she told them.
The Nova-class starship’s bridge was smaller than her Luna-class equivalent, with turbolift access on either side of the compartment and an operations pit in the center of the space. Two seats—one for the captain, one for the first officer—faced forward toward the main viewscreen; in front of that was a single helm console, manned by a fair-skinned, blond-haired lieutenant. Vale cast around, meeting the gazes of the other duty officers one by one.
A Bajoran with a close-cut beard and a shaved head got up to offer her the command chair. “Captain. I’m Lieutenant Commander Darrah Hayn, your tactical officer.” He indicated a dark-skinned human woman wearing a hijab that matched the mustard yellow of her operations undershirt. “Our chief engineer . . .”
“Basoos Kader,” said the other lieutenant. “Marhaban, Captain Vale.”
“And this is Alex Thompson, our helmsman,” added Maslan, indicating the blond officer.
“Captain.” Thompson gave a nod, and she noticed that he was wearing spectacles. The junior-grade lieutenant colored a little as he noted her attention. “Thrusters
are at station keeping. We’re ready to leave spacedock at your command.”
“Take your posts,” she ordered. “Mister Darrah, what’s our loading status?”
The Bajoran glanced at a console. “Supplies are on board,” he reported, then frowned. “But I read here we’re now loading additional cargo?”
“Yes,” she told him. “A request from Admiral Riker’s office.”
Darrah clearly wanted to ask further, but then the other turbolift doors opened and Atia stalked onto the bridge. “Well met?” she asked, glancing around.
“Well enough,” said Vale as she stepped into the center of the bridge. “Computer? Put on me on ship-wide intercom, please.” A chime sounded, and Vale took a breath, knowing that her next words would carry to every corner of the Lionheart. “This is . . . the captain speaking. I want you all to know I am honored to be given command of a vessel and a crew as exemplary as this one. . . .”
So far, she thought, so much word-for-word from the official Starfleet speeches guidebook.
“We’re facing a difficult moment,” she went on, finding the words along the way. “Our fleet and our Federation, our worlds and every one of us. The challenge of recent days . . . it’s not what we were trained for. It’s something none of us could have expected. But I am confident that each of you will do your duty and hold to the ideals that we signed on to protect. Look to your officers and crewmates, and carry on.” She took a breath. “All decks and divisions stand ready and prepare for imminent departure. That is all.”
“Succinct,” noted Commander Atia, with a note of approval.
Vale glanced at the Bajoran. “How long until that extra cargo is on board?”
Darrah glanced at his console. “Another minute, Captain.”
She walked to Thompson’s side and nodded toward the main viewer, which for the moment showed the brightly lit interior of the starbase’s cavernous hangar bay. “Ops, prepare a course.”
“Already done, sir,” he replied with a smile, bringing up a map plot showing a careful, curving vector that crossed the quadrant. “I’ve programmed the most warp-efficient heading to our destination. . . . Pending your approval, of course.”
Vale could tell the lieutenant’s astrogation skills were good, but that didn’t stop her from shaking her head. “Approval denied. You’re to recalculate and plot us a new heading. Once we’re clear of Sol, take us to the Jaros system. Speed course, maximum warp.”
“Captain?” Thompson’s smile faded.
She tapped the location on the star map with her finger. “You do see fine with those glasses, right?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, uncertain if she was serious. “I’m just, ah, allergic to Retnax.”
“Then snap to it.”
The helmsman shot a questioning look at Atia, who stepped closer. “Captain Vale,” she began, “that system is not on our itinerary. Jaros falls marked distance from stated heading.”
“I’m altering the itinerary, Commander,” Vale said firmly. “And as a matter of fact, Mister Darrah should be getting a mission update any moment now.”
The Bajoran’s console beeped and his brow furrowed. “Confirming that. Supplemental orders received. That extra cargo we took on is to be delivered to the Starfleet stockade facility on Jaros II.”
Vale nodded. “There you go. Recompute the course, Mister Thompson.”
The lieutenant pushed his glasses back up his nose with a finger and then nodded, his hands moving quickly across the helm panel before him. “Recomputing, aye. Setting heading to Jaros system, second planet, then on to Starbase 47. . . .”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Vale added. She walked back toward the captain’s chair, acutely aware that her actions had just dialed up the tension on the bridge by several notches. Vale didn’t like giving people more questions without answers, especially at a time like this, but for the moment she had little choice in the matter.
“Starbase One operations are signaling clear,” noted Kader from the engineering station. “We’re free to navigate.”
Atia was hovering at her shoulder, and Vale realized that her first officer was waiting for her to take the captain’s chair before she herself sat down.
Odd, she thought, as she put her hand on the back of the center seat. Seems weird to sit there now. Vale felt strangely reluctant to take the position, despite the fact that she had done so in the past on board the Enterprise and the Titan. The difference there, she reflected, was that ultimately on those ships she had only been minding the chair for someone else. On the Lionheart, even if this assignment was to be a short-lived one, full responsibility would fall on her shoulders.
She pushed the thought away and took the chair, easing into it. It felt comfortable and easy, but she knew that was an illusion. The weight of command settled on her, and it was as exhilarating as it was humbling. “Thrusters ahead, Mister Thompson,” she said. “Let’s get this done.”
On the screen, the curved walls of the hangar bay slipped away, the great jagged-edged hatch ahead retracting back to allow the Lionheart into space. Darkness and stars painted the view as the ship’s bow turned away, passing over a glimpse of Earth’s moon.
“Full ahead,” ordered Atia, anticipating her intentions.
Despite the circumstances, a smile threatened to bloom across Christine Vale’s face as the ship set off. I reckon I could get to like this, she thought.
Six
“We need our unity. Our enemies know that truth, too. These rogue states, these old adversaries, they gather together and make pacts.” Ishan Anjar’s voice spoke to Riker’s back as he stood at the window, staring out over the bay beyond. The lights in the room were dimmed to night settings, and outside a cold, black sky seemed to swallow up all sense of scale.
Riker saw his own reflection in the glass, along with the inverted image of the viewscreen on his desk playing the current broadcast from the United Press Interstellar news channel. Ishan’s picture froze and then minimized as a correspondent from UPI’s Paris office picked up the thread of the story, reporting on what the Bajoran politician had said during the memorial service on Luna.
“Mute,” Riker ordered, and silence fell across the room. He’d seen the same report three or four times now, listened to the same questions and same discussion from a dozen different political pundits on this channel and others. None of them had any answers; they would echo Ishan’s points of rhetoric, pick over every tiny nuance of his speech for meaning and subtext, or return to the so-called “information leaks” that Riker suspected were in fact quite deliberately engineered. And when the news wasn’t showing that, the reports were of the memorial services held on other worlds, as far away as Lytasia, Algol, or Cardassia Prime.
Behind the live feed of the reporter in Paris, there was a chronometer reading 11:08, and Riker suddenly realized that here in San Francisco it was just past two o’clock in the morning. He scowled, marching back to the screen to switch it off with a tap of his finger. Once more, where had the day—and the evening—gone? It seemed like only a short time ago he had sent a message to Deanna telling her to stay on with Togren for the time being, but it must have been hours ago. He felt a twinge of guilt as he realized that Tasha would have gone to bed without him being there to read a story to her. Riker perched on the edge of his desk and pulled a hand down over his face, rubbing his eyes.
A tone sounded from the door, and he looked up, blinking away the moment of fatigue. Who would be visiting him this time of night? “Come.”
The door slid open and Lieutenant Ssura entered, his head bobbing. “Admiral. Do you have a moment?” He had a padd in his hand, holding it gingerly.
“You’re still here?” Riker frowned. “Lieutenant, are you waiting out there for me to leave for the night?”
The Caitian gave a toothy smile. “Ah. Sir, please worry not about that. My rest cycle is unlike yours. I am capable of snatching a collective of small sleep moments throughout the day.” He paused. “You, h
owever, are not. I have officer’s quarters on base assigned to you for tonight. . . .”
“No, that’s all right.” He nodded at the padd, dismissing his fatigue. “Did you have something for me?”
Ssura turned the padd so Riker could see it. “You asked me to look into a recent tasking order for one of your officers aboard the Titan, Commander Tuvok?”
“What did you find?” He took the padd, scanning the text there.
The felineoid’s paws knitted. “I regret, little of note. Commander Tuvok’s reassignment was processed through expedited channels, on or around the time the Titan arrived in Earth orbit.”
“Someone planned that well in advance, then. . . .”
“Likely, sir. As to the actual letter of the commander’s new orders, that datum is security sealed.”
Riker shot his aide a look. “I am an admiral now, right? Doesn’t that mean I get to look at these kind of things?”
“Yes, sir.” Ssura paused. “I mean, no, sir. I’m afraid our—that is your—office is not cleared for this access.”
He walked away, pacing the room. “So we don’t know where Tuvok went, why, or who gave the order?”
“No. No. Yes.”
It took Riker a second to catch up with what Ssura was saying. “Wait, you do know who reassigned Commander Tuvok?”
“It would be more correct to say I know what office in Starfleet Command issued the order.” Ssura pointed toward the padd. “Last page, sir.”
Riker tabbed through to the end of the lieutenant’s report and found the data. He read it twice, just to be sure. “You’re absolutely certain of this?”
“Yes, Admiral.” Ssura nodded. “Commander Tuvok’s reassignment order was issued directly by the office of the Commander of Starfleet, Admiral Akaar.”
“Why would—” Riker’s question never got the chance to fully form; an abrupt beep sounded from the viewscreen on his desk. The display had automatically reactivated, showing the stars-and-laurels design of the United Federation of Planets above a status message that indicated an imminent incoming signal.
Ssura studied the screen, reading the alphanumeric contact codes. “Sir, this is a priority subspace message . . . on your personal channel.” He paused. “Admiral, it appears to be originating from the U.S.S. Enterprise.”
Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice Page 10
