Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice

by James Swallow

  “Chancellor Martok—” Troi started to speak, but Akaar cut her off.

  “The Klingons won’t offer any more help. Martok has closed ranks. He has his own problems to deal with right now, purging his government of those working against him. The existence of Nydak II is an embarrassment to the Empire. Martok will expunge all trace of it, and all Klingon connection to this sorry business, for his own sake.” Akaar’s expression grew stony. “That leaves us with nothing we can take up the line. . . .”

  “No!” snapped Riker. “Even with Onar Throk and the others dead, we still have enough evidence to bring this to the Federation Attorney General. It’s enough to demand an investigation be opened, this time with Starfleet’s full involvement as well as the Federation Security Agency.”

  “If we can investigate Velk, we have a way to get to the heart of this,” added Troi. “We can have him arrested; we can bring him to account!”

  Akaar gave Riker a level look. “You were right about playing catch-up, Will.” He sighed. “We can’t go after Velk because he is already in custody.”

  “What the hell?” Riker shot back, his decorum lost in the reaction. “How?”

  “This morning, while you were both racing back here ahead of a reprimand, the president pro tem gave a press conference in Paris. Ishan Anjar went before the Federation Council and the whole quadrant to inform us that his chief of staff had come to him with an admission of guilt.”

  “Velk . . . confessed?” Troi frowned. “Given what I know of him, that doesn’t seem realistic.”

  “It’s more like he fell on his sword,” Riker replied. “He had to know that Titan was at Nydak II. After Julian Bashir was turned over to the Andorians, he knew that his time was running out. . . .”

  “The Federation Council has ordered a special board of inquiry for Velk. Evidence about the existence of the Active Four group has come out, and all of it lays right at that Tellarite’s feet. He’s accepted full responsibility for running an unsanctioned covert operation, subverting the chain of command, illegal rendition . . .”

  “But nothing about conspiracy to murder,” Deanna said quietly.

  A burst of anger pushed Riker to his feet. “This is a ploy,” he snapped. “They’re trying to get out in front of us by taking Velk off the board. He takes the fall, and Ishan Anjar sails on, untouched!”

  “We don’t know that Ishan is involved,” warned Akaar.

  Riker rounded on him. “I know,” he snarled. “A man in Ishan Anjar’s position is not ignorant of abuse of power on this scale!” The sheer injustice of it all made him furious. “The Federation doesn’t work this way. We didn’t end the Dominion threat for this. We didn’t endure the Borg for this!” He shook his head. “I won’t . . . We can’t accept it!”

  A decision formed in his thoughts, and he saw his wife’s eyes widen as she sensed his intentions. “Will . . . what are you going to do?”

  He gave her a farewell kiss on the cheek. “I have someone to see.”

  “Riker!” Akaar stood, towering over him. “We lost this round, understand that. But there is still—”

  “We haven’t lost,” he broke in, “not yet.” Riker reached up and tapped at the combadge on his tunic. “Titan? I need a site-to-site transport. Starfleet Headquarters to the Palais de la Concorde. Energize.”

  Sixteen

  Riker always found it hard to estimate the age of Bajorans. They tended to mature at a slower pace than humans, so what one could consider a middle-aged aspect might be more senior in reality. Ishan Anjar inhabited that space, a man of distinguished good looks and a face that could be patrician in the right light. He was in the process of adjusting the sleeves of a dress shirt as Riker marched into the presidential office on the fifteenth floor of the Palais, a jacket of conservative cut folded neatly over a chair near the large, ornate desk.

  “Admiral, this is an unexpected pleasure. Please, do come in, take a seat. I’m sorry, I don’t have much time to spare.” Ishan smiled thinly, nodding in the direction of the window. “There’s a meeting in Kyoto tonight, and I have to attend.” Behind him, the evening glow of Paris ranged out behind a broad panoramic window, like the light of stars from deep space.

  Ishan’s practiced attempt at a knowing welcome fell dead as Riker failed to take the offer of a chair, instead choosing to stand at attention. “We need to talk,” he replied. “Sir.”

  “Yes.” The president pro tem stopped and exchanged a look with the members of his staff in the room—a younger Grazerite woman and a Vulcan male from his security detail—dismissing them both without a word. “Yes, I rather think we should.” Ishan went to a server alcove, and Riker caught the perfume of cela tea as he poured himself a cup. The politician didn’t make any move to offer any to the admiral.

  The oaken door to the office closed and they were alone. Riker had a handle on his anger now, taking the reins of it in the walk across the plaza outside the Federation’s seat of power. He was ready to direct it, sharp and unswerving.

  Ishan’s manner turned in a moment, changing from a kind of fatherly detachment to a stern, uncompromising façade. He was the hawk again, the man Riker remembered from the speech at Bacco’s memorial on Luna. “We have a complex situation unfolding here,” he began. “I wish you had come to me first. There’s division now, Starfleet versus civilian authority. That’s bad for all of us.”

  “You have no idea,” Riker told him, and he deliberately made it sound like a threat, throwing down the gauntlet. “It’s hard to know where to start with the list of everything that’s wrong. And I’m sure it will only get longer.”

  Ishan sipped his tea. “I want all your reports and debriefings, of course. I’ll add that to the materials that Galif provided to me.” He gave a slight shake of the head. “It’s troubling, Riker, to know that someone so trusted could go so far off the path. But we have to take what we can from this disorder and make the best of it. There are a lot of questions, and there will need to be answers. The right answers.”

  “A Cardassian national named Onar Throk, an aide to former Castellan Rakena Garan of the Cardassian Union, was the shooter who killed Nanietta Bacco.” The words tasted ashen in Riker’s mouth. “He confessed it to one of my officers. He was part of a terrorist group called the True Way. They committed this act to disrupt the Federation and fracture our alliance with Cardassia—”

  “That is a strong possibility,” Ishan broke in, showing no sign that any of this was news to him. “It is hard to prove such allegations conclusively without evidence. I’m a son of the Occupation, Riker, and I have no great fondness for the Cardassians. But throwing around accusations that the Cardassian Assembly has sponsored terrorism inside our borders? That’s very irresponsible.”

  “That’s not what I said—”

  “That’s what people will think,” Ishan countered.

  “Just like they think the Typhon Pact are responsible for the assassination?” Clasped together behind his back, Riker’s fingers tightened. “The discovery of Tzenkethi DNA evidence on Deep Space Nine was supposed to be kept secret, and yet somehow that information made its way into the public domain.”

  “The truth will out,” snapped Ishan. “That’s one of your human proverbs, isn’t it? Once that was revealed, I had no choice but to comment on it.”

  What Ishan called a “comment” had only been a shade away from an outright accusation laid at the Typhon Pact’s door, but Riker saw no advantage in bringing that up. “And what will you say now, sir? Now we know that it was Onar Throk behind the trigger and possibly your own chief of staff who put him there!”

  The Bajoran smiled without warmth. “We do not know that, Admiral. You’re exaggerating the situation. I had thought you would understand this, as a man who has to deal in certainties every time he stands on the bridge of a starship. Throk is dead. We have only his word that he was poor Nanietta’s assassin. And even if that is so, it does not automatically make the Tzenkethi blameless! They are a perfidious peop
le, Riker. I have no doubt a connection will be found between the True Way and the Typhon Pact.” He gave an airy shrug. “And as for his ridiculous assertion that Velk somehow masterminded the murder of my predecessor? I won’t even dignify that with an answer. Have you seen the media feeds? Suggestions that the True Way was a Pact cat’s-paw are already being publicly aired. I only hope we can find some measure of the complete truth in the days ahead. I’m sure the new Cardassian castellan and his cabinet will do all they can to help in that endeavor. If they value their membership in the Khitomer Accords, of course.” Before Riker could frame a reply, Ishan went on, putting down the tea. “I know you and Akaar are unhappy about these unsanctioned operations, as am I. . . . I am only just learning the full scope of Velk’s activities. But the fact is, no matter what the circumstances are, the Federation captured and dispatched a group of terrorists responsible for a horrific act of aggression against us. I would call that a victory.”

  “In one breath you say Throk is a liar,” Riker shot back. “In the next you take credit for what happened to him. Which is it?”

  Ishan waved away his challenge as if it were nothing. “The True Way is made up of terrorists, that is not in doubt. I’ll sleep soundly knowing there are fewer of them to threaten the citizens of the galaxy.” He eyed Riker coldly. “If death is the justice they received, I will live with that.”

  “And the law be damned?”

  “It was the Cardassians like Throk who taught me law and justice can sometimes be very different things,” said the Bajoran. “I haven’t forgotten the lesson.”

  “You approved Velk’s actions.” Riker threw out the accusation and dared Ishan to deny it.

  “Do I approve of them?” Ishan replied, refusing to take the bait. “I approve of those who understand that the United Federation of Planets needs strength now, not divisiveness. That is why this business with the Andorians has been so disappointing.” He looked away, shaking his head. “I hope the Prophets smile on Galif. He realized too late that he had crossed a line in his zeal to protect the ideals of the Federation. That’s why he came to me and told me everything. He knows he has done wrong. He will accept his punishment and seek forgiveness.”

  “He jumped before he could be pushed?” Riker’s tone was acid.

  Ishan ignored his words. “It falls to me to salvage this now. I was willing to rise to the call when President Bacco was taken from us, and today I have had to do that again, to stare a painful truth in the eye and not flinch from it. I do this, Riker, because I must. And if the people of the United Federation of Planets wish it, it will be my honor to go on doing that.”

  Riker took a step closer and placed his hands on the worn, dark surface of the desk, the centuries-old wood cool beneath his fingers. “I don’t believe for one second that you were ignorant of what Galif jav Velk was doing.” His voice was low and loaded with menace.

  “Your opinion is your right,” Ishan replied, matching his tone. “No matter how mistaken it may be. But I am your commander in chief, and you will follow my lead. Is that clear, Admiral?”

  Slowly, Riker pulled back and returned to parade-ground attention, eyes staring straight ahead and out the window. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “But I would be negligent in my duties if I did not make something very clear to you. It’s the reason I came here tonight.”

  Ishan stood up, reaching for the folded jacket. “Really?” He was offhand, concentrating on dressing for his next public appearance. “And here I thought you had barged into the highest office in this government in order to beat your chest.” The Bajoran gave him a cursory glance. “If you have more to say, let’s have it. Speak freely, while you still have the rank to back it up.”

  “You talk about advocating strength, but all you project is antagonism. The Federation has never started a war in all the time it has been in existence. A belligerent stance against the Typhon Pact won’t defuse tensions, it will only escalate them . . . and then we’ll find ourselves back in the bad old days of the twenty-third century. At best, another cold war like the conflicts we fought with the Klingons and the Romulans, full of proxy skirmishes and secret warfare. At worst . . .” He hesitated, sensing that dark shadow looming again. “A battle on a dozen fronts and a Federation that will crack under the strain.”

  Ishan adjusted his jacket. “You paint a vivid picture, Admiral. Now let me do the same.” He took a breath. “We are wounded, Riker, and our enemies smell the blood in the water. Even our allies look at us and wonder how we will stumble on, watching and waiting for the next aggressor to attack. I will change that. Together, we will change that.” He walked past the admiral, and the doors opened as he approached. “You would do well to consider which side you wish to be on when that begins.”

  “I took an oath,” Riker said. “To defend the Federation. And that won’t be set aside to fuel one man’s political ambitions.”

  But Ishan had already dismissed him from his thoughts, and he left Riker standing alone in the presidential office, the room silent around him.

  * * *

  Along the Titan’s longest axis, through the center of the primary hull, there was a single continuous corridor that almost ran the full length of the starship from bow to stern. Wider than normal, big enough that a ground rover could have traveled it with room to spare, the ship’s crew called it “Broadway” after a colloquial term from Earth’s oceangoing navies, itself a reference to a location in the Terran city of New York.

  It reminded Nog a little of the Promenade on the old DS9 but lacking the scrappy and unpredictable nature of the things aboard the aged Cardassian space station. Remembering it gave him a curious flutter of homesickness, and as he walked, Nog wanted to be back there, among the safe and familiar. But that place was gone now, destroyed by a terrorist attack in the midst of a battle with ships of the Typhon Pact.

  He pushed away a gloomy mood that threatened to cloud his thoughts. His debriefing regarding the aftermath of the Active Four mission was at an end, and he had been declared free to return to his previous duties. It was, he had to admit, somewhat unexpected; Nog had imagined that he would be kept on Earth for days, perhaps weeks, to come, forced to reiterate the circumstances of his recruitment by Lieutenant Colonel Kincade and his experiences while part of the covert task force. Instead, a dour Betazoid from Starfleet Intelligence and an equally taciturn human from the Federation Security Agency had grilled him for a few hours then cut him loose.

  He wasn’t about to question his good fortune. All Nog wanted right now was to be away from here, away from all the things that were troubling him. . . .

  He halted and sighed. But going back to the new DS9 won’t make that happen. It’s not like I can just turn my back on what took place at Iota Nadir and Nydak. I’m involved. I’m part of this now. Like it or not.

  “Lieutenant Commander Nog?” He turned as he heard a woman’s voice call his name. “I’m Commander Vale, Titan’s first officer. Do you have a moment?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nog replied. He hadn’t met Vale before, but something about her reminded him of someone he knew. She studied him, a searching, strong gaze that peered out from under a cut of dark hair with a single striking white highlight. Odo, he thought. She has that same look Odo used to give me when I was a youth.

  “Walk with me.” He fell in step with Vale, stealing a glance at her. “So you’re heading down to the forward locks to disembark, is that right?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. There’s a runabout waiting on McKinley that’ll take me to Bajor.”

  “Eager to get back?”

  Nog gave a halfhearted chuckle. “Does it show?”

  “A little.” Vale smiled back. “But I’m afraid you’re going to be late.” She turned off the wider corridor and into one of the smaller radial passages. The commander’s body language made it very clear she expected Nog to follow her.

  He trailed after her, his brow furrowing. “Uh, sir. The airlocks are that way.” Nog jerked a thumb over hi
s shoulder.

  “Your ride will have to wait,” she told him, halting outside a hexagonal double-door hatchway. Vale tapped out a string of numbers into a pad near the hatch and it hissed open. Nog glimpsed the grid-plan deck and walls of a holodeck inside. “After you,” said the commander, indicating the entrance.

  Nog stepped through warily and found Tuvok waiting within. The Vulcan gave him a curt nod and returned to his observation of two individuals working at a large holographic template construct in the center of the chamber. One of them resembled a tawny-furred grazing mammal but augmented with cybernetic implants and prosthetics, while the other was a humanoid-arachnid form clearly of artificial origins. The spider-like mechanism had an odd, glassy texture to it, and as Nog studied it, he realized it was not actually a physical construct. “That’s . . . a holoprogram of some kind?”

  “A limited definition, sir,” said the deer-like being in a piping voice, and now Nog saw the alien wore an ensign’s insignia at his throat. “White-Blue is a purely synthetic artificial intelligence matrix acting through a holographic drone-form.”

  The name rang a bell. “The . . . Sentry? I read a monograph about them in the Starfleet Journal of Engineering. . . .”

  “Yes!” The ensign bobbed on his clawed feet. “I wrote it! Ensign Torvig Bu-Kar-Nguv, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Commander Nog,” he said by way of reply, before glancing at Tuvok. “This is an interesting ship you have here.”

  “Technically, my designation is SecondGen White-Blue Iteration Two-Point-Zero,” noted the AI. “You are: species identifier: Ferengi.”

  “That’s right . . . but I thought you had been downloaded or something. . . .”

  “Affirmative. I have since rebooted and undertaken a system upgrade.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t question the reply; it wasn’t the most unusual thing he had encountered during his time in Starfleet, not by a long way. Nog walked closer, studying the complex holotemplate floating before them. “This looks like a subspace domain pattern . . . an encrypted field model?”