Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice (31 page)

“Shaniq was no friend to Bacco,”
Martok replied.
“He understands the value of our alliance with the Federation,
but not the reticence of your past military policies. I think he favors this new man, the Bajoran.”

“Ishan Anjar,” offered Riker.

The Klingon nodded.
“Aye. The Bajorans know war, not as Klingons do, but well enough. Shaniq likes Anjar's rhetoric. . . . I do not.”
He leaned in, his face filling the screen.
“Riker, speak plainly. What do you expect to find at Nydak?”

Now that it came to the moment to actually give voice to the thought, Riker found it hard to say it out loud. He took a breath. “The truth, sir. I expect to find those responsible for the death of President Bacco . . . and those seeking to use them for political and personal gain.”

Martok studied him for a moment.
“You are spoken of well by warriors I trust, Riker. Worf, son of Mogh. Klag, son of M'Raq.”

“It was my honor to serve with them.”

“For that, I grant you passage into the Empire and to Nydak . . . for all the good it may do you. General Shaniq does not like to bow to my authority. I will send ships to meet you there, but I warn you. If a Klingon hand is revealed in any ill deeds, it will be dealt with by my men, understood?”

“It is, sir. You have my gratitude.”

Martok nodded. “Qapla,
Riker.”
He cut the channel, and the image faded.

Keru glanced at his commander. “A warrant of passage from the chancellor of the Klingon Empire. . . . That gives us good cause to stay out here. I'm surprised he gave it so easily.”

Riker nodded absently, walking to the port where he could study the light of warp-stretched stars as
Titan
raced across the void. “I told you he was shrewd,
Ranul. He's an honorable warrior, but he also knows an opportunity when he sees it. Martok's just given us the ability to bring dishonor to one of his major political rivals and have a hand in the credit for catching Nan Bacco's murderers.”

“And if we're wrong . . . we'll get the blame, not him.” The Trill shook his head, a humorless smile rising and falling. “I guess it is true what they say: The higher you're promoted, the more politics you get on you.”

Riker raised an eyebrow. “You've only been Number One for a short while. Had enough already?”

Keru folded his arms over his chest. “Let's say I liked my job better when it was just shooting at things, and we'll leave it at that, sir.”

*  *  *

The cargo ramp dropped open like the drawbridge of an ancient fortress, allowing the atmosphere of Nydak II to billow into the
Snipe
's cavernous loading bay. Tuvok's acute Vulcan sense of smell immediately picked out the tang of burnt metals in the air, the ozone of storms, and something else . . . The unmistakable musk of Klingons.

A line of them stood waiting just past the foot of the ramp, some with
bat'leth
s slung over their shoulders, others with disruptor pistols hanging in fast-draw holsters at their hips. The warriors were in uniform-battle plate, but none of them had the polish and swagger that Tuvok had come to associate with Klingon crews. These ones lacked the finer edges of the Imperial soldiers he had met in passing on previous occasions; they were rough-hewn and thuggish in their manner. An ironic estimation, he thought, considering how the Klingon species had almost made an art out of their belligerence.

The only one who didn't follow the pattern was the adjutant, the same officer who had faced them in orbit from the bridge of one of the Birds of Prey. He searched the bay, finding Lieutenant Colonel Kincade, and shot her a brisk nod. “What do you have for us, human?” he asked with some relish.

Tuvok turned as a hatch behind him opened and Thomas Riker emerged, carrying a phaser. Grim-faced, he led a procession of four Cardassians—three males and one female—out from where they had been held. Ashur walked alongside the prisoners, a rifle in his hands, and Tuvok could tell he was looking for an excuse to use it. Nog was last, and the Ferengi looked deeply troubled by the unfolding events. It was a mood the Vulcan shared.

The adjutant gave a cruel, lopsided grin. “This is what remains, then?” He advanced, flexing his fingers. “These are the cowards who laid bombs and traps to kill our warriors.”

Tom halted on the edge of the ramp and looked to Kincade. “So what now? We turn our prisoners over to them?” He jerked his head toward the Klingons.

“Those are the orders,” said Kincade.

One of the Cardassian males, a youth with ragged lines of facial hair, tensed as he heard the woman's words. His eyes darted left and right, desperately looking for some means of escape.

Ashur gave him a hard shove in the small of the back, enough that it almost put the youth on the deck. “Move.”

“You cannot do this,” hissed the elder Cardassian standing near Tom; he was Onar Throk. It was virtually certain that Throk had been the one who committed the actual act of assassination, and yet he seemed
so small and ordinary as he stood there. A gray-haired humanoid in drab fatigues, caught between anger and fear. It was hard to envision that the deeds of this one unremarkable being had set off a storm of controversy across the quadrant.

Throk was glaring at Kincade. “We have rights! Your precious Khitomer Accords demand it!”

“That would be the treaty you're trying to destroy?” Kincade shot back. “You've certainly got nerve, I'll give you that.” She turned away, masking a look of disgust on her face, and addressed the adjutant. “Get these criminals off my ship.”

“With pleasure.” The Klingon officer waved his hand, and a few of his men came up the ramp to take custody of the Cardassians. The prisoners protested, but their words fell on deaf ears. Blades and guns were brandished, and the ready threat of death brought silence as they were marched off the
Snipe
and onto the surface.

Tuvok and Kincade followed a few steps behind. Outside now, the Vulcan could see the full scope of the old mining facility. It was a squat, ugly complex of geodesic domes and tall refinery towers set into a scarred hillside ravaged by earthmovers. A few lighted buildings clustered near to the landing pad, but most of the mine seemed to be rusting and derelict. Far from the well-maintained security of a Federation penitentiary, it was almost medieval in its outlook.

Nog trailed after them, sniffing at the air with a sour expression. “This isn't right,” he said, half to himself. “What are they going to do with them?”

“These conspirators will be questioned,” said the adjutant, catching the Ferengi's words.

Ahead, there was a sudden flurry of movement as
the younger Cardassian gave a cry of effort and threw himself against the Klingon closest to him. It was a lucky gamble, the guard losing his footing on a broken stone. The Klingon stumbled, and the Cardassian made a break for it—but he barely got a few meters before the warrior caught up and struck him brutally across the back with the blunt, flat edge of his
bat'leth
. Tuvok heard the distinct crack of bones breaking.

The prisoner went down with a cry, drawing harsh laughter from the other guards. Tuvok tensed, but Nog had already broken into a run, sprinting to the fallen youth's side. He extended a hand to help the Cardassian back to his feet. Blood marked the youth's face, and he gasped in agony as he tried to stand.

The guard who had struck the blow advanced on Nog, raising his weapon, this time turning the sharp double points toward the Ferengi's throat. “Step away!” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “Step away, or share this one's fate!”

His face set in a grim mask, Nog backed off, letting the injured youth slowly rise on his own. “Striking an unarmed prisoner?” he sneered. “Where's the honor in that?”

“Honor is not for the likes of them,” came the snarled reply. “Only a fool gives succor to his enemy. If the Federation understood that, perhaps your leader would still draw breath.”

“Stand down, Mister Nog,” added Kincade. “You've done your job. Now let our allies do theirs.”

“And what would that be?” Tuvok asked her.

She looked away, ignoring the question.

*  *  *

Vale walked with Chessman into the turbolift, and she noted that the commander's security escort stopped
short of following them into the capsule. The doors hissed closed and he entered a code on the wall panel before pausing to allow hidden sensors to perform a retina scan, voice trace, and biometric sweep.

“That's a fair few locks and keys,” she noted. The security protocols in the turbolift were the third in a series of barriers Chessman had guided her through as they moved deeper into the nameless facility.

In the warren of corridors that threaded through the asteroid's interior, Vale saw nothing but long passageways burned out of the living rock or compartments built from blank expanses of thermoconcrete. Force-field emitters studded the walls every few hundred meters along with sensor clusters that kept a constant watchful eye on every square centimeter of the facility.

Once or twice they passed autonomous drones that floated by on anti-gravs, identical white metal spheres sporting camera arrays and holographic lenses. “Sentinel remotes,” Chessman had explained, noting her interest. “Operated from a central monitoring bay on the surface. Each one can operate on its own or directly under the control of a security officer. They can be used to holographically communicate with detainees while keeping the actual officer well out of harm's way.”

Now, as the elevator descended, she found her thoughts returning to the devices. “I'm wondering why you'd need something like those drones. The only explanation is that this place was constructed to house extremely dangerous individuals.”

The other officer nodded. “I'm sure you're familiar with life-forms possessing dangerous telepathic ability, or phenomena like spontaneous psionic development. . . .
This complex was originally built to contain things like that, if they threaten the safety of the Federation. Hence the drones, so anyone who could be influenced by a telepath remains at a distance.”

“This asteroid . . . it's an
oubliette,
” said Vale.

“Yes,” admitted Chessman ruefully. “Fortunately, it doesn't get a lot of use. At least, not until recently.”

“Bashir was brought here . . . but he's no telepath.”

“True. But I think there are those who believe he is just as dangerous.” The turbolift halted, and they emerged into an anteroom before a heavy duranium hatch. Chessman went through the unlocking procedure one final time, and the hatch retreated into the deck.

A cube-shaped cell, no more than four meters along each axis, revealed itself. At the far wall there was a nondescript sleeping pallet with a figure rising from it. He was still holding a padd in his hand, as if they had caught him in the middle of some reading.

For all his circumstances, Vale was mildly surprised to see that Julian Bashir seemed almost
comfortable
. “Hello, Doctor,” she began. “Can I come in?”

Bashir smoothed the front of the utilitarian jumpsuit he was wearing and put down the padd. “I'd rather come out.”

“Not just yet,” said Chessman, folding his arms across his chest. Now that they were actually here, actually face-to-face with the asteroid's star prisoner, the commander looked like he was having second thoughts.

She decided to make the most of the opportunity. “Doctor Bashir, I'm Commander Christine Vale, and this is Commander Chessman. I was sent here by Admiral William Riker to talk to you about what happened at Andoria.”

“Really?” He was playing it cool and careful, and she couldn't blame him. “Why now?”

“The admiral wanted me to assure you that you have not been forgotten. I'm sure it seems like you've been in here a long time—”

“Seventeen days, ten hours, forty-three minutes,” Bashir replied with a slight smile. “Give or take.”

Of course,
she thought,
he's genetically enhanced. He would know
. “Doctor, you have people who are concerned for your well-being. Ezri Dax. Sarina Douglas.”

At the mention of the Douglas woman's name, his wary façade slipped for a fraction of a second, and Vale knew she had been right about their relationship. “Are they all right?”

“Dax is being held in custody at the Jaros II stockade, and the rest of your, uh, colleagues are under house arrest while awaiting their trials. As for Lieutenant Commander Douglas, she was very helpful in locating you.”

He smiled again, and this time it was genuine. “I have good friends.”

“I heard Captain Dax's side of the story,” she went on, “and she'll have her chance in front of the JAG to voice it. But you, Doctor . . . It seems that someone is less interested in allowing your voice to be heard.”

Bashir gave Chessman a measuring look, and then turned away, pacing his cell. “That's hardly surprising, is it? I have a fair weight of accusations upon me, not the least of which is treason.”

“
High
treason,” corrected Chessman. “Also conspiracy, criminal destruction, sabotage, theft of a Starfleet vessel, assault, insubordination, spying. Did I leave anything out?”

The doctor spread his hands. “Quite impressive, don't you think? I imagine they're going to throw
several
books at me.” He was unrepentant about the laws he had broken—it was plain in his manner—but that was because he believed he had done those things for the right reasons, and Bashir said as much. “I'm ready to stand before the judge. I was ready when they took me aboard the
Warspite
. But instead I found myself brought here, under the care of this gentleman.” He nodded at Chessman.