Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice (6 page)

San Francisco was already falling away, the aircraft moving into a priority suborbital sky lane that would take it up over North America and down over the Atlantic Ocean in a steep, swift arc. He would be back in Paris in less than fifty minutes, and the journey time could be put to better use than dealing with the minutiae that would await him at the council chambers.

Velk was the airtram's only passenger; the rear compartment was empty. The only crew were the pilot and co-pilot in the cockpit; Velk rejected the need for any support staff or assistants. A secretary program was all he required, a semi-intelligent software engine networked from his actual office in Europe.

He spoke to the cabin, his voice picked up by a communicator button on his jacket. “Computer.”

“Working.”
The reply was bland and genderless.

“Security sweep.”

After a moment's pause, the voice returned.
“Airtram security remains uncompromised.”

Velk nodded to himself, reaching for an attaché case at his side. “Screen all my calls until further notice.”

“Do you wish me to dismiss any presidential override of that order?”

“I said
all,
” Velk repeated irritably. “That includes Ishan.” He opened the case and removed a metallic, ovoid-shaped device. “Cross-link subspace communications relay to me. Maximum signal encryption.”

“Working. Link established, proceed when ready.”

A train of cold blue indicator lights around the equator of the capsule glowed, and Velk sat it on the table in front of him. An ephemeral wave of light expanded out of the device, scanning the dimensions of the room, the objects within it, and washing over Velk himself. He allowed it to happen, waiting.

After a moment, planes of ghostly holographic light sketched in around him. Suddenly the walls of the cabin were lost, and he appeared to be sitting in a natural cavern of some kind. It was difficult to be certain; the holofield was deliberately vague, so as not to give too much away about the location of the transceiver at the other end of the communication.

A time-code imprint floated over the holomodule, ticking down to zero. The instant the numbers halted, a humanoid shape melted into view. Taller than Velk, and at a guess, more narrow in build, any other definition of the figure was lost. Like the ghostly image of the cave, the identity of the being was impossible to determine. Species, gender, age . . . these things were lost beneath a masking subroutine that made both Velk and his distant operative blank and featureless avatars to each other. In the highly unlikely event that someone was able to capture this signal, it would be almost meaningless to them.

“I'm here,” said the hologram, the voice toneless and scrubbed of identity. “I wasn't expecting contact again so soon. What's wrong?”

“There have been some developments.” Velk considered what the operative would be seeing at this same moment, a similar holographic shadow play beamed from an identical projector device. He imagined his own indistinct avatar gesturing with a hand from the faint sketch of a chair. “The Orion lead was worthless. They were not there.”

The ghost figure did something that could have been a shrug, and even through the emotion-deadening subroutines in the transmission, Velk was certain he could detect a note of reproach. “Klingons. They were killed.”

It took a moment for him to realize that had been a question. “Yes. The targets left traps behind for any pursuers.”

“Of course they did. They're not fools.” The operative walked slowly around the phantom cavern. “With respect, sir . . . I warned you this would happen. The Klingons are brute-force weapons, not suitable for this kind of mission. All the noise they made with the Orions, they let the targets know they were coming.”

“That is clear now,” Velk replied, his jaw stiffening. It galled him to have a subordinate point out his mistakes, but there was little he could say to deny them. The operative was correct. The initial plan to maintain a distance between the act and the intention behind it had gone awry, and now they were in danger of losing momentum. “As such,” he went on, “we must address the problem and move forward. I recall an aphorism used by the Earthers: ‘If you want a job done right, you must do it yourself.' This is how we will proceed from this point forward.”

“I'm familiar with the phrase. We will need time to assemble a team.”

He shook his head. “That work has already begun. Resources are being redirected as we speak.”

“I'll be part of the action.”

“Yes. Data will be streamed to you, coordinates and so on. Proceed at your own discretion, but keep me advised. Isolation of the targets is your only priority, is that clear?”

“Fully.” The figure was silent for a moment. “What are my rules of engagement here?”

Velk leaned forward to reach for the holomodule. “No rules,” he said irritably, assuming that the implication was apparent enough. “I am authorizing you to use any means necessary to progress your mission to the required conclusion.” He paused, thinking. “I remember another Terran phrase.
No loose ends
.”

Velk tapped the device and the ghost light faded away, the cabin walls reappearing. He secured the module in his case once more and then sat silently, his dark eyes locked on some impossibly distant point, his thoughts turning inward.

A
light rain was falling over the city, but there was no evidence of it in the courtyard of the La Sorrento restaurant. Up above the heads of the diners, a discreet and transparent force field kept the drizzle from reaching the ground, and the carefully concealed environmental controls in the planters and stonework made sure that the outdoor portion of the bistro remained at a pleasant ambient temperature, despite the chill of the evening.

San Francisco's fashionable Nob Hill district had become the city's nexus for fine dining right around the time that Starfleet Command had moved in across the bay; all these years later the area was constantly busy with restaurants serving every variety of Terran food and offerings from dozens of Federation member-worlds.

Most of them, anyway. Deanna had been disappointed to see that the Andorian sushi bar on Taylor Street where she had eaten many times was now gone, replaced by an austere Vulcan café.

In the end, she had chosen Italian, and after calling in a favor with Chief Bolaji to babysit Tasha, it had been a relatively painless endeavor getting a reservation for that evening. She was still wondering how she
had swung it; La Sorrento was a popular place, and the waiting list for a decent table was long.

As if he was reading her mind, her husband sipped a little wine from his glass to wash down his tortellini, and then he leaned forward. “Good choice. I'm surprised you got us in here. Did you slip the maître d' a bribe?”

She smiled slightly, brushing a curl of dark hair back over her ear. “Hardly. They were a little sniffy at first, until I told them my name. Things got a lot smoother after that.”

“Oh?” Outwardly, Will seemed to take that in stride. To someone who didn't know him as intimately as his wife did—Betazoid empathy or not—he might have seemed almost indifferent. Deanna knew better. Beneath the surface, her husband was on edge. “I guess news travels fast in this town, especially fleet gossip. Doesn't hurt to score some points with the new admiral.”

“Who says it was
your
name that got us a table?” She tried to lighten the mood. “You're not the only one with new responsibilities, dear.” Deanna had already been approached by the Federation diplomatic corp with a request to make herself available for the rounds of ambassadorial functions that were an integral part of life in what was Earth's foremost interstellar town.

Will didn't smile in return, only nodding, his gaze lost in the straw-colored fluid in his glass. “How is that going?” he asked, at length.

“Togren from the diplomatic corps has asked me to provide some support. You remember him? From Denobula?” Will nodded and she went on. “A new ambassadorial party is arriving in the next few days, and he wanted my expertise on hand to act as a liaison.”

“Who is the ambassador? Someone we used to shoot at?”

She shook her head. “Not exactly, but there's still going to be a strong chill in the room. We'll be meeting with Envoy Ramasanar ch'Nuillen.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “The Andorian?”

Deanna nodded. “Presider zh'Felleth wants Andor to return to the fold, and the envoy is here to lead that venture.” She frowned. “It seems like it was only yesterday the Andorians were seceding, and now they want to put that behind them. It's not going to be an easy road. . . . There is still plenty of ill feeling on both sides.”

“The Federation Council won't just let them back in,” Will mused grimly. “The Andorians have to know that. And the president pro tem has made no secret of his animosity about the whole secession business.”

She nodded again. Ishan Anjar had put himself forward for the presidential office, and he had been campaigning hard, but one of Andor's most progressive politicians, the outspoken Kellessar zh'Tarash, had already publicly stated her desire to seek the same office. Of course, there was the minor impediment of needing Andor to officially rejoin the United Federation of Planets first, and while public sentiment seemed to be behind the idea, nothing was certain. The politics of the moment were complex and ever shifting, and not for the first time, Deanna wished that
Titan
could have stayed out in deep space to meet the kind of challenges she felt better equipped to deal with.

Will pushed his food around the plate, lost in thought. “Tell me what you're thinking,” she said. “Let's not both sit here and pretend like this is another ordinary day.”

You always know what I'm thinking, Imzadi
. She heard the words in her mind, sensing the shades of his mood clinging to them, smoky and dark. He forced a smile, but he knew she wasn't going to be deflected.

Finally, her husband put down his fork and frowned. “What the hell just happened?” he asked, frustration simmering in his tone. “A week ago we're in deep space cataloging supernova remnants and looking for new species of cosmozoans. Now we're here, eating pasta while the Federation reels like it's been gut punched.” He flicked at his collar, where rank pins would have sat; while they were both dressed in civilian clothes tonight, she knew what he meant. “I never asked for this. Hell, I'm still trying to get a grip on what it is I'm
actually
supposed to be doing here.” Will paused, moderating his tone. “Deanna, someone is making me play catch-up, and I don't like it.”

“You want to help,” she said, nodding. “We all do. But this promotion . . . you're afraid it's the opposite of that.”

“Why would Akaar sideline me and haul
Titan
back in? It doesn't make any sense, not with everything that's going on. . . . Bacco, the Andorians, and these arrests . . .”

“Have you talked to him since the ceremony?”

Her husband shook his head. “All of a sudden he's like a ghost. His staff take my messages, but he doesn't return them. And meanwhile I'm chained to a damn desk.”

Deanna put a hand on Will's arm. “You know Admiral Akaar. You know he doesn't do anything without a good reason. You may just have to be patient.”

“I've never been good with that,” he admitted. “I
just don't want to get caught in the undertow here. I'm not a political animal; I never have been.”

“Maybe that's the reason why Akaar pulled you in.” She smiled again. “It's all right for you to have doubts, Will. Change does that to you. Some times we don't get to choose when and where it happens.”

“Thank you, Counselor Troi,” he replied, not unkindly. “But this time around it's not just my immediate future that's in the wind. There's you and Tasha . . . Are we going to be Earthbound from now on? And what about Christine and Tuvok and the rest of our crew?
Titan
can't be tied to a base, that's not what she was built for. . . .” He met her gaze. “I'm wondering what the hell I have let myself in for.”

She paused. “I think you're where you need to be. I think we both are.”

“How so?”

“Have you seen the news broadcasts since we made port? The network is full of tirades and counterarguments. Every pundit on the planet and off it has something to say. People are afraid, Will, and they're angry. Bacco was respected by millions, even by those who were her political opponents, and now that she's been taken from them, they have nowhere to direct their grief.”

“That's not exactly true,” noted Will. “There's more than enough blame to go around, deserved or not. And every day there seems to be a new nugget of information conveniently leaked to the media from some ‘credible source' or other. . . .”

“What troubles me,” Deanna began, “are the public reactions being fomented by the rhetoric coming from the Federation Council.” She noted that the kind of language being used by politicians across the UFP
reflected a troubling rise in sentiments directed against the newest player on the galactic stage, the Typhon Pact.

“Meet the new enemy,” said Will. “Same as the old enemy.”

Some more hyperbolic commentators described the Typhon Pact as a dark mirror of the Federation, a coalition of agitator member-states that had gathered behind a united front in the wake of the Borg crisis. It couldn't be denied that the Pact was a force to be reckoned with; the mere fact of its existence had irrevocably altered the geopolitical map of the Alpha and Beta Quadrants.

“They're the perfect monster-under-the-bed for alarmists,” said Deanna. “A gathering of old Federation foes, drawing their plans against us.”