Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice

by James Swallow

  Torvig blinked. “Admiral, I think I may have a proposition. But it is quite . . . radical.”

  Riker spread his hands. “What have you got, Lieutenant?”

  The Choblik’s tail wavered in the air behind him. “At the moment, we believe the Messenger encodes data confirming illegal acts originating inside the Federation Council. Acts that we, as sentient reasoning beings, see as immoral and unethical. But to reach that data, we too are faced with the prospect of committing what may also be a similarly troublesome action. Unlike us, the Messenger has no stake in the content of the data it is withholding. It does not understand the ramifications of that data. For want of a better term, it simply does not care. It does not have that capacity.”

  Keru was nodding. “Because it’s just a medium for transmission of information. A padd doesn’t care what’s written on it, no matter if it’s a love sonnet or a hate speech.”

  “What if it could make that distinction?” said Torvig.

  “You want to . . . convince it to open up to us?” Melora’s crested brows came together. “Persuade it to see our point of view?”

  “That’s not possible,” said Keru. “Modan said the Messenger is intelligent, but we know it’s not intelligent enough to make those kinds of distinctions.”

  “Suppose we allow it to be so?” Riker watched as Torvig warmed to his subject. “We uplift the Messenger to a higher level of self-awareness! We give it the intelligence to understand the ramifications of what it is carrying!”

  “You’re suggesting we give it the right to choose,” said Riker, thinking it through. “Lieutenant, I don’t have to remind you what happened on this ship the last time a semi-sentient system gained awareness.”

  “This won’t be like the Avatar,” insisted the engineer. “What I propose is merging the Messenger program with an existing, stand-alone artificial intelligence matrix. An inert AI system we already have on board Titan.” Torvig pushed his datapad across the table toward the admiral, and Riker gathered it up.

  On the padd’s small screen was a wire-frame graphic of a spider-like mechanoid: the inanimate droneframe “body” of the alien Sentry construct known as Second-Gen White-Blue.

  * * *

  The wind was bitter and laced with tiny particles of snowfall, but Natasha didn’t seem to mind it. Deanna Troi followed her daughter through the cobbled streets from the flyer park overlooking the blue waters of the Tromsøysundet Strait. She had been concerned that the four-year-old might have reacted poorly to the chilly, sub-arctic air, but Tasha was already apple-cheeked and thrilled by the presence of the snow and ice.

  They crossed into the heart of the city of Tromsø, one of Norway’s northernmost urban centers, skirting the shopping district and the historic edifice of the Arctic Cathedral. Troi bought hot, sweet tea for them from a vendor and they eventually found themselves at the Grimsdottir Rink, originally built for Earth’s winter Olympics in the late 2200s.

  Tromsø was a popular destination for off-worlders from planets with a colder climate than the Terran standard, and while there was something to be said for the bracing chill in the air, Troi preferred the warmer climes of the Mediterranean, which reminded her of her childhood on Betazed. She laughed with Tasha as the girl toyed with a snowball, wondering if her daughter’s dismissal of the cold came from her father’s side; Will had, after all, grown up in the wilds of Alaska.

  The Grimsdottir Rink was large, but it was hardly full, and one had only to look carefully to see why. A discreet presence of local law officers were posted in the immediate area, in a loose, unthreatening cordon, and within that ring were tall, watchful men in clothing that seemed far too light for the wintry day. Their tunics were nothing like the bulk of the cold-weather parkas worn by Deanna and Tasha; beneath snow hoods, faces of cobalt blue looked out across the milling crowds of tourists and shoppers, purposeful and steady. Antennae curved low over their foreheads, their additional senses carefully deployed to protect their principals.

  Human or not, Troi knew military when she saw them. These men were members of the Andorian Imperial Guard, the patterns of their emotions as hard-edged as the hawkish way they scanned the crowds. They were protecting a smaller group of their own kind, a clan-family unit of two mothers and two fathers—a zhen, shen, chan, and thaan, the four Andorian genders required to give life to a child. The bond quartet were enjoying themselves, but she could sense that not all of them were being fully honest with their laughter. Her empathic awareness brushed the surface of a mind familiar to her from days earlier on Luna, and she found herself looking into the eyes of Ramasanar ch’Nuillen. He recognized her, and his emotions went dark, a curtain of self-control falling across them.

  Tasha didn’t pick up on the interchange; she was already insisting on donning training skates to take to the ice, and Troi allowed it. She followed her daughter, making gentle turns, watching as Tasha focused all her intent on staying upright.

  One of the guardians whispered closer on bright shining blades. “I know you,” he said. The man was young, and his face was a darker blue.

  “Sholun, isn’t it?” she asked. “We met at the memorial ceremony. You’re one of the envoy’s aides.”

  He rebuffed her attempt at a polite introduction. “Why are you here?” he demanded. “What do you want?”

  “This is a public place,” Deanna countered mildly. “And I think my daughter likes the idea of being a figure skater.”

  “Find somewhere else to indulge her,” he grated, and a wave of menace came off him like a black cloud. Tasha reacted to it as well, coming to a halt on the ice, her smile vanishing.

  He was going to say more, but then two more figures approached across the rink, and Sholun fell silent. Ch’Nuillen moved effortlessly, gliding over the ice with a female Andorian at his side. The envoy shot Sholun a warning glance. “You’re frightening the child,” he admonished. “Move away.”

  Ch’Nuillen’s companion—a pale shen of sky-blue complexion and similar age to her bondmate—dropped to her haunches to look Tasha in the eye. “Hello!” By contrast to the envoy, she radiated warmth and good humor, enough that Deanna felt almost compelled to return her smile. “My name is Savaaroa—what’s yours?”

  “This is Natasha,” said Troi as her daughter became shy and clustered close to her mother’s legs. “Tasha, say hello.”

  The little girl allowed her grin to come back, and she waved at the elder Andorian woman, performing a deft curtsy for good measure.

  “So polite,” said Savaaroa. “And a natural on the ice, it would seem. Many people would have fallen over doing that.” She glanced at the envoy, and Troi saw them share a moment of silent communication, the kind of unspoken exchange that was common to spouses in every bonded species. “I think, if your mother would allow it, I could teach you how to skate a chasse. Would you like that, Tasha?”

  “Please.” She gave her mother a questioning look, and Troi granted permission with a nod. With a scrape of blades on ice, Tasha slid away after Savaaroa, determined to match the Andorian woman’s elegant motion.

  “Sh’Nuillen has such grace,” Troi noted.

  The envoy ignored the compliment, eyeing her coldly. “It was a clever tactic, bringing the child with you.”

  Troi felt the press of ch’Nuillen’s veiled accusation, and her lips thinned. “There are no tactics here, sir. I brought my daughter here because she has never seen real snow before.”

  After a moment, the Andorian’s bitter mien softened. “Forgive me, Commander Troi. In my line of work it is sometimes a hazard that one tends to think the worst of people in all things. Encountered enough times, you assume it will always be the truth and behave accordingly.” He watched Savaaroa, who was now introducing Tasha to the other members of her bond-group; Troi noted that the zhen and thaan were noticeably younger. “She loves children. We have been trying for one of our own for some time now, but our shelthreth has not borne fruit.” His face clouded. “We hope that may soon change, given
recent events. When my duties are over and we return to the homeworld . . .” Ch’Nuillen halted himself and began again. “I envy you, Commander. You are blessed by the Infinite.”

  “I am,” Troi admitted, and the words almost caught in her throat as she experienced a tiny flash of deep sorrow that escaped from the diplomat’s guarded thoughts.

  He studied her, as if for the first time. “Sholun’s question stands. Why are you here? And please don’t pretend that you just came here for the ice-skating.”

  “It’s widely known that Tromsø is where Andoria kept her embassy on Earth. Your government still has holdings here, and I assumed this would be where you would stay while on-planet.”

  He nodded, looking up. “Yes. Norway reminds us of our homeworld, and the locals are very welcoming. And if we are to soon return to the unity of the Federation, it seems right we renew our association with the city.” He paused. “What was it you said to me when we met before? ‘Andor has more friends than you may realize.’ Is that why you appear here now, unannounced and out of uniform? To become our friend? I confess that in recent days, the sight of a Starfleet officer has become reason to be on one’s guard rather than cause for salutation.”

  “You’re wary of my motives,” she replied. “It doesn’t take a Betazoid to see that. And you have every right to be. So let me be open with you. I’m not here because Togren or anyone else in the diplomatic corps sent me. I’m here because I want your help.”

  The Andorian gave a sharp, bitter bark of amusement. “Indeed? And you believe I would freely give it? You think the sight of your child would somehow make me take leave of my senses and open up to a stranger?”

  His barriers were rising again, and Troi frowned. “You misunderstand me, sir. I know Andorians; I know that honor, loyalty, and obligation are at the core of your people. I know that the clan is Andoria, and—”

  “Andoria is the clan,” he said, completing the rote sentiment.

  “My father was a Terran, my mother Betazoid. Both of them came from places where family is at the core of their being. They taught me the value of obligation, too.”

  “You speak as if you bring me a debt I am to pay.” Ch’Nuillen became frosty once more.

  “Not to me,” she said, “and not a debt, just the offer of a chance to help a man who risked all he had to assist your people.”

  “Bashir?” The envoy’s voice fell to a whisper.

  Troi nodded.

  The Andorian looked away, and she followed his gaze toward the middle of the rink, where Tasha was making a slow, steady turn as Savaaroa offered encouragement.

  “Tell me what you require,” he said, after a moment.

  * * *

  Four days after leaving the Iota Nadir system, the Snipe dropped out of warp along the plane of Nydak II’s ecliptic and made a purposeful approach toward the mottled, gray-brown sphere.

  Tuvok had ensured that he would be on the freighter’s bridge when the Snipe arrived, to satisfy his interest and, he hoped, gain some kind of insight into what they would find here.

  Kincade barely glanced at him as he entered the cramped command deck at the top of the ship’s conning tower. Aside from a couple of humans from the civilian crew and the ever-chattering figures of the Bynar pair, Kincade, Tuvok, and Ixxen were the only others present to watch Nydak II loom large through the oval viewport that dominated the bridge.

  The Vulcan stepped up to the helm, a raised island at the rear of the compartment. Ixxen sat surrounded by a horseshoe-shaped console, and the Bolian’s hands danced lightly over the controls, feathering the impulse engines. She gave him a sideways nod. “Sir.”

  “Lieutenant.” He spoke quietly, keeping the conversation between them. “Have we been hailed?”

  “Negative.” She paused to absently brush a hand over her hairless cerulean scalp. “Not a word, not even a challenge when we crossed the border a day ago.” Ixxen licked her lips and then tapped a control, bringing up a sensor return on a tertiary screen at her side. “But they’re out there, Commander. Look at this.”

  The screen displayed a real-time projection of the Snipe’s ionic wake, and Tuvok immediately spotted a minute perturbation in the particle stream. “Curious. A displacement effect,” he noted. “A cloaked vessel.”

  “It’s been on us since we entered Klingon space, and frankly, sir, it’s making me nervous.” She flushed a darker blue.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do not fear, Lieutenant. If they wished our destruction, we would not be having this discussion.”

  “Maybe,” Ixxen replied, without conviction, “but I remember something my first captain used to say. The only thing more dangerous than the Klingon coming at you in the open, all shouts and swagger, is the Klingon who sits back in the shadows and doesn’t say a word.”

  “An astute observation,” Tuvok allowed. He looked out toward the planet. “What do you know of our destination?”

  “Not much,” she said. “Database is pretty thin on it. The Nydak system is a backwater; all the planets are listed as unsuitable for colonization efforts, even for a species as hardheaded as the Klingons. The star chart shows Nydak II as a mining colony, and it did have some dilithium deposits, but Starfleet records suggest that those were played out back in the 2270s.”

  “An empty mine,” Tuvok wondered aloud. “Why bring us here?” He indicated the planet. “Run a passive scan on the colony.”

  Kincade saw what he was doing, but she said nothing, watching intently.

  Ixxen peered into the hood of a sensor viewer. “Scanning . . . Difficult to be certain—there’s a lot of mineral pollutants in the atmosphere fogging the scope. I read a complex on the northern continent . . . small but indeterminate number of humanoid life signs . . .”

  An alert tone sounded from one of the other panels, and Kincade strode across to it. “Ixxen, do you see that? I’m reading a neutrino burst, off the starboard bow.”

  “Confirmed,” said the Bolian, her jaw set. “And another now, to the stern. It’s a decloaking signature.”

  “Shall we—”

  “Go to alert?” The Bynars stiffened, ready to deploy the ship’s hidden batteries of weapons, but Kincade shook her head.

  “Hold off on that.” She turned back to her monitor. “Show me what we have.”

  “A pair of K-22’s, B’rel-class Birds of Prey. Enough to give us serious cause for concern.” Ixxen’s eyes narrowed. “That’s odd. . . .”

  “What is it, Lieutenant?” asked Tuvok.

  “Sir, neither ship appears to display any markings or insignia consistent with Klingon Defense Force or known House fleets. They’re coming to flank positions, no aggressive posture as yet.”

  “The Snipe is—”

  “Being hailed.”

  Kincade folded her arms and faced the portal. “Answer them.” The forward port misted and became a display screen. Through it, Tuvok saw into the darkened, rust-colored space of a warship’s bridge. A lone Klingon officer rose from his throne-like command chair and eyed them through the two-way link. He was barely keeping a sneer from his lips, and the Vulcan noted what seemed to be the signs of recent injury; there was evident bruising and discoloration around his nasal ridges and cheekbones, as if his nose had recently been broken.

  Tuvok paid no mind to this; it was his understanding that Klingon officers regularly engaged in violent sparring to first—and on some occasions, last—blood. But what did immediately strike him were smaller details that might have been missed by a less-observant viewer. The officer wore the echelon tabs consistent with a ranked military adjutant, but where the steely baldric across his chest should have sported the sigil of his family, there was only a blank space.

  “Welcome,” said the Klingon without a hint of cordiality. “You are expected.”

  “Well met,” Tuvok replied, speaking before Kincade could say anything. “Forgive me, sir, I mean no disrespect, but your house is unknown to us. I would ask with whom we speak.”

  “My nam
e matters little to you, Vulcan,” he retorted, irritation flaring at the interruption. “I am of House Zho. That is all you need concern yourself with.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Guide your vessel toward the surface, and you will be provided with landing coordinates at the facility.”

  “What facility?” asked Kincade. “The . . . mining colony?”

  The officer studied her. “Yes, the mining colony.” Sarcasm dripped from every word. “Such as it was. Now it serves the Empire . . . and her allies . . . in other ways.” The Klingon paused to glance at a monitor. “Holding chambers have been prepared, as requested. The general has provided an inquisitor to facilitate intelligence recovery.”

  “A what?” asked Ixxen, blanching at the word.

  A slow crawl of understanding rose in Tuvok’s mind, suspicions and doubts falling swiftly into place. Ixxen had been correct, Nydak II was no longer a place where the Klingons dug dilithium crystals from the rock; it was a prison, and a secret one at that. Suddenly, the reasons for the unmarked ships and the missing sigil became clear.

  He had heard of such places during his time with Starfleet Intelligence, so-called “black sites,” facilities operated by external powers, clandestine locations that existed to house prisoners or materials deemed too sensitive or too dangerous to be publicly acknowledged. The Cardassian Union, the Romulan Star Empire, and the Klingons were all known to have a network of such ghost locations either now or in the past, but these covert prisons were banned under the Articles of the United Federation of Planets. Nothing of their kind was tolerated within the borders of the UFP.

  But then, Tuvok thought, we are not within Federation space.

  “Who requested this?” he demanded. “Provide confirmation of our orders.”

  Kincade shot him a look. “Commander, what are you doing?”

  The Klingon adjutant seemed unconcerned by the request. “The Tellarite. Velk. He came with a call for aid. How could we refuse?” The sneer came back in all its glory, and he turned to take his seat once more—then paused, as if something had come back to him. “One other matter. Due to the . . . sensitive nature of this facility, we will require that your vessel deactivate your subspace communications systems and your crew stay within secured areas. Failure to abide by these rules will be met with punishment of the severest nature.”