Nog turned away in disgust. “I’ve seen enough.”
Tom shook his head. “You really haven’t.”
“No one!” shouted the Cardassian. “Please, it was only us! Please stop the pain, stop the . . . the . . .” Gohdon gave an abrupt, broken gasp, and at once all animation fled from his body. He lolled forward in the chair, eyes rolling back into his head.
“Heart failure,” said Tuvok. “A common effect of such a barbaric device.”
Then the figure who had spoken before moved, coming into the light to take a closer look at the youth’s body. Turning, Jan Kincade’s face looked directly into the imager pickup and made a throat-cutting motion. She was wearing a data-monocular over one eye.
Make sure the body is disintegrated, came the order. We will try again with one of the others later. It is important we are certain we have full containment.
The playback concluded, freezing on the blurry image. “There’s no way it could be someone else,” said Tom. “Kincade murdered an unarmed prisoner.”
“Whom was she listening to?” asked Nog.
“Whoever it is,” said Tuvok, “it is clear they do not wish Throk and the other prisoners to leave Nydak II alive.”
* * *
“I should put you in the cell next to Bashir’s!” snarled Chessman, color rising in his cheeks. His voice reverberated off the walls of his office, and outside past the observation windows looking out at the asteroid’s operations center, his staff members were doing their best to pretend they couldn’t hear him. “You spin me some line about wanting to find the truth, but in the next breath you’re colluding with a convict!”
“He’s not a convict,” Vale shot back, arms folded across her chest. “Get your terms right, Commander. Bashir hasn’t been convicted of anything yet. He’s just a prisoner, and frankly the legality of that definition is up for debate!”
“Innocent until proven guilty doesn’t count when the man in question openly admits he did it,” replied the other officer. “I know what they’re saying about Andor, that Bashir and those other doctors saved countless lives with what they did . . . but he still broke the law. And you’re within an inch of doing the same, Commander Vale.” Chessman glared at a screen on his desk. “My engineering team tells me that despite the best efforts of the Lionheart’s crew to drag their heels, your ship is now more or less operable, so I want you on it and out of this system. If you’re lucky, you might make it a few parsecs before the reprimand from Starfleet catches up with you.”
Vale considered that. She imagined that Chessman’s first order of business when the Lionheart had come into sensor range was to send an alert back up the chain of command. Was there a ship on its way to intercept us even now? Or maybe an order for Atia to kick me out of the center seat?
She had been hoping to stall for time, but that option was fading fast. Her gaze flicked to a viewscreen out in the ops center, a tactical plot of the star system. It was calm and quiet.
What the hell, Vale told herself. I won’t fold, I’m not going to call. Let’s go all-in.
Vale lowered herself into the seat opposite Chessman’s desk and gave him the same penetrating stare she had perfected on small-time hoods back on Izar. “You know that once this gets out, you’re going to be the bad guy here?” Her tone was suddenly reasonable, and it wrong-footed the other officer. “Bashir is a hero to the Andorian people. And right now, after the shooting, the Federation could do with some heroes. So he punched a couple of people and borrowed a runabout without asking. How does all that balance against safeguarding the future of an entire species?”
“He disobeyed orders from his superiors. He stole data that could be lethal in the wrong hands!”
“He resigned from Starfleet,” Vale countered. “And like I said a moment ago, you may want to think about how lawful it is to be holding a civilian non-combatant without due representation, legal oversight, or assent to his rights.”
Chessman’s bluster faded. He knew she was right, but he was caught between a rock and a hard place. He had his orders, and they were ironclad, while she was, in his eyes, only a few steps removed from a renegade herself.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the alert Vale had been hoping for cut him off before he could utter a word.
Out on the big display screen a sensor return had flashed into life. Two starships were homing in on the asteroid, shedding warp factors as they slowed to high impulse speed.
“Report!” Chessman demanded an answer from the intercom on his desk.
Vale saw one of his staff look up from a console. “Commander, we read two vessels approaching on an intercept course. They’re hailing us.”
“Starfleet?”
“No, sir. Andorian Imperial Guard. An Atlira-class escort cruiser, the ADS Mat-Rus, and a civilian transport, the Kree-Thai. Shall I respond?”
The glare Chessman turned on Vale was sharp enough to slice through steel. “You’re responsible for this.”
Inwardly, Vale was breathing a huge sigh of relief, but outwardly, she maintained a confident, unruffled air. “You really ought to talk to them,” she told him.
“On screen,” Chessman barked, pulling his uniform tunic straight as he turned to face a display behind his desk. Vale rose and schooled her expression into careful neutrality.
An image appeared of a tall and imposing Andorian chan in elegant robes, framed by the bridge of the diplomatic courier vessel. Off to one side of the hawkish, white-haired figure, Vale saw Deanna Troi standing at steady attention. She resisted the urge to smile.
“I am Envoy Ramasanar ch’Nuillen,” said the Andorian, not giving Chessman the opportunity to speak first. “I demand to address the commanding officer of this facility.”
“Sir,” began Chessman, working to maintain an air of steady calm. “This is a restricted zone. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave immediately. You are in violation of Starfleet security protocols.”
“That will not occur.” The envoy’s antennae stiffened. “Your protocols are of little concern to me, Commander. I am here on a humanitarian mission of great importance to Andoria, and I will not be turned away by the likes of you. Make a docking port available for my ship, and prepare to receive my arrival. Ch’Nuillen out.”
The image died, replaced by an exterior view of the dagger-shaped courier and the shield-shaped escort. The latter was taking up a defense stance, while the former moved closer toward the asteroid.
Vale eyed Chessman, whose color was rising with each passing second. “Have you got a red carpet?” she asked mildly.
* * *
The Snipe’s operations room was empty, allowing Tuvok and Tom Riker to set about opening the concealed hatch to the armory without attracting notice. The Vulcan pulled open the casing around the hidden activator pad and paused, studying it in silence.
“Thinking at it isn’t going to open it,” said Tom after a moment. Before Tuvok could stop him, he reached into the casing and pinched a series of connectors together. The hatch gave a grinding hiss and retracted into the wall.
“Impatience is not productive,” Tuvok told him.
“It worked, didn’t it?” came the reply.
In that moment, Tuvok made two distinct observations; the first was that no matter how much Thomas Riker resembled his “brother,” he lacked the subtlety of the Titan’s captain; the second observation he gave voice to. “Your actions remind me of another human with whom I associated. You share a common forename.”
“Handsome fellow?” asked Tom, with a smile.
“Impulsive and poorly disciplined,” Tuvok replied.
The other man slipped into the concealed compartment. “I like him already.” He quickly found the phase-shift transport modules and passed one of them across.
Tuvok turned it over in his fingers. “Fully charged. Secure them all.”
“Got it.”
He turned at the sound of footsteps behind them. Lieutenant Nog slipped into the room, his eyes wide. “I got t
o Ixxen,” he said, low and intense. “She’s going to remain on the bridge and be ready for your word.”
“What of the rest of the group?”
The Ferengi frowned. “Not sure. Kincade’s not on the ship; no sign of Khob. I couldn’t check the rest without the Bynars seeing me do it.”
“We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Tom. He was gathering up the phase-shift modules, glancing around the compartment. “Should we take the stealth suits?”
Nog shook his head. “We’ll have to get in there through guile instead—” He halted abruptly, ears stiffening. “Someone—”
“What are you doing in there?” Ashur’s voice growled from the other compartment. Tuvok saw the thickset Zeon mercenary move into view. He had his disruptor pistol drawn and pointed into the armory. “I knew it . . . you’re all part of this!” Ashur’s expression turned ugly with controlled rage.
Tom took a step toward him, then halted when the muzzle of the disruptor turned his way. “Ashur, put the weapon down. Just step aside—let us do this.”
“No,” he bit out the word. “What is wrong with you, Tom? These Starfleet types, you can’t trust them. Isn’t that why you turned against them all those years ago? They promise one thing and then do another.” Ashur gestured with the weapon. “I never believed Kincade, right from the start. I knew they were in it with her, all their salutes and secrets. . . . They’re using us!” He caught sight of the phase-shift modules. “What are you doing with those?”
“Mister Ashur,” began Tuvok, maintaining a neutral, static pose. “Lieutenant Colonel Kincade is operating unlawfully. I believe this entire operation is illegal and clandestine.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” he shot back. “I was made a promise. Kincade is reneging on it. They told me I would be free and clear. . . . That was a lie. This Cardassian scum we captured, they should be made to pay for their crimes in front of the galaxy . . . but instead we are here.” Tuvok saw a shadow of memory pass over Ashur’s face. “I’ve seen places like this before. This is where men of power send those they want broken or erased so it can be done in secret without a single drop of blood touching their hands.” The words came from somewhere deep within him, and once more Tuvok found himself considering what events in the past had put this mercenary on the path he now walked.
“We’re going to get them out,” Nog blurted. “The prisoners. Away from Kincade, back to face justice.”
Tom offered Ashur one of the modules. “We could use your help.”
Tuvok watched the Zeon carefully. He was ready at a moment’s notice to spring at him; perhaps he would be fast enough to get to Ashur before the mercenary fired off a shot, perhaps not. The humanoid’s emotional state was difficult to predict; at first he had categorized the Zeon as one ruled by baser instincts, but now Tuvok wondered if he might have been too swift to dismiss him.
With a snap, Ashur put up his gun and snatched the module from Tom’s hand. “All right,” he said. “And then we get out of this place and never look back.”
* * *
A second umbilicus extended out from the asteroid’s boarding annex, up at an angle past the Lionheart’s primary hull and into a receptor port on the underside of the Kree-Thai. The diplomatic vessel was an older class of craft, a sleek transport that was a veteran of decades of service to the Andorian race. It had a blade-shaped prow, and it hung over the surface of the secret base like a weapon suspended a heartbeat before plunging into the flesh of an enemy. Vale wondered if that was deliberate symbolism on the part of the envoy—a veiled warning to Commander Chessman that there was steel beneath the ambassador’s intentions.
Chessman had insisted that Vale stay close by for ch’Nuillen’s arrival; he clearly did not trust her to be out of his eyesight for more than a moment.
A group of serious-looking Andorian males emerged from the mouth of the transfer tube and took up places where they could see all angles of approach. None of them appeared to be armed, but Vale knew that at the very least they each carried an ushaan-tor blade concealed somewhere on their person. The envoy’s protection detail eyed their opposite numbers; Chessman had brought a few Starfleet security officers to bolster his own position, and these men and women stood in loose honor guard formation. They kept their phasers holstered, but visible. In addition, a pair of sentinel drones floated overhead, humming quietly.
“I’ll do the talking,” Chessman said out the side of his mouth.
“If you like,” Vale replied, staying at attention.
The envoy stepped out, with Troi at his side, and she gave Vale the smallest of nods.
Chessman came forward and bowed slightly. “Sir. Before you begin, I must tell you your presence here is highly irregular.” He glanced at Troi. “Both of you,” he amended.
“Commander Troi is accompanying me at the request of the Andorian government,” said ch’Nuillen. “She has been assisting us in the resolution of an important issue.” His frost-white eyebrows came together. “And that is why we are here, irregular or not.”
“This facility is classified,” Chessman insisted. “How did you find it?”
“I would suggest that point is moot, Commander,” offered Troi.
Vale saw the other officer’s hands tighten. “You should not be here,” he replied, and he took her in with that statement. “I’m afraid I will have to ask you all to return to your ships and leave this system.”
“I intend to do so,” ch’Nuillen said briskly. “Once you have bowed to your obligation.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
The envoy frowned. “Do not treat me like a fool, Commander. You know why I am here. You know who I have come for.”
“You have to leave,” Chessman repeated, and the tension in his voice spread to his security team. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
“And if we do not, will you use force?” Troi gently asked the question.
“If I must.” Chessman stared her down, knowing that the Betazoid was reading the strength behind his statement.
Troi caught Vale’s eye for a fraction of a second, but it was enough for her to sense the unspoken words. He’ll come out shooting if he’s pushed to it.
“Are you willing to commit an act of violence against Andoria?” Ch’Nuillen’s question echoed in the air. “An act . . . of war?” He reached up and touched an ornate emblem hanging around his throat, a rendering in platinum of the crest of Epsilon Indi. “I am Andor. This is Andor. A threat to either is a threat to our people. Are you prepared to take responsibility for that?” He advanced a step toward the commander. “You will release our citizen to me, and you will do it now. I will not tell you again.”
Confusion broke out on Chessman’s face. “Your citizen? Envoy, there’s been some mistake. We don’t have any of your species in detention here.”
“This isn’t about skin color,” said Vale.
Ch’Nuillen reached into his robe and whipped out a scroll, moving with such speed that Chessman’s guards reached for their weapons, and the Andorians did the same, but all motions were arrested when it became clear the envoy held only a piece of paper in his hand. He unrolled it and presented it to the commander.
Chessman looked at the flowing script and frowned. “I . . . don’t read your language.”
“That is a legal document of entitlement from the Andor Ministry of Citizens,” explained Troi. “A declaration of nationality.”
“Commander,” ch’Nuillen said formally, “you are holding a man who requested and was granted full political asylum by my government when he was on my world. It was illegal for Starfleet to arrest him and deport him from Andoria, an action tantamount to kidnapping. It is illegal for the Federation to detain him against his will without first requesting and being granted a right of extradition by Presider zh’Felleth. No such request was made.”
“What?” Chessman shook his head. “Asylum? How can you prove that?” He glared at the scroll. “You could have
just granted that after the fact!”
The envoy went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Furthermore, because of the selfless acts of your prisoner in aiding my species, deeds that will preserve my family’s future, I have declared him thun-za-ke.”
“The term roughly translates as adoption,” offered Troi helpfully.
“The man you hold is a named ward of my clan,” ch’Nuillen explained. “Bound to me as closely as my siblings and cousins. You will therefore release Julian Subatoi Bashir ke’Nuillen to my custody,” he said, adding the adoptive suffix to Bashir’s name. “Or we will take him from you.”
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped Chessman’s throat. “You can’t be serious! He’s human, not Andorian! He’s admitted guilt for multiple crimes!”
Ch’Nuillen brandished the scroll. “He may not be born of Andor, but this document names him Andorian in all but blood. And whatever transgressions you hold against him, petition must be made to try him for them.”
All the air seemed to drain out of the chamber. Vale could see the tension written across the faces of the Starfleet security guards and the envoy’s protectors; both groups were ready to react in an instant if violence ensued, but neither wanted to be the first to draw a weapon. She watched Chessman, caught in the middle of it. Would he really order his men to open fire on the Andorian diplomatic detail?
One of the humming drones overhead shifted pitch and dropped down to head height, drifting into the middle of the group. Chessman seemed as surprised by it as anyone, until the machine’s holoemitter stirred to life, projecting the image of a figure before the assembled group.
“This is Lionheart.” Atia’s urgent tones came from Vale’s combadge. “Detection. Powerful subspace signal incoming, direct to asteroid. . . .”
In the space of a second, the holographic humanoid shape went from a featureless, smooth form to something with detail, character, and expression. “Step aside, Commander Chessman,” said the image of Galif jav Velk. “I will take it from here.”
“Stand by, Lionheart,” said Vale quietly. “This is going to be interesting.”
Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice Page 25
