Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice (18 page)

“I wish I could say I was flattered. . . .”

Akaar's lip curled in the ghost of a smile, then thinned again. “Velk's reaction to this was the start of it. Then the incident at Andor came next, and I couldn't ignore my misgivings anymore.” He halted, glancing around as he framed his next words.

They were still isolated here, but nonetheless Riker suddenly felt very exposed. His thoughts flashed to his wife and daughter, a sudden worry for their safety, but he pushed the thoughts away. For now, he couldn't let his concern for Deanna and Tasha get in the way.

After a moment Akaar went on. “The doctor, Bashir . . . He set off a chain of events that none of us could have predicted. I have no doubt that his intentions
were noble, and it cannot be denied that he has helped pull the Andorians back from the brink of extinction . . . but the fallout has been troubling.”

Riker was more than aware of the Andorian reproductive crisis, having several natives of that race among his crew aboard the
Titan
. Bashir and a small cadre of medical experts—including some of Starfleet's best doctors—had now apparently solved their genetic issues. The problem was, all that had been done using some of the most protected secrets in the Federation, without oversight and against the express orders of the Federation Council. Now Bashir and his fellows were under arrest, as was Ezri Dax, the first starship captain sent to arrest him. Once again, Riker's thoughts turned to the rumors he had heard of Federation vessels exchanging fire over Andor.

Akaar anticipated his next question. “It's true what you've heard. Starfleet officers firing on Starfleet officers. Dax's crew stood side by side with Bashir on Andor and directly defied a presidential order. The president pro tem dropped the hammer in response. I argued that things could have been resolved in a better way, but I was overruled.” He shook his head. “Ishan ordered cruisers and covert operations units sent in to expedite the situation.”

Riker's eyes widened. “Against a non-aligned planet, that's tantamount to invasion! An act of war.”

The admiral nodded. “And during a time of great local unrest as well. But my concerns fell on deaf ears. I was forced to comply or be relieved of my post. And so the end result was Starfleet boots on Andorian soil, without their government's consent. Federation citizens imprisoned with little or no attention to due process. Because of all of that, I called you here. I admired
your actions during the Borg Invasion. Jean-Luc has always spoken of you in the highest of terms, Will. So I hope you can serve me now the way you have served him in the past.”

“I suppose I should tell you then that I've made an early start.” Riker folded his arms. “I have someone looking into what happened to Bashir.”

Akaar leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. “Good. It's best if you don't give me the specifics for now. It will be sensible to play our cards close. Just pass on what you learn.”

“What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?”

“Irregularities.” Akaar's frown deepened. “It's been just over thirty days since Ishan Anjar took his post, halfway through his temporary term. I am aware that Velk has implemented a number of sealed executive orders from the president pro tem. That in itself is unusual. It's possible one of those orders had something to do with Tuvok's reassignment, but I can't be certain. All I do know is that someone in the presidential cabinet is using the momentum of the recent calamity to push through directives without proper oversight.”

Riker became aware that the shadow of the headquarters building was now upon him, and in the shade he felt a chill pass through his flesh. There was no mistaking what Akaar was suggesting here: the possibility of unsanctioned activities taking place at the highest levels of the Federation government. “We've been here before,” he muttered. “It's Min Zife all over again.”

“Not on my watch,” Akaar insisted. “I won't allow someone to take advantage of Nan Bacco's death for his own ends.” He reached into the pocket of the long overcoat he wore and drew out his silver case again. At first Riker though the admiral might offer him one of
his
markah
cigarillos, but as he watched, Akaar picked at the inner lining of the case and removed something from a hidden compartment within. He turned a small isolinear chip between his fingers. “This is a copy of some data I was able to obtain. I haven't been able to act upon it yet. You might have more agency than I.”

He slid it across the bench, and Riker picked it up, tucking the chip away into his cuff. “What's on it?”

“Those orders I spoke of. It is my understanding that they're connected to activities on a covert communications channel that originates from the office of the chief of staff. That chip contains information on the subspace frequency domain being used.”

“Should I ask where you got it?”

“No,” Akaar said flatly. “If signals on that channel could be intercepted . . . we would have a clearer picture of the situation at hand.”

Riker fell silent. He had no illusions as to what the admiral was asking of him. Akaar wanted to conduct surveillance on the very highest levels of the Federation's chain of command. In the eyes of the law and the oath that Will Riker had sworn to uphold, what Admiral Akaar intended was no less than treason.

But if he's right,
Riker thought,
if Velk or someone else is abusing their power for their own ends, we can't ignore it.

“I have an idea about that,” he said.

*  *  *

“Slowing to sublight in three . . . two . . . one.” Lieutenant Thompson counted down the last few seconds before the
Lionheart
dropped to impulse power, and Christine Vale looked up at the bridge's viewscreen in time to see the warp-distorted lines of the stars shrink back into dots of light.

She glanced at the console in the arm of her command chair and noted that the exit vector was dead on. Four days after their departure from Earth and the lieutenant had delivered them perfectly into the orbital plane of the Jaros system. “Thank you, ops,” she noted, “hold at one-quarter impulse, take us in toward the second planet.”

“Jaros II on screen,” ordered Commander Atia, and immediately the view shifted to an image of the dun-colored planet. Vale's first officer sucked in air through her teeth. “Would that you could tell a world's character from a gaze upon it,” she muttered.

Vale said nothing. She had seen prisons more than once and always from the standpoint of someone taking a criminal to his or her justly deserved fate. She had no desire to see them from any other angle, but still there was something about Jaros II's reputation that would give any Starfleet officer a moment's pause.

The charter of the United Federation of Planets stipulated that any penitentiaries on its member-worlds were maintained at a liberal standard that kept in mind the rights of the individual—no matter what crime they might have been convicted of—and an avowed intent toward rehabilitation over incarceration. The Federation wanted lawbreakers to repay their debt to society and if at all possible, find a second chance. It was a laudable goal and one that Vale believed in, even if the reality didn't always match up to the high hopes behind it. In fact, there were very few dedicated penal colonies within the bounds of the UFP, most of them transitional facilities like Earth's New Zealand compound, where prisoners would serve out their sentences before being re-assimilated back into normal life. Some worlds had no jails of any kind,
instead imposing punishment on offenders by keeping them under constant close surveillance, curtailing their rights of movement, communication, or access to goods and services—effectively making them prisoners of their own lives.

But there were always those who could not be easily rehabilitated or who represented a grave threat to others. Criminals of that stripe would be dispatched to worlds like the Tantalus Colony or Elba II, and if you broke the law while in the uniform of Starfleet, the planet on the screen was where you would most likely end up.

The official name of the facility was the Jaros II Detention Barracks Complex, but among those who served aboard the fleet's starships it had a simpler name: the stockade.

It was a ghost story for plebes and midshipmen, a threat that Academy instructors would hang over their heads, the tale of an isolated desert world stocked with the men and women who had dishonored the service and the code for which it stood. Few of those sent to Jaros II ever wore the uniform again, and for Christine Vale, that notion was a punishment equal to any stay in a dungeon.

She dismissed the thought with a blink and shot a look at Lieutenant Commander Darrah. “Let the logistics team know we'll be off-loading that additional cargo once we make orbit.”

“Aye, Captain—” Darrah was cut off by a chime from his console. “Sensors indicate a ship approaching on a high-speed intercept vector, aggressive posture. They're hailing us.”

“Show me.”

The Bajoran tapped a key, and the main screen shifted to show a sleek, cylindrical vessel moving fast
against the black of space. A Starfleet pennant was visible along the length of the hull; multiple impulse grids glowed orange-white, but the ship had no telltale warp nacelles. It was a system boat, designed for interplanetary defense operations only. “The coast guard?” offered Darrah.

Vale nodded. “Open the channel.”

“Attention,
Lionheart.
This is
Patrol Six-One.
You are entering a security-restricted sector. Provide authorization immediately, or turn back toward open space.”

Atia's lip curled. “Impolite,” she growled.

“They're targeting us,” reported Kader from the engineering station.

“
Very
impolite,” added Atia.

Vale tugged her tunic straight without thinking about it, and the gesture almost made her smile.
Did I pick that up from Riker?
She schooled her expression. “Six-One, this is . . . Christine Vale, captain of the
Lionheart
. We're here on the orders of Starfleet Command. We have supplies and materiel for the colony.”

“Our regular supply run isn't due for another month,”
came the reply.

Vale was aware of Atia and Darrah watching her intently as she responded. “We were . . . passing by.” She tapped her own console, transmitting to the patrol ship a copy of the instructions Admiral Riker had given her. “You'll see everything is in order here.”

A few seconds later the smaller craft veered sharply away, shifting heading to fall in alongside the medical cruiser.
“Confirmed,
Lionheart.
Maintain course and speed, enter standard orbit upon approach. Do not deviate from these instructions.
Patrol Six-One
out.”

“Sociable types, aren't they?” Darrah said, but his smile didn't reach his eyes.

Maslan had been watching from his panel. “They must still be on alert after the . . .” He paused. “The, ah, incident on DS9.”

With a start, Vale realized that it had been a month and a day since Bacco's death. On some level, it seemed like only hours had passed since she had stood in Riker's ready room on the
Titan
and listened to the shocking message from Starfleet Command. It was still raw and new.

“Take us in, Alex,” she told the flight operations officer. “Don't do anything to aggravate them. Fly smooth.”

“Always do, sir,” Thompson replied, his focus on the growing shape of the planet ahead.

Atia leaned closer and spoke in a careful whisper. “We near moment of purpose, so clarity would be appreciated. Will you give reason for presence, beyond task that any cargo scow could accomplish?” The challenge in the other woman's words was clear.

Vale folded her arms. “Well. I figure, as we're here, I might look up an acquaintance. Ezri Dax.”

“Dax is inmate below,” noted Atia. “Held to account after disobedience aboard
Aventine
at Andor. You count her as friend?”

“I'm the friendly type,” Vale replied with a cool smile.

“Entering standard orbit,” called Thompson.

“Signal from logistics,” added Darrah. “We're ready to start the cargo drop.”

Christine rose from her seat. “See to it, Hayn. You have the bridge.” She turned back to Atia. “You know, there's a superstition among some older fleet types that it's bad luck for anyone still serving to go down to the stockade. Kind of like a black cat crossing your path.”

“Or a snake falling from the roof.”

“I'm going to go challenge fate a little,” said Vale. “You want to come with?”

Atia stood up. “I hold no stock in old wives' tales.”

*  *  *

The transporter put them down in a dusty quadrangle in front of the main administration block, in front of a large sculpture of a Starfleet crest. The rest of the complex was thoroughly protected under a powerful inhibitor field that would reflect back any attempt to get a lock on anyone within the grounds of the penal complex.

The heat of the day immediately stole all the moisture from Vale's lips, and she sniffed at the dry air, looking around; she was half expecting to see guard towers and walls topped with spikes, but there was nothing so dramatic or draconian to see. Aside from the invisible transporter barrier and the glitter of what might have been observer drones high in the clear sky, the stockade resembled the same kind of residential barracks that Starfleet had on dozens of worlds. Off toward one of the buildings she saw figures moving, all of them clad in nondescript clothing that, while it wasn't exactly prison uniform, was still basic enough to clearly be standard-issue. Each of them wore a combadge similar to the arrowhead on Vale's chest, but it was a bronze-hued oval without other detail.