Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice (14 page)

“Starbase One operations are signaling clear,” noted Kader from the engineering station. “We're free to navigate.”

Atia was hovering at her shoulder, and Vale realized that her first officer was waiting for her to take the captain's chair before she herself sat down.

Odd,
she thought, as she put her hand on the back of the center seat.
Seems weird to sit there now
. Vale felt strangely reluctant to take the position, despite the fact that she had done so in the past on board the
Enterprise
and the
Titan
. The difference there, she reflected, was that ultimately on those ships she had only been minding the chair for someone else. On the
Lionheart,
even if this assignment was to be a short-lived one, full responsibility would fall on her shoulders.

She pushed the thought away and took the chair, easing into it. It felt comfortable and easy, but she knew that was an illusion. The weight of command settled on her, and it was as exhilarating as it was humbling. “Thrusters ahead, Mister Thompson,” she said. “Let's get this done.”

On the screen, the curved walls of the hangar bay slipped away, the great jagged-edged hatch ahead retracting back to allow the
Lionheart
into space. Darkness and stars painted the view as the ship's bow turned away, passing over a glimpse of Earth's moon.

“Full ahead,” ordered Atia, anticipating her intentions.

Despite the circumstances, a smile threatened to bloom across Christine Vale's face as the ship set off.
I reckon I could get to like this,
she thought.

“W
e need our unity. Our enemies know that truth, too. These rogue states, these old adversaries, they gather together and make pacts
.
”
Ishan Anjar's voice spoke to Riker's back as he stood at the window, staring out over the bay beyond. The lights in the room were dimmed to night settings, and outside a cold, black sky seemed to swallow up all sense of scale.

Riker saw his own reflection in the glass, along with the inverted image of the viewscreen on his desk playing the current broadcast from the United Press Interstellar news channel. Ishan's picture froze and then minimized as a correspondent from UPI's Paris office picked up the thread of the story, reporting on what the Bajoran politician had said during the memorial service on Luna.

“Mute,” Riker ordered, and silence fell across the room. He'd seen the same report three or four times now, listened to the same questions and same discussion from a dozen different political pundits on this channel and others. None of them had any answers; they would echo Ishan's points of rhetoric, pick over every tiny nuance of his speech for meaning and subtext, or return to the so-called “information leaks” that Riker suspected were in fact quite deliberately
engineered. And when the news wasn't showing that, the reports were of the memorial services held on other worlds, as far away as Lytasia, Algol, or Cardassia Prime.

Behind the live feed of the reporter in Paris, there was a chronometer reading 11:08, and Riker suddenly realized that here in San Francisco it was just past two o'clock in the morning. He scowled, marching back to the screen to switch it off with a tap of his finger. Once more, where had the day—and the evening—gone? It seemed like only a short time ago he had sent a message to Deanna telling her to stay on with Togren for the time being, but it must have been hours ago. He felt a twinge of guilt as he realized that Tasha would have gone to bed without him being there to read a story to her. Riker perched on the edge of his desk and pulled a hand down over his face, rubbing his eyes.

A tone sounded from the door, and he looked up, blinking away the moment of fatigue. Who would be visiting him this time of night? “Come.”

The door slid open and Lieutenant Ssura entered, his head bobbing. “Admiral. Do you have a moment?” He had a padd in his hand, holding it gingerly.

“You're still here?” Riker frowned. “Lieutenant, are you waiting out there for me to leave for the night?”

The Caitian gave a toothy smile. “Ah. Sir, please worry not about that. My rest cycle is unlike yours. I am capable of snatching a collective of small sleep moments throughout the day.” He paused. “You, however, are not. I have officer's quarters on base assigned to you for tonight. . . .”

“No, that's all right.” He nodded at the padd, dismissing his fatigue. “Did you have something for me?”

Ssura turned the padd so Riker could see it. “You asked me to look into a recent tasking order for one of your officers aboard the
Titan,
Commander Tuvok?”

“What did you find?” He took the padd, scanning the text there.

The felineoid's paws knitted. “I regret, little of note. Commander Tuvok's reassignment was processed through expedited channels, on or around the time the
Titan
arrived in Earth orbit.”

“Someone planned that well in advance, then. . . .”

“Likely, sir. As to the actual letter of the commander's new orders, that datum is security sealed.”

Riker shot his aide a look. “I am an admiral now, right? Doesn't that mean I get to look at these kind of things?”

“Yes, sir.” Ssura paused. “I mean, no, sir. I'm afraid our—that is
your
—office is not cleared for this access.”

He walked away, pacing the room. “So we don't know where Tuvok went, why, or who gave the order?”

“No. No. Yes.”

It took Riker a second to catch up with what Ssura was saying. “Wait, you
do
know who reassigned Commander Tuvok?”

“It would be more correct to say I know what office in Starfleet Command issued the order.” Ssura pointed toward the padd. “Last page, sir.”

Riker tabbed through to the end of the lieutenant's report and found the data. He read it twice, just to be sure. “You're absolutely certain of this?”

“Yes, Admiral.” Ssura nodded. “Commander Tuvok's reassignment order was issued directly by the office of the Commander of Starfleet, Admiral Akaar.”

“Why would—” Riker's question never got the chance to fully form; an abrupt beep sounded from the
viewscreen on his desk. The display had automatically reactivated, showing the stars-and-laurels design of the United Federation of Planets above a status message that indicated an imminent incoming signal.

Ssura studied the screen, reading the alphanumeric contact codes. “Sir, this is a priority subspace message . . . on your personal channel.” He paused. “Admiral, it appears to be originating from the
U.S.S.
Enterprise
.”

A chill passed through Riker; a call that came without warning in the middle of the night was never something good. “I'll take it in here. Lieutenant, make sure I'm not interrupted for the duration.”

“Aye, sir.” The Caitian nodded and quickly padded out of the room, leaving Riker to his privacy.

He sank into his chair and took a breath. “Computer, recognize Riker, William T. Connect terminal.”

“Connecting
.
”
The blue-white UFP symbol blinked out to be replaced by a grainy image of Jean-Luc Picard, framed by the wall of his ready room. Riker's immediate fear—that something terrible had happened aboard his former ship or to his former crew—was only slightly assuaged by the neutral expression on his old friend's face.

“Captain?”

“Admiral,”
Picard replied.
“Sir.”

Despite himself, Riker smiled briefly. “Huh. So that's how it feels to hear you say that.”

“Congratulations on the promotion, Will. I'm sorry I haven't had the chance to speak to you sooner.”
Picard's voice wavered with distortion as it came to Riker across the span of light-years.
“Akaar chose well
.”

Mention of the Capellan admiral's name brought a frown to Riker's face and he shot a look at the padd
Ssura had left behind. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I apologize for contacting you out of the blue like this. I wasn't sure I'd reach you. But it has been somewhat problematic arranging a relay so we could speak in real time.”

Riker didn't comment on that, but it sounded like a wrong note with him. While the availability of long-range direct subspace communication channels was restricted in Starfleet, an officer of Picard's seniority should have been able to access them easily.

His former captain seemed to intuit his line of thinking.
“Communications protocols have been tightened extensively across the fleet network. A temporary security measure in the wake of the current crisis, so I'm told.”
And then, very deliberately, Picard ran a finger over the brow of his left eye, and across to his ear. To anyone else, it might have seemed like a casual gesture, but for Riker it set alarm bells ringing.

Picard was warning him that someone might be listening to their conversation.

“I'm well aware of those . . . protocols,” he replied, giving the most subtle of nods in return. Immediately, Riker wanted to know exactly what Picard's inference could mean, but his words caught in his throat.

Almost from the moment he had taken this office, Riker had become aware that he was under subtle observation. He doubted Ssura was part of it; Will was always a good judge of character, and the Caitian seemed too guileless to be any more than what he said he was. But Riker had noted the occasional figure trailing him at a distance around the Starfleet campus, or out in the city. He knew the kind; Federation Security. At first, Riker had dismissed the presence of
the watchers as the side effect of a heightened state of alert still in place after Bacco's assassination. But now he was starting to wonder if there was more to it. Velk had made no secret of his feelings about Riker's promotion; he wouldn't put it past Ishan Anjar's chief of staff to be keeping a watch on him.

“How is the family?” He chose an innocuous topic to see how Picard would react.

A flicker of subspace static crackled over the image as the captain smiled ruefully.
“Rene is into everything. He's becoming quite the challenge, and Beverly promises me it's just the beginning
.
”

Riker nodded. “She's not wrong. Tasha's the same. Just wait until he starts taking things to pieces for fun. That's . . . interesting. Sometimes I wish I was married to a precognitive instead of an empath, just so I could catch my daughter
before
she breaks something.”

“I'll make sure Geordi keeps my son away from the warp core for the moment.”

“And the rest of the crew? How are they holding up after . . . what happened?”

Picard's smile went away and he met his former first officer's gaze. He didn't need to voice how he felt, Riker could see it written in his eyes. Jean-Luc wanted to be here in the center of things, involved in bringing some kind of sense—some kind of
closure
—to Nanietta Bacco's death. At that moment, Riker wanted to declare all his doubts and fears to his old friend, but he kept his silence.

“Will, our duty . . . as much as it brings wonder and triumph, it also brings us misfortune. It's the price we pay. But I can think of no worse a tragedy than a life of great potential cut short. Bacco was the leader we needed throughout all the trials we've faced these last few
years
.
”
He shook his head, his expression solemn.
“She appealed to the greatest in us. And now I'm afraid those who follow her will call out to the worst
.
”

“I know you considered her a friend.”

Picard nodded again.
“Indeed. And because of that, I owe her a debt.”
Then the captain's face shifted as he schooled his expression. Riker recalled that look well; it was the same one Picard had worn across a card table on those evenings he had lost a stack of poker chips to his commanding officer.
“I've been reflecting on a lot of things over the past few days. Do you recall our mission with that Vulcan ambassador, the one we took to meet the Romulans aboard the
Devoras
?”

Riker stiffened at the memory. “Don't you mean Subcommander Selok?” Even though it was almost two decades since the incident at the Neutral Zone, he still remembered it clearly, and it smarted. Serving aboard the
Enterprise
-D at the time, Riker and Picard had been under orders to deliver the ambassador to a meeting with representatives of the Romulan Star Empire as part of ongoing treaty negotiations, but she had apparently perished in a transporter accident while beaming to the Romulan ship. It was only later that the
Enterprise
crew discovered her death had been faked. In reality, the woman was a deep-cover Romulan spy masquerading as a Vulcan, and the
Enterprise
had unwittingly aided in bringing her home to her people.

He turned the memory over in his mind. Why was Jean-Luc bringing this up now? “The Romulans played us that day.”

“Do you remember what I said after we were debriefed by Starfleet?”

Riker recalled Picard's words. “That as long as you
were her commander, you wouldn't allow
Enterprise
to be sent on any more fool's errands.”

Picard leaned closer to the image pickup.
“I meant it then. I still mean it now.”

Riker was only aware of the broadest strokes of the
Enterprise
's current mission, sent to Ferenginar in order to show the colors and get out in front of any attempts by the Typhon Pact to entice the Ferengi Alliance into their fold. But if pressed, the admiral would have called it a makeweight assignment, and certainly not something that required the presence of Starfleet's flagship. Picard was telling him that he felt the same way.