Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice (11 page)

*  *  *

Beyond the glassy curve of the atmosphere dome, the stark lunar landscape was bathed in hard light reflected from the rising Earth beyond it. There was an austere, chilly majesty to the view that made Deanna Troi give an involuntary shiver, despite the fact that here in the New Berlin Memorial Park, the ambient atmosphere was steady and comfortable.

She cast around the roped-off area past the public statue garden, over the lines of diplomats, politicians, and ambassadors who stood in somber conversation or sipped discreetly at flutes of wine. It wasn't difficult to spot the numerous Protection Detail personnel moving among the attendees, some of them standing sentinel at the edges of the open space, others patrolling, their eyes hidden behind black sensor-glasses.

Off to one side, a reporting team from the Federation News Service was the only media allowed to be inside the perimeter, and they were quietly recording the proceedings; the image feed was being broadcast
live across the quadrant as hundreds of worlds and millions of beings tuned in to watch the ceremony.

Many had come to pay their respects, and she had seen the huge numbers of civilians and fleet crew in the outer areas of the park. They had come simply to be close to this moment, to show some solidarity in the wake of a terrible act.

She looked away. The presidential memorial was sheathed with a black cloth; the shape of the slab-sided obelisk was concealed for the moment. Troi had seen it before, in better days. It was carved from several blocks of granite, each mined from one of the founder-member planets of the Federation, then fused into a whole—a symbol of the accord between those worlds and all the others that had come into the fold in the decades since. Each president who had served was remembered here after his or her passing, and today it was Nan Bacco's turn to join that illustrious list.

Troi took a shaky breath and tugged her uniform tunic straight, pausing to adjust the mourning band around her arm. There were very few Starfleet officers in attendance at the ceremony, and she was by far the lowest ranked. Admiral Akaar was visible across the garden, standing head and shoulders above the majority of the other attendees, but he had not once made eye contact with her, instead remaining at a distance among the other chiefs of staff, his expression unreadable. Troi's empathic abilities brought her nothing more about his mood; the Capellan was always guarded, and right now his thoughts were silent and dark.

In truth, she didn't
want
to exercise her psionic skills to sense more, not here, not today. There was such a great pressure of sorrow and regret clouding
everything, a great mournful underscore of emotion emanating from the people who were here to show their esteem for Bacco. Troi kept a tight rein on her own sadness. She was afraid that if she began to weep, the barriers to her empathy would crumble and she would channel not just her sorrow, but that of hundreds of others.

“Deanna?” She turned as Togren approached her, and she gave the Denobulan diplomat a brittle smile. “Thank you so much for coming,” he added.

“I couldn't refuse,” she replied. “I appreciate your generosity in asking me to be your plus one.”

Togren shrugged. “Both my wives are at home on Denobula. And I felt you should be here, if only to affirm Starfleet's respect for dear Nan.” His tawny, dappled face was downcast.

“Yes,” she agreed. “There are not a lot of us here.”

“How is your family?”

“They're well. Tasha's four now.”

“Splendid. I hope to see her soon.” He paused. “I understand your husband did not receive an invitation?” Off her nod, he carried on. “Please tell him it was nothing personal. It seems that the president pro tem's staff wanted to make this a visibly civilian affair.”

“I understand. It's enough that a Starfleet vessel has the honor of carrying President Bacco's body home to Cestus III. All of us who wear the uniform are proud to take on that duty.”

“Ah, yes, the
U.S.S.
Aventine
.” Togren nodded. The diplomat indicated a flag officer Troi didn't recognize standing near Akaar. “One of the rear admirals assigned a new commander to that ship after the arrest of Captain Dax. I understand it was dispatched to the Bajor system for repairs after that regrettable
business over Andoria . . . but it is fitting that a ship commissioned under Nan's administration and which stood at the forefront of recent crises is the one to take her to her rest.” His face clouded slightly. “There was some rather . . . spirited discussion at higher levels that the
Aventine
divert to Earth first. I argued otherwise. I think Velk would have pressed for thirty days of lying in state and mourning. . . .” He shook his head. “It was not in the late president's wishes. She didn't want pomp and ceremony . . . but she earned it anyway.”

Troi wanted to press the diplomat further for more about the
Aventine
and the fate of Ezri Dax, but before she could ask, Togren's aide arrived, a look of dismay on her face. “Sir? Something has come up. Your attention is required.”

“Now?” asked Togren, gesturing at the dais set up before the shrouded memorial. The attendees were starting to take their seats; the ceremony was about to begin. He huffed. “Very well. Deanna, if you will excuse me?”

Alone once again, she steeled herself and found her seat—
at the rear,
she noted—just as a press secretary called them to their feet to announce the arrival of the president pro tem.

Ishan Anjar emerged from behind the dais and approached the lectern there with swift, confident steps. His dark hair accented with distinguished streaks of steel gray, and dressed in a traditional Bajoran mourning suit, he projected an air of solemn gravity, his stern features fixed in an expression of resignation and resolve. He seemed every inch a man called to take on a regrettable obligation, and his usual intensity seemed muted. Troi studied him, uncertain of how to measure him by her own lights.

As the attendees sat, he crossed the garden with his gaze, finding the cameras of the press team. “My friends and colleagues, my fellow citizens of the United Federation of Planets. We are gathered here today, not only in the gardens of New Berlin but on every member-world of our great alliance. On Earth, Tellar, and Vulcan. On Bajor, Alpha Centauri, and Bolarus. On Zakdorn, Axanar, and Cestus III. In these places and countless others, we have come together to mourn the loss of a great soul, a politician and peacemaker. My friend . . .
our
friend Nanietta Bacco.”

Troi noted that Andor had been left off the list of worlds Ishan mentioned; she glanced around, noticing for the first time that there were no Andorians present at the gathering.

Her attention snapped back as a group of Klingons—emissaries from Chancellor Martok—struck their fists against the breastplates of their armor as a gesture of respect to a fallen ally. Ishan gave them an indulgent nod and went on.

“A powerful light has dimmed. A woman of honesty and high character, struck down as she did what she had done for so long . . . build bridges and forge trust. Nanietta Bacco believed passionately in the United Federation of Planets and the principles for which it stands. She believed in a Federation that is strong and united. A Federation looking forward to a better tomorrow, beyond the trials that have tested us to the limits of our endurance.” He paused, as if searching for the next words. “I believe in those things. I share her vision of unity. And now, more than ever, I realize that this is a time for harmony, not for division. We come together this day in grief and sadness, but what do we see? That each of us is stronger under
the aegis of our Federation than separated from it. Fear may make us believe otherwise.” He shook his head. “I tell you that is not so.”

Another dig at the expense of the Andorians?
Troi wondered.
Is he using this memorial service as a platform to diminish them?

But in the next breath, Ishan's words turned toward a different target. “We need our unity. Our enemies know that truth, too. These rogue states, these old adversaries, they gather together and make
pacts
. Our enemies struck down Nanietta Bacco in order to break our union, but I say they have failed. In the wake of this terrible atrocity, look to yourselves and see. We are united in our grief, united in our resolve. United in our defiance of those who wish us harm through perfidy and menace.” Ishan left the podium and walked to the memorial, his voice strong and clear. “We will not be cowed.” With a flourish, he pulled at a silver cord and the black shroud fell away, pooling on the ground.

There, etched in gold on the ice-colored stone, President Bacco's name caught the light and shimmered. Another figure emerged from the side of the platform; Troi recognized Galif jav Velk as he carried a laurel wreath to the president pro tem. Ishan took it from him with a nod and then laid it at the foot of the memorial, bowing as he did so.

Despite herself, she frowned. Through the mix of complex, turbulent emotions all around her, Troi had the sense of something disconnected from the moment, as if this was all a shadow play, a hollow act without true heart.

She became aware of Togren's assistant, who had slipped into the chair beside her. “Commander Troi,
please forgive me,” she whispered. “I'm afraid that Togren will be detained for some time. He sends his regrets that he will not be able to accompany you.”

“What's wrong?” Troi asked, keeping her voice low as Ishan returned to the lectern again and began to speak.

“There is an issue with the Andorians.”

“They're
here
?”

The woman nodded. “Outside. I'm fearful things may become rather heated.”

Troi made a quick choice. “Take me to them.”

D
eanna Troi sensed the simmering anger even before she entered the annex outside the statue garden. The color of the emotion was strong and potent, cutting through the darker tones of mournful feeling surrounding the attendees at the memorial service.

She heard raised voices as she approached and saw Togren standing in front of a group of five formally attired Andorians. His body language was that of a man trying to maintain peace, but the slope of the Denobulan's shoulders seemed to show that he felt he had already been defeated in that regard. Two of the Andorian party, both
thaan
s in suits of simple cut, were arguing with a pair of Federation Security Agency operatives. Floating above them all was a holoscreen of the ceremony that was taking place in the neighboring dome, a giant close-up on Ishan Anjar's face as he continued his speech.

The Andorian ambassador himself, Envoy Ramasanar ch'Nuillen, stood behind his men. He was stone-faced and silent, his antennae taut with annoyance.

Togren caught sight of Troi approaching, and there was a flash of relief in his eyes. He gave a subtle nod, as if to say
Yes, excellent idea, please help me!

“Do you understand who this is?” one of the
thaan
s said to the security men, his tone rising as he pointed at the envoy. “Do you know how far he has come, on the invitation of your government?”

The larger of the two operatives stood his ground and raised a hand. “Please step back, sir. I won't ask you again.”

His colleague's hand dropped to his hip, where Troi had no doubt a small phaser would be holstered. “We understand your dismay,” said the other man. “But you must respect that we are on the highest level of alert after recent events. We can't afford to take any chances.”

Troi cleared her throat and addressed the second operative. “I'm Commander Troi, senior diplomatic officer of the
U.S.S.
Titan
. Perhaps I may be of some assistance?”

The large man shot her a disinterested look. “Starfleet's help is not required here, sir.”

“Troi?” The envoy spoke for the first time, giving Deanna an equally frosty glance. “Your name is familiar to me. Are you here to give us more excuses?”

Togren broke in, trying to maintain a moderated manner. “There has been a regrettable administrative error, Commander. It appears that the honored envoy's diplomatic documentation has not been correctly processed.”

“Our standing orders are clear,” said the security operative. “No entry to anyone without full clearance. No exceptions.” He produced a padd from an inner pocket and held it up so Troi could see a list of the guests at the memorial ceremony. “If your name's not down, you're not coming in.”

Ch'Nuillen was mature for an Andorian
chan,
but
he was tall with it, and he drew himself up to his full height as he pushed past his adjutants to look the operative in the eye. His face darkened to cobalt blue, and when he spoke again, the temperature in the annex seemed to drop ten degrees. “We have come here in good faith and in the name of all Andoria, our hand extended to the Federation. All we wish is to offer our condolences at the passing of a great leader. Now you expect me to accept that we may not do so because of a trivial point of regulations? You insult us.”

The operative's expression didn't change. “We've already lost one president, sir. I don't know you. I don't have any proof you are who you say you are. So you'll forgive us if we don't let another potential assassin into—”

“You dare?” One of the
thaan
s rocked off his heels, hands cocked to strike out at the operative for his insult, but Troi had already sensed the moment coming and she was immediately interposing herself between them.

“Gentlebeings, please!” she insisted. “I'm sure we can resolve this.”

Ch'Nuillen snorted and turned away, stalking toward the far wall of the annex dome. His retinue trailed after him, muttering darkly amongst themselves. Togren and his assistant exchanged weary looks, uncertain how to proceed.