by Dave Stern
Plans for war were proceeding apace.
General Jaedez had been appointed commander-in-chief of the assembled fleet, she saw. Which reminded her that Jaedez had been with Theera when the explosion occurred. He had survived. She wondered if the Andorian had.
She found a list of casualties in the database. Theera’s name wasn’t on it.
So she was on her way back home, then. Safe and sound.
Hoshi pictured Captain Archer sitting in the command chair then, looking and yet not looking in her direction, waiting for her to translate the Antianna signal, to do her job so that he could get on with doing his.
She shut off the reader.
It took a while, but at last, she was able to fall asleep again.
It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a good night’s sleep.
Thirteen
It was late, growing later, and once more, he had accomplished nothing. Not entirely his fault, of course, Malcolm knew that, what could he do, after all, he was just here in an observational capacity, the Thelasians had made that quite clear. They let him observe their investigation, but the second he stepped forward to try and offer suggestions on how they might, perhaps, produce results from the data they’d gathered on the explosion and its aftermath…
He was politely—but firmly—shunted aside. Idiots. His sister could do a better job of running the investigation. No, strike that, the Silurian grayfish Phlox had swimming in his tank down in sickbay could do a better job. Perhaps he should stop being so polite about things, and raise a ruckus. Shout at someone. Let them see how angry he was at the lack of progress they’d made.
Who he was really angry at, of course, was himself. He was security, and security’s primary task in a hostile environment was to protect Enterprise personnel. Specifically and most importantly senior officers, and above all the captain. He’d failed at that task. Never mind his heroics, or the fact that except for those last few minutes, he’d watched Archer like a hawk all night, the point was the captain was dead, and that was, if not his fault, his responsibility. He should have insisted on Chief Lee, at the very least. He should have overridden the captain’s wishes. He’d done it before. He’d do it again, he promised himself that, if ever a similar situation arose. For now…
Best to play by the rules. At least while the investigation was still active.
Right now, Malcom was on his way to visit to what had been Sen’s office, in the government complex. It was an impressive suite of rooms, the size of Enterprise’s bridge, when taken as a group, with a panoramic view of the city outside. The very heart, he’d come to learn, of an extensive computer network that the Intelligence Division was currently attempting to penetrate. Looking for information on Sen’s recent activities, clues that might point them to his killers.
A half-dozen workstations had been set up in the middle of the office’s main suite. One of the proctors—Thelasian investigators, ranking officials from the Intelligence division—was supervising the tech personnel manning those stations. Reed watched him at “work” (his idea of which seemed to involve walking from one tech to another and looking over their shoulders) waiting for an opportune moment, before stepping into the proctor’s path.
“Any progress?” Reed asked.
The proctor shook his head. “Nothing yet. We’ve brought in a few more freelancers so we can work straight through, though I’m beginning to think that rather than continue our efforts to breach the system, we may be better off inducing a catastrophic failure, and attempting to recover the data from the storage centers directly.”
Reed bit his tongue. Hard.
Catastrophic failure. From what he knew of computers, that sounded like a really stupid idea.
He was trying to think of a diplomatic way to say that when he noticed two familiar faces among the new tech personnel. Poz and Verkin. The Bynar he’d met at the Assembly last week.
“Excuse me a moment,” he said to the proctor, and went and stood over the two of them. It took a few seconds for them to notice his presence.
“Lieutenant Reed.”
“Mister Poz.”
“I’m Verkin. He’s Poz.”
“We heard about your captain,” Poz said. “Our sympathies.”
“Thank you.”
“But we did warn you,” Verkin said. “You’ll recall.”
“Yes. I recall. I’ve spent the last few days recalling.” He paused a moment, then lowered his voice. “So. You’re trying to break into the Governor’s computer network.”
“ ‘Trying’ is the word.”
“Is the situation as bad as the proctor thinks?”
“Hard to tell.”
“Impossible to tell. Yet.”
“If not…I suppose his idea—the proctor’s idea, induce a catastrophic failure—that’s the best chance of getting the data.”
The two looked at each other. Said nothing.
“What would you estimate the chances of success are? If you use that strategy?”
The two looked at each other again.
“Not high,” Poz said.
“Not high at all,” Verkin concurred.
“What would be a better strategy?”
Silence again.
“Not really our place to say, is it?”
“Definitely not.” Verkin glanced around the room, at which point Reed noticed the proctor standing a few meters back, staring at them.
Reed got the message. “Of course not. Not your place.”
He backed off. Left the room, went to a terminal just outside Sen’s office where the Thelasians had set up a file cluster for him, including a background dossier on Governor Sen that he’d spent quite a lot of time browsing through over the last few days. He reviewed the dossier again from the very first entry. Sen had made a lot of enemies in his time, from his days as an independent merchant (a hundred and fifty years ago, Sen had actually been as old as he looked), to his service as viceroy of an outlying border region called Coreida, where he’d ruled with an iron hand and an open pocket, at least according to some, to his time as governor. The more he read, in fact, the more it seemed to Reed that the question was more along the lines of who wouldn’t want to kill the man? He half-expected Travis’s name to pop up on the list.
He read. He waited.
Just shy of dawn, Poz and Verkin came out of the interior office, and headed toward the elevators. He gave them a minute, then followed. They took a slide-walk into the heart of the Prex, where they ducked into what looked to Reed like the Thelasian version of a diner.
He waited until they’d been served their food, then walked over to them.
“Lieutenant Reed.”
“Mister Verkin. Fancy meeting you here.”
“I’m Poz. He’s Verkin.” The Bynar frowned. “You followed us.”
Reed smiled, and gestured to an empty chair at their table. “May I…?”
“No,” Verkin said.
“Yes,” Poz said.
The two glared at each other.
Reed sat.
“We have been explicitly forbidden to talk to you,” Verkin said.
“Explicitly,” Poz added.
“Talk?” Reed made an expression of mock surprise. “I’m here to eat.”
He motioned to the waitress. When she came over, he pointed to what Poz was eating, which was slightly less shiny-looking than Verkin’s food, and asked for the same. And coffee, which he had been relieved to discover over the last week had become as much of a staple in the Confederacy as it was back on Earth.
His food came very quickly, and they all turned their attention to eating. Reed was ravenous, and the food—a noodle of some kind, with some kind of animal protein sauce—wasn’t bad. Spaghetti and meatballs, done Confederacy style. Strange aftertaste that he decided not to ask about.
When the food was gone and the waitress had cleared the dishes, Reed leaned forward in his chair.
“We can’t talk to you,” Verkin said again.
“It
could mean our jobs. Work.”
Reed was about to protest that whatever they told him would remain private when he remembered something. The chits Sen had given them, to spend before the party. He still had a few of his.
He pulled one out of his pocket and held it up.
“Know what this is?” he asked.
The Bynars’ eyes widened. “Thelasian credit chits. How much?”
Reed told them.
Their eyes widened farther.
“This kind of money,” Reed said, “might enable you to be a little more discriminating in what sort of jobs you do take.”
“It might.” Verkin smiled, and reached for the chit.
Reed held it just out of reach.
“Ah. Answers first, then the credits.”
The two Bynar leaned forward. “Ask away.”
“Before—back in Governor Sen’s office—you said you didn’t think the proctor’s idea was a good one.”
“Crashing the network to get the information?” Verkin shook his head. “Never work. Not in a hundred years.”
“What are the alternatives?”
“Not sure yet,” Poz said. “Sen has some kind of software agent protecting his files. Very sophisticated. Anticipates every move we make, and then some.”
Software agents. Reed knew about them, in theory. The covert section of Starfleet he had worked for had been working on several prototypes. But they were still in the experimental stages. The danger, of course, with an intelligent software agent was that it would keep learning past its designed parameters, achieve real independence, a life of its own. Like in that movie Trip had shown a few weeks back—The Forbin Project. The computer that took over the world.
“So how can you get at the information in there?”
Poz shook his head. “Can’t, is my guess.”
Reed frowned.
Verkin held up a finger. “But…”
“But what?”
“Even without cracking the network, we have found out a few things,” he said. “About the governor’s actions this last week.”
“Go on.”
“He was busy,” Poz said.
“Very, very busy,” Verkin said.
“And you know this how?”
“There’s a bandwith monitor on the network. Traffic to his office was up almost sixty percent.”
“That is busy,” Reed said. “What was he doing?”
“We don’t know.”
“Not exactly.”
The two men looked at each other again.
“Speculation,” Poz said.
“Agreed. But still—”
“Go on,” Reed said. “Speculate.”
“We reviewed bandwith usage for the other major networks. Looking for simultaneous spikes in activity.”
“To see who else was busy.” Reed smiled. “Go on.”
“We discovered a number of the financial networks were unusually active at the same time.”
“Banks,” Poz said. “You know what banks are?”
“Oh, yes,” Reed said. “I know what banks are. So Sen was busy, and the banks were busy.”
“Yes. We can’t prove any connection, though.”
“But the data is suggestive,” Verkin said.
Reed agreed with that. Sen, and money. That was a very suggestive combination indeed. He felt a little tingle at the base of his spine.
“Find anything else interesting?” Reed asked.
Poz shook his head. “No.”
“No,” Verkin nodded, and then frowned. “Ah.”
Poz turned to him. “What?”
“The system outage.”
Poz frowned. “How is that relevant?”
“I don’t know that it is,” Verkin said. “But it is interesting, and Lieutenant Reed asked about interesting, so…”
“Tell me about it,” Reed said. “The outage.”
“Outages, actually,” Verkin continued. “Two separate incidents, two days apart, lasting approximately forty-six seconds each. Outages referring to interruption of the primary systems feed to the government complex. The entire complex, including the Trade Assembly and the building where Sen’s office is.”
“These happened last week.”
“The day of the explosion, and two days before.”
Reed nodded. “A system outage. That means they lost power?”
“No,” Verkin said. “They lost the system feed. It’s the master computer network for all of Procyron. Keeps all the other networks time-synchronized, provides for remote backup, system maintenance…very important.”
“And to lose the feed is unusual?”
“Unusual?” Poz shook his head. “I would say so. It’s never happened before.”
“Never?”
“Never. There are multiple redundancies built in to prevent just such an occurrence.”
“With good reason,” Verkin said. “Did you see the speculators this afternoon?”
“No.” Reed shook his head. “I’m afraid I missed that.”
“Quite a scene,” Poz said.
“Quite an uproar,” Verkin added. “The proctor summoned the guards. The speculators summoned the media. The new governor made an appearance.”
“Quite a scene,” Reed agreed. “Why?”
“Why? They’re worried,” Poz said. “Upset. There are ninety-two seconds of trading activity—probably ten thousand separate transactions…”
“At least,” Verkin interrupted.
“At most,” Poz continued. “Ninety-two seconds of activity which cannot be verified.”
“I don’t understand,” Reed said.
“Without the systems feed, there are no off-site records. Only the on-site computers of the traders themselves—”
“Easily faked.”
“Easily faked,” Poz agreed. “No independent verification for the trades.”
“Wait.” Reed leaned forward again. “Let me make sure of this. You’re saying because the system feed was out, there are no records of what happened during those forty-six seconds. The two outages. Is that it?”
Poz and Verkin looked at each other, and nodded.
“Yes. That’s it.”
“No records of what happened in, say, Sen’s office at all?”
“None. Not just Sen’s office though. The entire complex. As I said.”
Reed nodded absently. “As you said.”
That little tingle he’d felt earlier was back again. Much stronger this time. A tingle of excitement, and outrage, and a tiny, tiny, bit of what he would have to call hope.
“What’s the matter?” Poz asked.
“I’m wondering,” Reed said. “Could someone shut off the feed deliberately?”
The tech shook his head. “There are multiple redundancies built into the system. You would have to simultaneously disable several dozen connections.”
“Within milliseconds,” Verkin added. “It would be physically impossible for a person to do that.”
“Unlikely,” Poz said. “Not impossible.”
“Impossible.”
The two men glared at each other.
“What about a software agent?” Reed asked.
They stopped glaring, and turned to Reed.
“Definitely.”
“Without a doubt.”
“It would have to be a very sophisticated software agent though.”
“Very.”
“Like Governor Sen’s?”
“I suppose.” Poz frowned. “Are you suggesting Governor Sen shut off the feed?”
“Why would he want to do that?” Verkin asked.
The two men looked at Reed, who said nothing.
They looked at each other.
“No records,” Poz said.
“Sen and the banks,” Verkin said.
They turned to Reed again.
“You think he faked it,” Poz said.
Reed allowed the faintest hint of a smile to cross his face.
“No,” Verkin shook his head f
irmly. “Killed all those people to…no. That’s monstrous.”
“That’s Governor Sen,” Reed said. “Or am I wrong?”
“No,” Poz said.
“Supposition,” Verkin said. “Circumstantial. No proof whatsoever.”
Poz turned and stared at him. Reed stared too.
The man threw up his hands.
“Fine,” he said. “You’re not wrong. You’re not wrong at all.”
Reed pulled the rest of his chits out of his pocket and handed them to Poz.
“See what else you can find out,” he said.
Fourteen
Hoshi was released the next morning. She made her way down to the mess, where Carstairs, at her request, was waiting for her. While she ate, he brought her up to speed on what had happened over the last week. Gave her every single, solitary detail—“none too small,” she had told him, because she did not want to have her mind idle for a single, solitary second, or she’d start thinking about the dream that she had last night after Travis left sickbay, a dream where everyone on Enterprise was enthusiastically blaming her for Captain Archer’s death.
The ensign gave her status updates on all incoming and outgoing message traffic, of which there was plenty, naturally, from Enterprise to Starfleet and back, regarding both Archer’s death and the question of who was to take command. T’Pol was nominally second but Admiral McCormick had apparently received a great deal of pressure to have the captaincy pass to a human, and so it was Commander Tucker.
“The Kanthropians contacted us as well.”
“The Kanthropians?” Hoshi frowned. “What did they want?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
She frowned. Maybe they were going to give her the data on Theera’s translation that they hadn’t officially released yet. Maybe.
Somehow, she doubted it.
“I took it on myself to reply, said you were—or rather, you would be—fine, and that you would contact them as soon as you were able. Then they wanted to talk Commander Tucker—Captain Tucker—too,” Carstairs said, correcting himself for the umpteenth time, and Hoshi didn’t blame him, the words were as strange to hear—Captain Tucker—as they had to be to speak, “but he’s been pretty preoccupied, as you might guess, especially with the message traffic back and forth between here and Starfleet, and what with the time delay—even though the Thelasians are being very cooperative, letting us use their relay stations to boost the signal—he hasn’t had time to get back to them, and…”
