Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice (34 page)

“I'll do the talking,” Chessman said out the side of his mouth.

“If you like,” Vale replied, staying at attention.

The envoy stepped out, with Troi at his side, and she gave Vale the smallest of nods.

Chessman came forward and bowed slightly. “Sir. Before you begin, I must tell you your presence here is highly irregular.” He glanced at Troi. “Both of you,” he amended.

“Commander Troi is accompanying me at the request of the Andorian government,” said ch'Nuillen. “She has been assisting us in the resolution of an important issue.” His frost-white eyebrows came together. “And that is why we are here, irregular or not.”

“This facility is classified,” Chessman insisted. “How did you find it?”

“I would suggest that point is moot, Commander,” offered Troi.

Vale saw the other officer's hands tighten. “You should not be here,” he replied, and he took her in with
that statement. “I'm afraid I will have to ask you all to return to your ships and leave this system.”

“I intend to do so,” ch'Nuillen said briskly. “Once you have bowed to your obligation.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

The envoy frowned. “Do not treat me like a fool, Commander. You know why I am here. You know
who
I have come for.”

“You have to leave,” Chessman repeated, and the tension in his voice spread to his security team. “I'm not going to tell you again.”

“And if we do not, will you use force?” Troi gently asked the question.

“If I must.” Chessman stared her down, knowing that the Betazoid was reading the strength behind his statement.

Troi caught Vale's eye for a fraction of a second, but it was enough for her to sense the unspoken words.
He'll come out shooting if he's pushed to it
.

“Are you willing to commit an act of violence against Andoria?” Ch'Nuillen's question echoed in the air. “An act . . . of war?” He reached up and touched an ornate emblem hanging around his throat, a rendering in platinum of the crest of Epsilon Indi. “I am Andor. This is Andor. A threat to either is a threat to our people. Are you prepared to take responsibility for that?” He advanced a step toward the commander. “You will release our citizen to me, and you will do it now.
I
will not tell
you
again.”

Confusion broke out on Chessman's face. “Your citizen? Envoy, there's been some mistake. We don't have any of your species in detention here.”

“This isn't about skin color,” said Vale.

Ch'Nuillen reached into his robe and whipped out a
scroll, moving with such speed that Chessman's guards reached for their weapons, and the Andorians did the same, but all motions were arrested when it became clear the envoy held only a piece of paper in his hand. He unrolled it and presented it to the commander.

Chessman looked at the flowing script and frowned. “I . . . don't read your language.”

“That is a legal document of entitlement from the Andor Ministry of Citizens,” explained Troi. “A declaration of nationality.”

“Commander,” ch'Nuillen said formally, “you are holding a man who requested
and was granted
full political asylum by my government when he was on my world. It was illegal for Starfleet to arrest him and deport him from Andoria, an action tantamount to kidnapping. It is illegal for the Federation to detain him against his will without first requesting and being granted a right of extradition by Presider zh'Felleth. No such request was made.”

“What?” Chessman shook his head. “Asylum? How can you prove that?” He glared at the scroll. “You could have just granted that after the fact!”

The envoy went on as if he hadn't spoken. “Furthermore, because of the selfless acts of your prisoner in aiding my species, deeds that will preserve my family's future, I have declared him
thun-za-ke
.”

“The term roughly translates as
adoption,
” offered Troi helpfully.

“The man you hold is a named ward of my clan,” ch'Nuillen explained. “Bound to me as closely as my siblings and cousins. You will therefore release Julian Subatoi Bashir ke'Nuillen to my custody,” he said, adding the adoptive suffix to Bashir's name. “Or we will take him from you.”

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped Chessman's throat. “You can't be serious! He's human, not Andorian! He's admitted guilt for multiple crimes!”

Ch'Nuillen brandished the scroll. “He may not be born of Andor, but this document names him Andorian in all but blood. And whatever transgressions you hold against him, petition must be made to try him for them.”

All the air seemed to drain out of the chamber. Vale could see the tension written across the faces of the Starfleet security guards and the envoy's protectors; both groups were ready to react in an instant if violence ensued, but neither wanted to be the first to draw a weapon. She watched Chessman, caught in the middle of it. Would he really order his men to open fire on the Andorian diplomatic detail?

One of the humming drones overhead shifted pitch and dropped down to head height, drifting into the middle of the group. Chessman seemed as surprised by it as anyone, until the machine's holoemitter stirred to life, projecting the image of a figure before the assembled group.

“This is
Lionheart.
”
Atia's urgent tones came from Vale's combadge.
“Detection. Powerful subspace signal incoming, direct to asteroid. . . .”

In the space of a second, the holographic humanoid shape went from a featureless, smooth form to something with detail, character, and expression. “Step aside, Commander Chessman,” said the image of Galif jav Velk. “I will take it from here.”

“Stand by,
Lionheart,
” said Vale quietly. “This is going to be interesting.”

The Tellarite's cold gaze swept the chamber, taking them all in. If not for the sentinel drone hovering at
his shoulder and the slight distortion of his voice, it could have been believed that the presidential chief of staff was there before them. “It appears I am required to intervene directly.” He fixed Troi with a withering look. “Commander, like your husband and the rest of his officers, it appears you are exceeding your remit.”

Ch'Nuillen answered for her. “One might say the same of you, Galif.”

Velk eyed the Andorian. “Political asylum?” His porcine nose twitched in disdain. “That is the ploy you are making? Did you not think that your departure from Earth would be noted? Did you not consider that we would be watching this place at all times?” He shook his head. “It will not hold air, Ramasanar, this gambit of yours. It is a foolish, theatrical act of misplaced bravado.”

Vale heard the low hiss from the diplomat. “Your people have never understood us, have you? Not since the very beginning. This is not an act. This is the matter of a debt to be repaid.”

“Is he worth it?” asked the Tellarite, a shimmer of interference momentarily moving through his image. “Is Andor willing to risk its readmission to the Federation over one man's liberty?”

“If you must ask that question,” said ch'Nuillen, “then you truly show how little you know us.”

*  *  *

The cell door dropped open without warning, and Bashir was jolted, flinching back against the wall. A single sentinel drone floated there before him, filling the entranceway with its spherical bulk. Multiple camera eyes across its surface stared at him, glassy and dark.

“Um . . . hello?” he began, putting down his padd. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Light shimmered, and a sketch of a humanoid form built itself in the middle of the cell's confines until it was distinctly a Tellarite male in a plain business suit. “Doctor Bashir,” he began. “I'm sure you know who I am. I imagine you have it stored up there somewhere in that superior brain of yours.”

He nodded, forcing himself to remain calm. “I know who you are, Mister Velk. Can I assume the appearance of the president pro tem's hatchet man in my comfy little jail cell is a good thing? Are you here on Ishan Anjar's behalf to tell me all is forgiven?”

Velk made a noise that might have been a chuckle. “Hardly. You are an arrogant criminal.”

“I believe the correct response to that is, ‘Takes one to know one.' Or would that be too glib?” Bashir leaned forward, studying the drone without making it obvious. The cell door was still open, and he found himself idly plotting out methods of how he might get past the drone, get into the anteroom beyond . . .
and then . . . ?
He looked away. He wasn't about to run. He didn't see the point.

“You have caused a great deal of problems,” Velk went on. “Andoria would have been given what they needed, eventually. In a few months, after the election. But you interfered with things. Took the law into your own hands. You brought instability, Bashir. I do not tolerate that.”

“They've waited long enough,” he shot back, his temper rising. “The Federation had no right to hold information that could save countless lives.”

“It is not your place to decide.”

Bashir gave a rough shrug. “But I did, anyway.
I
did. I did the right thing.” He smiled thinly. “And do you know something? I don't regret a moment of it.
So if you're here to menace me or make some kind of veiled threats, get it done, and then be on your way.”

“No veils,” said Velk. “You are an intelligent man, and I have little patience with obfuscation, unlike your Cardassian friend Mister Garak.”

“And how
is
he? Did they make him castellan yet? He'll be insufferable if he gets that job, mark my words.”

The Tellarite's pinched, humorless expression tightened at Bashir's feigned levity. “If it were in my power,” he said grimly, “you would remain here until your name was little more than a distant memory. But it seems the predilection for disobedience is more widespread in Starfleet than I had first realized. You are going to be released, Doctor.”

They were, quite definitely, the very last words Julian had expected to hear, and he didn't know how to react to them. “What?”

“My hand has been forced. I am making the best choice of several poor options.” The holographic projection gestured at the low ceiling. “Up in the docking bay, an Andorian ship has come to take you away. They are claiming you like an errant pet, and if they are refused, it will go badly for all concerned. News will spread. That would not be for the best.” He sniffed. “So you may leave, to return to Andoria. I suppose you could consider it freedom, after a fashion.”

“Vale . . .” He smiled. “She came through.”

“And she will answer for that.” Velk nodded gravely. “Make no mistake, there will be a price to pay.” The Tellarite beckoned him. “On your feet. Follow the drone into the turbolift. You'll be taken to your liberty, such as it is.”

Warily, Bashir got up, hesitating with the padd
in his hand. The Dumas novel was unfinished, and although he could recall the text with clarity from his own memory from past readings, he enjoyed the act of reading it over again. After a moment, he let the device drop on the sleeping pallet.

He had only taken a step when Velk's hologram spoke again. “One consideration before you leave, Doctor Bashir. You may intend to talk to others about this conversation, or to discuss the events that brought you to this juncture. You may think you know things about me and the president pro tem. But it would be wise for you to keep your own counsel on these matters.”

“Why? I'm a free man. That includes the right to speak.”

Velk nodded. “
You
are free. But Katherine Pulaski, Lemdock, Tovak, Elizabeth Lense, Ezri Dax . . . Sarina Douglas? Consider their circumstances before you give voice, Doctor.”

The Tellarite shimmered and vanished, leaving Bashir alone in the cell with the humming drone and a chill running through his blood.

Out in the anteroom, the turbolift door hissed open.

A
gain, there was the brutal touch of fire across his flesh, and then Tuvok was whole and uninjured once again, the flicker-flash of the phase-shift transport fading into the gloom.

He heard Nog bite down on a gasp and looked past him to where Tom and Ashur were crouching. They too were fighting off the pain induced by the transport. The four of them had rematerialized deep inside the former mining facility, close to a power source that Nog had identified as a force-field generator. It seemed highly likely that the generator unit was part of a detention system, and Tuvok gave the command to investigate.

Now, as he surveyed the area, he believed the hypothesis had been correct. They were under one of the complex's aging domes, the cracked hyperpolymer sections of the structure overhead blackened by machine emissions and the ravages of the planet's wounded ecosystem. Raised catwalks and gantries formed a suspended highway across what had once been refining pits and ore crushers. Most of the larger pieces of machinery were gone now, leaving stubs of connector conduits dangling from walls or sprouting from the thermoconcrete floors. In the shadow of
corroding metal frames, crude slabs of drab Klingon technology—energy baffles and power generators—had been retrofitted to allow the facility to perform another function.

“Patrol coming,” whispered Nog, and he dropped low behind the cover of a fallen exhaust pipe.

Tuvok and the others followed suit. The Vulcan saw a trio of Klingon guards emerge from a tunnel in the floor and march in a ragged line across the vast chamber. They were from the same group he had seen outside when the
Snipe
landed. He noted the style of their battle armor, the manner of their weapons. Although they were Klingons, these were mercenaries without loyalty to any noble house, a stripe of dishonored warriors who would be shunned by their martial betters elsewhere.