Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice

by James Swallow

  The admiral rubbed the bridge of his nose, for now unwilling to answer that particular question. “What a damned mess. How did we come to this? Our own people riding roughshod over the truth, pushing agendas based on fear instead of hope?”

  “War does that to people, Will. We’ve both seen it.” Tom gave a bitter chuckle. “Hell, in the last few years there’s hardly a man, woman, or child in the Federation who hasn’t been affected by it.”

  “I refuse to accept that.” Riker met his gaze, indignation burning in his eyes. “We’re better than this, Tom. We have to strive to be, every day. Because backsliding is what gets us undeclared conflicts and the constant threat of interstellar hostility. We’re supposed to be explorers not soldiers. If we lose sight of that . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.

  Tom studied him, absently tracing the line of a scar on his face. “You’re not about to take the hand that you’ve been dealt with this,” he said. It wasn’t a question, rather a prediction from the one man in the galaxy who fully understood Will Riker’s character. “I can hazard a good guess as to what you’re going to do when Titan gets back to Earth.” He nodded toward the ports of the briefing room where warp-stretched stars raced past them. “And I am going to do the same. I can help you get to the roots of this thing.”

  “No offense, but the word of a missing-presumed-dead ex-Maquis with a half-dozen warrants on his head may not carry much weight before the Federation Council.”

  “None taken. But I wasn’t thinking of that.” Tom chuckled again and pointed at Riker’s uniform. “Once you get out from under the rank and the colors, things change a lot. It’s less black and white, more a sea of grays. And there are people out there who won’t talk to Starfleet but who will talk to me.”

  “And what do you propose to do with these . . . less-than-legal contacts?”

  He opened his hands. “What do you need, Will?”

  The answer to that question took time to assemble, and the two of them talked for another hour, finding ways that both men could work to bring light to truths that were hell-bent on retreating into the shadows, never to be seen again.

  By the end of the conversation, the dark pall that had hung over them had dissipated somewhat, and their shared anger and frustration was fueling a renewed sense of purpose. Tom stood up and walked to the ports.

  “Can you contact the bridge and order up a minor course change?”

  “To where?”

  “Delta Leonis. There’s a Freeport colony there, along with some Miradorn who owe me favors. Titan can drop me off, and you won’t lose much time.”

  Riker nodded. “I’ll see to it, if that’s what you want. But you can come back to Earth. You don’t have to stay away. . . .” The words felt awkward in his mouth. “That’s not what I meant. You know what I mean.”

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “Deanna . . .” He hesitated. “She would be pleased to see you, to know you’re okay. And I’d like Natasha to meet her uncle.”

  Unbidden, a grin formed on Tom’s face. “Uncle? I like the sound of that.” But then just as quickly, his twin’s good humor went away. “I don’t think I’m ready to meet them just yet. Later. When we’re done with this.”

  Part of him wondered if Tom really meant what he said, but Will knew better than to call him on it. Instead, he accepted it with a nod and stood up. “Talk to Keru—he’ll get you whatever you require. I’ll have Lavena divert to Leonis.” He offered Tom his hand. “Thank you.”

  His brother took it. “Here’s to second chances.”

  * * *

  “I assure you,” Tuvok began, “I am well enough to resume my duties.”

  With exaggerated care, the Pahkwa-thanh doctor turned his long predator’s snout away from the Vulcan’s face and down to where his exposed leg lay under the head of a sensor pod. Ree made a show of examining the unpleasant purple bruising around Tuvok’s ankle where the joint had dislocated during the melee on Nydak II. He sniffed at the flesh, then the tip of his pink tongue emerged from between rows of needle-sharp teeth and deftly licked Tuvok’s epidermis. The Vulcan did not react, even if he found the saurianoid’s action slightly alarming.

  Ree leaned back, considering what he tasted in the manner of a vintner evaluating the flavor of a wine. “Yes, you are healing swiftly, that Vulcanian physiology at work again. But you are not recertified for duty, Commander. I want you off your feet for another twenty-four hours, not standing a post on the bridge. We’ll be back at McKinley Station soon, so there will be little for your attention anyway.”

  Tuvok maintained a steady tone. “I beg to differ.”

  “As well you may. However . . . doctor’s orders,” Ree insisted, stalking away on his taloned feet. “Don’t make me confine you to quarters.”

  “As you wish,” Tuvok replied, admitting defeat. He swung his legs off the examination bed and adjusted his uniform, glancing around.

  “Here you are,” said a voice, and he found Lieutenant Nog at his side, offering up Tuvok’s boot.

  Tuvok accepted it and pulled it on. “I take it you have been given a clean bill of health?”

  Nog rubbed at a fading contusion on his broad forehead. “Some cuts and scrapes, not much else. No lasting damage, thank the Blessed Exchequer. Ferengi are tougher than they look, you know.”

  He sensed something unsaid in the younger officer’s manner and decided to address it without preamble. “Mister Nog, what is it you wish to discuss with me?”

  The Ferengi’s attempt to maintain a lighter tone faded with his words. “I suppose . . . I’m looking to understand. I though perhaps you might be able to help me.”

  Tuvok stood, testing the ankle. “I will endeavor to assist if I can.”

  “Why us, Commander?” The question tumbled from Nog’s mouth in a rush. “I mean, Kincade or Velk or whoever it was who set this all in motion, they could have chosen anyone to be part of Active Four. But they specifically selected you and me. And as hard as I try, I can’t make my peace with that. Why us?” he repeated.

  The same uncertainty had been troubling Tuvok’s thoughts for some time, and the solutions that he came up with did little to put his mind at ease. “Walk with me, Commander,” he said, and together they made their way out into the Titan’s corridors.

  With each step they took, part of Tuvok’s mind was zeroing in on the low, dull pain from his injury, and he was working to nullify it. He found it helped him focus. Nog didn’t seem to have the same capacity; the engineer was worrying at his concerns, and his disquiet was evident. “I don’t think it was random chance we were recruited for Active Four,” he was saying. “And I don’t believe it was just for our skills, either.”

  “I concur in part with your statement,” Tuvok replied. “Consider that our individual skill sets are useful to a clandestine action group. Both of us have direct experience of frontline military and covert operations as well as more . . . esoteric mission profiles.”

  “I suppose so,” said Nog glumly. “But I can’t help wondering if they chose me because I’m Ferengi. I mean, my people don’t exactly have the best standing in terms of trust and reliability.”

  “You believe they thought they could buy your loyalty, Lieutenant?”

  “My people have more privateers and mercenaries out in the galaxy than there are captains in the whole of the Ferengi Alliance flotilla.”

  Tuvok shook his head. “I have a different theory. I have observed from my interactions with you that you are . . . honest.”

  Nog gave a snaggletoothed smirk. “Funny. I feel honored and insulted all at once.”

  “It may be to your detriment,” Tuvok went on. “Mister Nog, for a Ferengi, you have very little artifice to your character. I would hazard a guess that you were brought into Active Four not only for your skills, but because you could be manipulated.”

  Nog’s smile fled. “How?”

  “You saw President Bacco die, did you not? You were th
ere in person.”

  “Yes.” The engineer’s expression stiffened, his emotions beneath the surface running deep and strong.

  “Mister Nog, it is my estimation that you are a fine officer with a strong sense of the moral tenets at the heart of our oath to Starfleet. But I also believe Kincade intended to use your outrage at the assassination as a way to make you follow her lead.”

  “When it happened on DS9 . . . I felt so powerless.” Nog halted, a faraway look in his eyes. “She died right in front of us, and there was nothing we could do to save her. I was angry, Commander. But then when I got the orders, I thought I had a chance. . . . A way to do something about it.” He shook his head. “You’re right. I never stopped to think what that could mean until it was too late.”

  “Do not punish yourself, Mister Nog. Every one of the Active Four recruits was being manipulated in one way or another. I suspect that had events gone according to Kincade’s plans, all of us would have eventually suffered because of it.” Or worse, he added silently.

  Nog eyed him. “So what button did they push for you, sir? I thought Vulcans were above that sort of thing.”

  “No,” Tuvok admitted, a frown threatening to mar his features. “We are not.” He hesitated, then began to speak; thoughts that he had dismissed over the past few months now rose back to the surface, things he had not spoken of even to his wife T’Pel that he now felt compelled to reveal to Nog. “I have in recent times become withdrawn, Lieutenant. Recent events I have been party to aboard the Titan have caused me to question myself. I have experienced much in terms of loss . . . and self-doubt. I have attempted to occupy myself with my work, without a great degree of success.”

  “So, are you saying you were chosen because, what? They thought you would simply obey orders? Focus on the mission and nothing else?”

  “One could make that assumption,” Tuvok said with a nod. “But as with you, Lieutenant, they were mistaken. I also suspect that my involvement could have been used to implicate the Titan in some way.”

  Nog rubbed his hands over his ears, wincing. “Wheels turning within wheels. I feel like I’m the cog that looked up for the first time to see the whole machine around him.” He scowled. “I don’t like being used, sir.”

  “I concur,” offered Tuvok. “But that time is over. We will be entering the Sol system in a few hours, and with diligence, we will learn the reasons why this happened and find those responsible for it.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  Tuvok shook his head. “It will be anything but that, Mister Nog.”

  * * *

  Time seemed to play itself over again.

  Riker could almost lose himself in the moment. A peculiar déjà vu had crawled over him as the Titan swept back into Earth orbit. In just twenty-two days, it seemed like William Riker’s life had turned through a complete orbit, coming back to almost the exact spot it had occupied three weeks earlier; emotionally and physically, he was virtually in the same place.

  He was worried about his future and the fate of his family and his crew. Concerned about events far beyond his control and fearful of how those things were going to radiate out into the galaxy beyond. And above it all, Riker could see a shadow looming over everything that was dear to him.

  Before, that had just been a vague and directionless doubt. Now he was returning home with a reaffirmed purpose alongside the grave disquiet lurking in his heart.

  He half-expected to find a master-at-arms detail waiting for him at McKinley Station or an “escort” from Starfleet Security. There was only an order, a summons like the one that had cut short Titan’s exploratory mission and brought Riker and his ship back from the Gum Nebula. A command from the office of the Admiral of the Fleet, from Leonard Akaar.

  As he stepped onto the transporter pad to answer the call, Riker ran a finger over the rank pin on his collar and closed his eyes as the beam-out began. Perhaps now it would be time to give that up, to be stripped of the brief status it had given him. I wouldn’t resist, he thought to himself. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get used to the weight of it.

  He materialized in familiar surroundings, feeling the warmth of the afternoon sun on his face and the familiar sea-tang of the Presidio’s air. Riker automatically knew he was on the Starfleet Command campus before he opened his eyes again, and he stepped down onto Earth.

  The ornamental gardens outside the great sculpted curve of the headquarters building stretched out before him, and he started walking. Akaar’s orders had not specified where Riker was to go, but now that he was here, he knew exactly how to find the admiral. Threading his way past flower beds, immaculately manicured lawns, and ornamental ponds, at last he came across the small stone lacunae where he had tracked the Capellan admiral before embarking on the journey that had taken him to Klingon space and back again. It seemed like an age had passed since then. With everything Riker had learned—and everything he now suspected—that moment felt as if it had happened to another person.

  Akaar was waiting there for him, and this time he had eschewed one of his potent cigarillos in deference to the other party seated on the stone bench.

  Deanna Troi turned and stood to meet her husband’s embrace. For a moment the two of them forgot everything else, briefly losing themselves in the closeness.

  Riker basked in her, feeling Deanna in his thoughts, a welcome and calming presence. Imzadi. I missed you.

  “I know,” she whispered. “It’s good to be back.”

  He broke away and studied her. “Tasha?”

  “She’s with Christine and the Andorians, out at the diplomatic compound in the city.”

  “You both did well,” he told her. “Thank you.”

  Troi’s moment of joy at seeing her husband once again now fell away, as did Riker’s emotions at seeing his wife—all put aside for now. There was still the job at hand to be dealt with.

  The couple broke their embrace and turned back to Akaar. He stood like a towering sentinel, circumspect as he allowed the brief moment of reunion.

  “So when should I expect to be arrested?” Riker began. “I ignored a recall order or two.”

  “You’re an admiral now, remember?” Akaar’s reply was dry. “It’s only captains and the lower ranks who get dragged away in manacles.” He beckoned them to sit near the muttering waters of the nearby fountain. “Rank hath its privileges, and one of those is discretion.”

  “It would be unseemly for Starfleet’s newest flag officer to be detained in full view of everyone,” said Troi. She nodded over Riker’s shoulder, and he turned to see where she was looking.

  A pair of security officers was loitering some distance away, making all effort to look anywhere but in their direction. “Are those your men, sir?” asked Riker. “Or someone else’s?”

  “I forget,” Akaar replied, feigning a frown. “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Riker studied the other man. The fatigue he had seen in Akaar before had deepened. He looked more and more like someone waiting out the clock. “Admiral, it appears that I and several of my officers are now one step ahead of an official warning, or worse. After what we found in the Nydak system—”

  Akaar cut him off. “I’ve been doing what I can from here. If the worst happens, I can protect Commander Vale. There could be a demotion, a black mark on her file. It might be a long time before she gets a shot at the center seat again, but she’ll have her career.” It was telling that he said nothing about Riker or his wife. Akaar eyed him, his tone turning flinty. “What you did with Bashir . . . that was a big risk.”

  “I acted on my own initiative, just as you told me to,” Riker responded, ignoring a flash of irritation at Akaar’s reply. “So did Christine. I won’t apologize for it, and neither should she.”

  The Capellan ignored Riker, turning his gaze on Troi. “It was a good gambit, Commander Troi, bringing in ch’Nuillen like that. You forced Velk into a corner.” He looked away. “And now we’ll see how that shakes out in
the long term.”

  “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

  “Bashir didn’t give you anything, did he?” Akaar retorted. “We all know why that is. He’s afraid to jeopardize the freedom of the other doctors who helped him with the Andorian cure.”

  “I have faith in Doctor Bashir,” Troi replied.

  “All well and good. But that doesn’t count for anything right now.”

  “And here we go again.” Riker’s eyes narrowed. “Everything is playing out the same way it did before. Why is it whenever I talk to you, sir, I get the feeling that I am playing catch-up?”

  “A lot happened here while you were chasing across the quadrant and back, Admiral Riker. Tensions in the Federation Council are high. This business with the Andorians intervening with Bashir has split them down the middle. Half the representatives are applauding it and want them back in the fold immediately, the other half are calling it reckless and bullheaded. Public support is going back and forth like a pendulum.”

  “With all due respect, that’s not our focus. You told me you brought me here and gave me this rank so together we could look into unsanctioned executive orders from the office of the president. I’ve done that. Ssura sent you all the data, all the reports on what we found.” He took a breath, marshaling his thoughts. “Picard was right, the Cardassians were the assassins. The True Way killed Nan Bacco. The Tzenkethi lead on Deep Space Nine was a fake trail, designed to point toward the Typhon Pact. And someone in our government knew about it.”

  “Galif jav Velk,” said Troi. “At the very least.”

  “Throk openly accused Velk of engineering the whole thing,” Riker added.

  “Remind me again what proof we have?” Akaar matched his gaze. “The word of a dead man. A corrupted holoprogram. The unverifiable testimony of three Starfleet officers and one convicted criminal, all of whom could be implicated in illegal military actions themselves.” He shook his head. “It’s not enough. We need cast-iron certainty. . . . We need a knife with blood on the blade.”