Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice (10 page)

There was decay on the
Snipe,
but it was layered on like a cosmetic. Making certain he wasn't being observed, Nog scrambled up into a channel bus and put his face close to what appeared to be a corroded section of EPS conduit. The pipe was perfectly intact but cowled with a redundant outer sheath that gave the appearance of oxidized, aged metal.

Inside and out, the freighter was a falsehood, one thing masquerading as another. Nog had heard of such ships before; in the Ferengi Alliance there was a tradition of Marauders fitted with sections of frangible outer hull and sensor baffles, designed in such a way that they would resemble slow, poorly armed cargo barges. Thus, they could move freely and not draw attention to any deployment of military might. In addition, pirates and rival mercantile clans who swept in to prey on such vessels would get a nasty shock when their target turned out to be a gunship bristling with disruptor cannons. The Ferengi called this kind of ship a
Qardok,
a word that had no direct translation into Federation Standard; the closest approximation in the human language was
Gotcha!

“What are you—”

“Doing up there?”

His attention fixed on the conduit, the sudden sound of the two trilling voices from below him caught Nog totally off guard. He jerked and banged the top of his skull on a panel, a hiss of pain escaping his lips.

Dropping back to the deck, he found himself standing between the two Bynars, their unblinking eyes watching him intently. “I was just . . . uh . . .”

“What were you—”

“Looking for?”

“Nothing,” he lied, then quickly appended something vaguely truthful. “I was bored. Wandering. Examining . . . stuff.” He gave a weak, snaggletoothed grin. “Those things.”

“Given what we know—”

“Of the Ferengi character—”

“It seems unlikely you were—”

“Trying to sabotage the ship.”

Nog's head went back and forth between the two of them as if he were a spectator at a springball match.
Were they being sarcastic? Do Bynars even understand what sarcasm
is? The pair of them glanced at each other and exchanged a string of high-speed code blips. Nog considered that to be somewhat rude, like sharing secret whispers in front of someone. Then they were looking at him again, and his fake smirk faded.

Although he liked the fact that having a pair of Bynars aboard the ship meant he wasn't the shortest person on the
Snipe,
Nog had to admit he found them slightly unsettling, with their odd mirror-image clothing and strange, birdlike movements. What struck him the most was the silver nub of a computing implant sitting on the side of their domed skulls. Having dealt with computer hardware of many kinds for years, and having experienced some of the worst effects a computer malfunction could produce, Nog found the idea of having something similar wired directly into his cortex
by choice
disquieting.

“Do you wish to—”

“Ask us a question?”

He took the opportunity to change the subject. “Do you two ever play cards? Tongo? Poker? I'm guessing with a neural implant, you must be pretty good.”

They both nodded in unison. “We are banned—”

“From gambling.”

“Risa.”

“Orion Casinos.”

“Wrigley's Pleasure Planet.”

“We win—”

“Too much latinum.”

Nog started away down the passageway, the two Bynars trailing after him. “Oh. Shame.”

“We have an alternate—”

“Revenue stream. Our skills are—”

“In demand.”

The engineer was still considering what that could mean when the
Snipe
's intercom chimed and Kincade's voice crackled through the air.

“All team members to the mess hall immediately. Mission briefing in ten minutes.”

*  *  *

The transport had dropped out of warp in the time it took Nog to climb back up to the main deck, and he and the Bynars were the last to arrive for the meeting. The other seven members of their erstwhile team sat or stood around the edges of the compartment. There was a subtle divide between those who were in Starfleet and those who were not, the former grouped on one side of the room, the latter on the other.

Nog took a seat on the bench next to Tuvok, giving the Vulcan a nod of greeting. “Commander.” He wanted to tell him what he suspected about the
Snipe
's secrets, but not within earshot of the others. Across the table, Tom Riker was sipping from a mug of
raktajino,
and the Zeon mercenary Ashur was toying with a small throwing blade.

“Mister Nog,” Tuvok replied.

Ashur grunted as he watched their exchange. “Your pardon if I don't salute,” he sneered. “I don't have a fancy uniform in my closet like you.” He waved a thick finger, taking in Tuvok, Nog, and the Bolian pilot seated nearby.

“Saluting is not a compulsory protocol for Starfleet officers and crew,” Tuvok noted. He was either ignoring or unaware of the Zeon's belligerent tone.

Ashur was going to say something else, but then
Kincade walked past the table and put down a padd with a hard
clack
of plastic on metal. “Okay. We're all here. Let's begin.” She shot the Bynars a look. “Is the comm relay ready?”

They nodded in unison, and both of them reached for a dormant console in a corner of the chamber. Nog had thought it was just an entertainment module, but at the touch of a few switches the lights in the mess hall dimmed and an emitter head dropped out of a hidden compartment in the ceiling.

There was a white flash, and suddenly a cloud of holographic pixels formed into a humanoid shape, there in the open center of the room. For the first couple of seconds, the hologram was indistinct—a vague, ghostly form of indeterminate gender or species—but then by degrees it took on layers of detail. Clothing defined itself, then facial characteristics, sharpening until at last it appeared that a stocky and unsmiling Tellarite was standing among them.

The face of the civilian was vaguely familiar to the engineer, and when Tuvok said his name, Nog blinked in surprise.

“That is Galif jav Velk, chief of staff to the president pro tem.” The Vulcan glanced at Kincade. “I do not understand. . . .”

Kincade's expression betrayed nothing. “You and me both. I was just told to expect a signal on this hyperchannel frequency.”

“Better that you know who I am, for the sake of expedience,” said the hologram, and with a start, Nog realized that it was actually a “live” broadcast. “The power cost of encrypting this communication and transmitting it to you makes every second valuable.” Velk's image flickered a little, distorting. “You have
been summoned to this location by direct command of the Federation Council, an action authorized by Special Executive Order of President Pro Tem Ishan Anjar.” The Tellarite's cold gaze scanned the room. “Some of you are under directives from Starfleet Command. Others have been recruited from the civilian sector. I have gathered you here in order to participate in an extremely delicate mission, in defense of Federation national security. Know that if you are successful, you will receive the highest commendations and the gratitude of the UFP.”

Nog glanced at Ashur, Tom, Khob, and the others. He would have expected mercenaries to want something more material than a promise of thanks, but none of them said a word. The Ferengi found himself wondering:
Did the Tellarite have some
other
kind of leverage over them, something more than just avarice?

Velk went on. “As of now, you will be in commission under the group designation ‘Active Four.' All communications and pursuant orders will be issued via that coding. Your unit will proceed to act as a covert tactical force, and you are to fulfill a single remit: Track, isolate, and capture the terrorist cell responsible for the assassination of the late President Nanietta Bacco.”

The Ferengi blinked, trying to keep up with what he was hearing. Nog had never heard of any such orders or unit being formed before, and he wasn't certain how to deal with the concept. But then, perhaps that was the point; he had never heard of these kind of orders before precisely because they
were
so secret. He swallowed hard.

“It is our belief that these terrorists are agents of the Tzenkethi Coalition, operating beyond the borders
of the Typhon Pact states,” said Velk's holoimage, gesturing at the air. “They are highly dangerous and represent an ongoing threat to the security of the quadrant.”

Nog watched the other members of the group take that revelation on board, thinking back to Deep Space 9 and the discovery of a Tzenkethi DNA trace on the device that had been found implanted in Enkar Sirsy, the initial suspect in the assassination. It seemed the Federation Council now considered that sliver of evidence enough to act upon.

“The circumstances of your mission require that you conduct this operation in isolation from all outside agencies, even those of Starfleet and the Federation. Until the operation concludes, you are effectively phantoms. If you are captured or killed by any aggressor powers, the Federation will disavow all knowledge of your existence and of this mission.” Velk paused to let that sink in. “Your ship will provide immediate logistical support. Any additional concerns will be your responsibility to source.”

“What support?” muttered Ashur.

“Computer,” Velk snapped. “Authorization is given. Mission start. Unlock operations systems.”

“Confirmed,”
said a synthetic voice.

Without warning, the holographic emitter projecting Velk's avatar directed multiple other rays of light to points across the mess hall. Nog jerked back in surprise as a dozen panes of blue formed in midair, some hanging over the dining tables, others suspended in space. Each one was a data feed, a screen relaying complex charts, signal traffic, tactical plots, and more. In the blink of an eye, the grubby crew lounge had been transformed into an operations center. High on one
wall, a chronograph was running, the clock having started the moment Velk gave his command.

It appeared that the secrets that Nog had suspected the
Snipe
of concealing were just the head of the gree-worm. Across the room, Khob had been leaning on the far bulkhead, and now the big Suliban flinched, stepping away as a seam appeared and panels retracted into the deck. Revealed beyond the mess hall was a hidden compartment lined with charging slots and equipment lockers. Racks on either side of the chamber were heavy with a variety of different weapons—energy pistols, ballistic guns, portable photon cannons.

Sahde pushed forward and gathered up a bulky phase-compression rifle, hefting it in her hands. “This, I can work with,” she noted. Nog saw the glint of something savage in her eyes, and he didn't like it.

Velk's hologram scowled at her. “I reiterate. You will leave no trace. You will draw no outside attention. You will find these targets.”

The Elloran woman spoke directly to the Tellarite. “And when we find them . . . we terminate them?”

“That's not what we . . .” Tom Riker hesitated. “That's not what Starfleet does.”

Velk glanced toward Kincade and back. “This is not an execution detail. Your primary objective is to capture President Bacco's killers
alive
. Once retrieved, they will be taken to trial in public so that every power in the galaxy can know the facts of their guilt. These beings have committed a high crime against the people and the concord of the United Federation of Planets. They must be brought to account.”

Kincade folded her arms across her chest. “How do we proceed from here, sir?”

“Additional details have been transmitted to the
Snipe
via an encrypted side channel. You will find further information there as to your initial objective beyond the Beta Rigel system. I expect full mission reports every twenty-four hours, standard time.”

Tuvok rose from his seat to address the hologram. “Sir, with respect, this is highly irregular. I have several questions.”

Velk's eyes narrowed. “I don't doubt it.” Then without another word, the image of the Tellarite grew indistinct and winked out.

Ashur snorted quietly. “He hung up on you, Vulcan.”

At another table, Lieutenant Ixxen was examining a star map. “There are coordinates here,” she announced. “Just like he said. A system in the Zokod Barrens. That's a large dust cloud this side of the Hromi Cluster. We could be there in three days.” She glanced at Tuvok, reflexively looking toward the superior Starfleet officer for guidance.

“Lieutenant,” said Kincade with enough snap in her tone to shift Ixxen's gaze to her. “Plot a course, nothing that will draw attention. Follow civilian traffic routes.”

“Aye, uh, Colonel,” replied the Bolian, looking away.

As Nog watched, still trying to assimilate what he had heard, Tuvok turned to the other officer. “Were you aware of the parameters of our assignment?”

“No. But I had an inkling. Does this present a problem for you, Commander? I've seen your file. It's not like you're a stranger to covert operations.”

“My undercover infiltration of the Maquis was conducted with full Starfleet oversight,” he replied. “Mister Velk made no mention of similar supervision of this operation.”

Nog realized that everyone else in the room was silent, waiting to see how this conversation concluded.

“You want to refuse this mission?” Kincade asked without weight. “That could be a little problematic.”

“I did not say that,” said Tuvok after a long moment, his stoic expression remaining unchanged.

“I'm glad we got that settled.” Kincade looked around the room. “All right. As Ixxen says, we've got three days until we reach our area of operations. I intend to use that time for drills to get us working like a unit. Everyone, familiarize yourselves with the systems and hardware we have here.” Her gaze settled on Nog. “We have a job to do. Let's get to it.”