Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice (13 page)

“Good to know you're conscientious,” said Vale. “Commander Atia said you wanted to see me urgently?”

“Indeed so, Captain. You are aware that
Lionheart
's mission calls on us to be a first responder to medical emergencies across the sector. To do that, we require full stocks of supplies before we set sail. Biomimetic substrate gels for our dedicated replicators, raw batches of hyronalin, leoporazine, stokaline, and other medicines . . .”

“And you don't have them?”

“No. Sadly, because Admiral Riker assigned you to us out of the blue, a quirk of shipping protocols means that we cannot complete final loading of supplies from Starbase One until our new captain signs off on the manifest. There are pallets of drugs waiting on the deck down there, and they're in danger of spoiling.” A thick, leafy tendril offered her a padd. “If you could address this before we depart?”

“Of course, Doctor.” She tapped the authorization tab and the padd beeped acceptance. “As I told the commander, I'm sorry for any disruption. We'll get under way as soon as all the cargo is on board.”

“Much obliged.” Vale turned to leave, with Atia trailing behind, but Rssuu shot out a vine that wrapped around the other woman's wrist. “First Officer?” said the vocoder in a hectoring tone. “Do I have to take your blood the unpleasant way? On my planet the flora eat the fauna, you know.”

The officer Rssuu had been examining got to his feet and nodded at Atia. “Don't worry, Commander. I'll take the new CO up to the bridge.” He flashed Vale an easy grin. “Lieutenant Seth Maslan, sir, ship's science officer.”

She remembered Maslan from her cursory look over the crew files. Young, handsome, and intelligent but a little flighty.
Lionheart
was his fourth posting in as many years. “Lead on, Mister.” Vale shot Atia a look, a wry smile on her lips as the exec grimly rolled up her sleeve. “I'll see you up there when you're done.”

*  *  *

The formation of three blue-liveried shuttlecraft lifted off from New Berlin's starport and shifted back and forth in an elaborate shell game, each craft crossing over and under the others so that any observer—and any potential attacker—would be hard-pressed to determine exactly which shuttle was which.

Their departure completed, the ships tucked into a careful line of flight and followed a specially cleared transit corridor across the void between the orbit of Luna and that of Earth. It would take them down past the titanic spindle of Starbase One on a course that would carry them to land in Paris in short order.

Aboard the
T'Maran,
one of the identical shuttles, Ishan Anjar paused to shrug off his jacket and deposit it carelessly on a chair. “
Cela
tea,” he told the replicator. “Spiced, hot.”

The president pro tem didn't offer his chief of staff anything, and he scooped up the cup, taking a seat and running a hand through his hair. “So that is over,” he said, his humorless expression threatening to become a scowl. “Now we can start moving forward.”

“That is the intention,” said Galif jav Velk, standing stiffly in the small cabin. He found the shuttlecraft somewhat cramped and uncomfortable, and he wished to be elsewhere. Glancing out of a viewport, he saw the sister-ships
sh'Rothress
and
al-Rashid
in close formation.

Ishan picked up a padd and skimmed through its contents. “These are the latest polls?”

Velk nodded curtly. “Data is still coming in, but it appears your approval rate is holding steady—”

“Steady?” He put down the teacup. “I don't want
steady
. I want improved. I want
spectacular
.”

“That will take time,” said the Tellarite.

Ishan shot him a warning look, but he ignored it. “The Andorians were present today.”

“I didn't notice.”

“It's not important. They were sent a message, and they understood it.”

The Bajoran went back to his tea, discarding the padd. “I still can't believe their temerity. Kellessar zh'Tarash seems to think she and her kind can just stroll back into the Federation and demand to be a candidate for the presidency. . . . The idea is laughable.”

“You waste effort and time dwelling on it,” Velk said bluntly. This conversation was old, and he did not want to go through it again. “
Do not
. It is counterproductive, and—”

Ishan eyed him. “What are you doing to improve the situation? I keep hearing about failures.”

“It was a mistake to rely on our Klingon contacts.” Velk found it difficult to admit to his error in that. “I've scaled them back to tasks better suited to their nature.”

“Tell me more,” Ishan insisted.

“Plausible deniability—”

“I'm not a child, Velk,” snapped the Bajoran. “Explain.”

He took a breath, framing his reply. Even at the highest levels, “need to know” was always foremost
in his mind. “I have committed Active Four to operations. They will locate and capture Bacco's killers.”

“Good.” Ishan nodded, accepting this. “It will do no harm to my political capital to be seen as the man who brought them to justice.”

Velk said nothing. Ultimately, if correctly presented, such an action would serve the president pro tem's hawkish agenda and help to rally the people of the Federation against the rising threat of the Typhon Pact. It was a goal that had for so long seemed out of reach, but now events were turning toward an arrangement that could bring them success, and all that was needed was to make full use of them.

“A question does occur, though. . . .” Ishan added, his tone deceptively light. “The Tzenkethi are the plotters and the schemers, the conspirators of the Typhon Pact. That is a widely known truth.”

“Quite so,” Velk said warily. He did not like where this conversation was going.

“So one might wonder: What would the public reaction be if
another
group were found to be responsible? If it was revealed to the quadrant at large that it was not a Tzenkethi finger on the trigger, so to speak?” He fixed the Tellarite with a steady gaze, waiting for his answer.

“Such a revelation . . .” Velk began. “It might not be for the best.”

*  *  *

Maslan led Vale to the nearest turbolift and paused, indicating the small kit bag she was still carrying over her shoulder. “Sure I can't take that for you, sir?”

“I'm good,” she told him. “And less of the
sir,
Mister. I know they say command ages you, but you're making me feel ancient.”

“Far be it from me to do that, uh, Captain.”

She frowned. “Yeah. That's also going to take a little getting used to.”

The science officer was silent for a moment. “Would it be rude of me to say you're not what I expected?”

“Not rude
yet,
” Vale countered. “I'll let you know when you are.”

Encouraged, he went on. “
Lionheart
's not a much sought-after posting. It's a good ship with a good crew and an important brief, don't get me wrong. But most command-track officers are looking to land a vessel with something more to it. Exploratory missions, border patrol, that sort of thing.”

“I'm not most officers,” she told him. “And I'm certainly not here because it's a career move.” Vale could see he was waiting for her to say more, but she left it at that.

Maslan continued. “You were first officer of the
Titan
. That's an amazing ship. I imagine you've seen some incredible things out in the Gum Nebula.”

“Some,” she admitted. The turbolift arrived and they boarded.

“I applied for a transfer to Captain . . . uh, I mean Admiral Riker's command a couple years back, before the invasion.” His smile dimmed a little as the lift set off. “I didn't make the cut.”

“You don't like your posting here?”

He shook his head. “No! It's not that. But just for once I'd like to see some space where no one has gone before. Our routes are pretty well traveled.”

“Saving lives is just as important, if not more so,” she told him. “Don't lose sight of that. Besides, there's always more space out there.”

“You're right, of course.” He paused. “I hope you
won't mind if I ask you more about the
Titan
's missions along our way to Starbase 47.”

“I'm not really that much of a storyteller.” The doors parted to show the
Lionheart
's command deck beyond, and she stepped out.

“Captain on the bridge!” called Maslan, and the crew snapped smartly to attention. Vale could see Commander Atia's hand at work there.

“Stand easy,” she told them.

The
Nova
-class starship's bridge was smaller than her
Luna
-class equivalent, with turbolift access on either side of the compartment and an operations pit in the center of the space. Two seats—one for the captain, one for the first officer—faced forward toward the main viewscreen; in front of that was a single helm console, manned by a fair-skinned, blond-haired lieutenant. Vale cast around, meeting the gazes of the other duty officers one by one.

A Bajoran with a close-cut beard and a shaved head got up to offer her the command chair. “Captain. I'm Lieutenant Commander Darrah Hayn, your tactical officer.” He indicated a dark-skinned human woman wearing a hijab that matched the mustard yellow of her operations undershirt. “Our chief engineer . . .”

“Basoos Kader,” said the other lieutenant. “
Marhaban,
Captain Vale.”

“And this is Alex Thompson, our helmsman,” added Maslan, indicating the blond officer.

“Captain.” Thompson gave a nod, and she noticed that he was wearing spectacles. The junior-grade lieutenant colored a little as he noted her attention. “Thrusters are at station keeping. We're ready to leave spacedock at your command.”

“Take your posts,” she ordered. “Mister Darrah, what's our loading status?”

The Bajoran glanced at a console. “Supplies are on board,” he reported, then frowned. “But I read here we're now loading additional cargo?”

“Yes,” she told him. “A request from Admiral Riker's office.”

Darrah clearly wanted to ask further, but then the other turbolift doors opened and Atia stalked onto the bridge. “Well met?” she asked, glancing around.

“Well enough,” said Vale as she stepped into the center of the bridge. “Computer? Put on me on ship-wide intercom, please.” A chime sounded, and Vale took a breath, knowing that her next words would carry to every corner of the
Lionheart
. “This is . . . the captain speaking. I want you all to know I am honored to be given command of a vessel and a crew as exemplary as this one. . . .”

So far,
she thought,
so much word-for-word from the official Starfleet speeches guidebook.

“We're facing a difficult moment,” she went on, finding the words along the way. “Our fleet and our Federation, our worlds and every one of us. The challenge of recent days . . . it's not what we were trained for. It's something none of us could have expected. But I am confident that each of you will do your duty and hold to the ideals that we signed on to protect. Look to your officers and crewmates, and carry on.” She took a breath. “All decks and divisions stand ready and prepare for imminent departure. That is all.”

“Succinct,” noted Commander Atia, with a note of approval.

Vale glanced at the Bajoran. “How long until that extra cargo is on board?”

Darrah glanced at his console. “Another minute, Captain.”

She walked to Thompson's side and nodded toward the main viewer, which for the moment showed the brightly lit interior of the starbase's cavernous hangar bay. “Ops, prepare a course.”

“Already done, sir,” he replied with a smile, bringing up a map plot showing a careful, curving vector that crossed the quadrant. “I've programmed the most warp-efficient heading to our destination. . . . Pending your approval, of course.”

Vale could tell the lieutenant's astrogation skills were good, but that didn't stop her from shaking her head. “Approval denied. You're to recalculate and plot us a new heading. Once we're clear of Sol, take us to the Jaros system. Speed course, maximum warp.”

“Captain?” Thompson's smile faded.

She tapped the location on the star map with her finger. “You do see fine with those glasses, right?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, uncertain if she was serious. “I'm just, ah, allergic to Retnax.”

“Then snap to it.”

The helmsman shot a questioning look at Atia, who stepped closer. “Captain Vale,” she began, “that system is not on our itinerary. Jaros falls marked distance from stated heading.”

“I'm altering the itinerary, Commander,” Vale said firmly. “And as a matter of fact, Mister Darrah should be getting a mission update any moment now.”

The Bajoran's console beeped and his brow furrowed. “Confirming that. Supplemental orders received. That extra cargo we took on is to be delivered to the Starfleet stockade facility on Jaros II.”

Vale nodded. “There you go. Recompute the course, Mister Thompson.”

The lieutenant pushed his glasses back up his nose with a finger and then nodded, his hands moving quickly across the helm panel before him. “Recomputing, aye. Setting heading to Jaros system, second planet, then on to Starbase 47. . . .”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Vale added. She walked back toward the captain's chair, acutely aware that her actions had just dialed up the tension on the bridge by several notches. Vale didn't like giving people more questions without answers, especially at a time like this, but for the moment she had little choice in the matter.