Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice (35 page)

Tuvok considered them, turning over Ashur's words in his thoughts. The ghost prison, the soldiers of fortune, the covert nature of it all . . . There was no doubt in his mind that Nydak II was a desolate holding belonging to Imperial Intelligence, the Klingon Empire's secret police and espionage directorate. Some said that Imperial Intelligence held more power in the Empire than the chancellor, the High Council, and the noble houses combined. Governments would come and go, but they were eternal; it troubled Tuvok greatly to consider what part the shadowy agency might be playing in this unfolding drama.

The guards vanished through a hatch, and as it clanged shut, Tuvok broke from cover and signaled the others. Staying low, hugging the deep, ink-black shadows cast by the gantries, the group threaded their way toward a former smelting chamber that had been repurposed as a brig.

A number of adjoining metal cargo cages, once used for gathering useless slag from the ore-refining process, were now cells. Each one was held shut with a glowing blue mechanism fixed across the open face, a magnetic lock making escape impossible. Power units haloed the cells, connected by thick cables that snaked up toward a wide platform above. There was a guard room up there, and Tuvok glimpsed movement inside.

Tom was observing the same through a data-monocle over his right eye. “Scanning with infrared. Just one up there. I can take him out of play.”

Two more Klingons were standing near the iron cages. “Proceed,” said Tuvok. “We will deal with the others.”

The human split off from the group and found a ladder that would take him to the upper tier. Tuvok beckoned Ashur and Nog to follow him.

As they came closer, Tuvok heard the two Klingons talking; they were sharing rough humor at the expense of their Cardassian prisoners who sat a few meters away from them on the gridded floors of their enclosures.

“No alarms,” said Tuvok quietly.

Tom's attack was the signal; there was a distant clatter of something falling, up in the guard room, and then without warning the power to the locks died with a fizzing crackle. The guards reacted, but Tuvok, Nog, and Ashur had already exploded from their concealment.

Ashur moved with surprising speed for one of his body mass, and he performed a running leap that threw him directly onto the shoulders of the first guard. There was the glitter of dull light off a shimmerknife blade before the Zeon plunged it into the Klingon's
throat, down through his clavicle. The guard stumbled to the ground, dying as he fell.

The other Klingon swung toward Nog, ripping a long-barreled disruptor pistol from his holster. It was a grave error on the part of the guard, choosing the less dangerous of the two attackers coming at him. In two quick footsteps, Tuvok was on the Klingon, and he performed a flawless leg-sweep. The second guard went down, and the Vulcan expertly intercepted him, chopping the blade of his hand down across the soft tissues of the Klingon's exposed throat. Gasping and starved of air, the second guard was unconscious before he hit the dirt.

Nog grimaced at Ashur as the Zeon wiped purple blood from his blade and moved toward the cells.

A Cardassian woman with ragged, shoulder-length hair and a male whose scarred scalp was shorn were in the process of kicking open the gates of their rusted cages. The third prisoner was already free; Onar Throk had found a length of steel rebar and brandished it like a sword.

“Heybis! Vekt!” he shouted, calling out their names. “Quickly!”

Nog held up a hand. “We're not here to hurt you.”

“Lies,” spat Throk. “I knew your Federation was corrupt and decadent, but your cruelty is even greater than I could have expected! It is not enough you take us as your prisoners, but you use your Klingon lackeys to tear at our minds! I regret nothing I have done to harm your people,
nothing
!”

“We did not want this,” Tuvok told him, calm in the face of Throk's thunderous anger. “You were brought here unlawfully.”

Nog gave a stiff nod. “No matter what crimes you have committed . . .” It was hard for him to say the next words. “You still have your rights to a fair trial.”

Throk laughed bitterly. “You may choke on your
rights
and your
fair trials
! We wish none of it!” He shook his head. “No matter what you do to us, we will give you nothing, do you hear?
Nothing!
”

“Tuvok . . .” Ashur called out from behind him. “See.” The Vulcan turned to see the Zeon pointing with his combat blade.

From out of the shadows came Sahde, the Elloran female walking with a casual swagger. In one hand she gripped a phaser, toying with it as she moved closer. “Are you having fun without me?” She directed the question toward Nog.

“What are you doing here?” asked Ashur. He shot a look at Nog. “I thought she was on the ship.”

Tuvok slowly reached up and tapped the communicator bead in his ear. “Mister Riker? Respond, please.” He waited for an answer.

“I figured out what you were doing,” said Sahde. “I followed you.” She glanced at Ashur and flashed a disarming smile. “So. Prison break? That could be interesting.”

“Tom isn't answering,” said Nog. “Something is wrong.”

“The Elloran is lying to us,” Ashur said with finality. He brought up his blade. “She—”

“She really
is,
” Sahde snapped, cutting him off. Before the Zeon could react, she turned her pistol on him and fired. Bright crimson fire enveloped the mercenary, and before he could scream, his body became a blaze of light—and then nothing.

*  *  *

Nog's throat tightened. All that was left of Ashur was the brief tang of ozone in the cold air of the dome, and he stifled the urge to cough. He was very aware
of the Zeon's killer now turning her gaze—and her phaser—on him.

Her lizard-like eyes bored into his. “I didn't like Ashur,” she announced. “He talked too much.”

“So you killed him?” Nog gasped.

“Not just for that reason,” she said mildly. “I like you, Nog, but you'll end up the same way if you don't drop that weapon you're holding.” Sahde waved her gun at the group. “Anyone else want to go out as a wisp of vapor and free atoms?”

“Why are you doing this?” asked Tuvok.

“Because I'm getting a good weight of gold-pressed latinum for my trouble, and now that Ashur is dead, I'll take his share as well.”

Figures moved in the shadows behind Sahde, hulking Klingon warriors surrounding a smaller female form in a hooded tunic. Nog saw slender fingers reach up, and Lieutenant Colonel Kincade showed her face.

Kincade looked no different from the way she had the last time they had spoken, but in some indefinable way she had changed
inside
. It was almost as if he were looking at a different spirit possessing her body, a totally new persona looking out at him through those dark eyes. Kincade's gaze was callous and bereft of any warmth, with a shallowness of effect that seemed chilling. “Do as Sahde says,” she snapped. “Or you'll die where you stand.”

“As you wish.” Tuvok let his weapon drop to the dirt, and Nog reluctantly did the same. He couldn't help but tense for a blow to come a moment later, and a nerve jumped in his leg; it was a faint tingle of phantom pain from where his old wound had been, the damage done to him during the Dominion War.

Kincade watched Nog as a predator would watch a
prey animal. All of a sudden it came to him that it was not that she had changed, but that she had simply let a disguise drop away. The woman he had dealt with over the past few days aboard the
Snipe
had been the falsehood. What he saw now was the
real
Jan Kincade. “I wondered how long it would take you to try something like this. You moved more quickly than I expected.”

Another pair of Klingons arrived, dragging Tom Riker's unconscious form between them. They dumped him roughly on the ground and snatched up the weapons from where they had been tossed. Tuvok didn't wait for any kind of permission, and he dropped into a crouch, examining the human.

“He lives,” reported the commander.

“For now,” added Sahde out the side of her mouth. “So, what do we do with them now that we know who can't be trusted?” She grinned unpleasantly. “I mean, we only really need that Bolian wench. . . .”

“The Bynars are with me,” Kincade spoke over her. “We've worked together before; they're loyal. I'll find a convincing way to compel Ixxen to do her job, and the Suliban will do what I tell him.” She looked back toward Nog and the others.

“If we don't need these three, then what point is there in keeping them alive?” The Elloran seemed delighted by the idea of more killing.

“You cannot sanction the execution of Starfleet officers and Federation civilians in cold blood,” Tuvok said, matter-of-fact and severe.

Kincade's lips thinned. “Don't be obtuse, Tuvok,” she replied, pausing to think. “I have to check in with control,” she said to the Elloran. “There may be other uses for them. Keep them alive in the meantime.”

Sahde made a motion with the weapon in her
hand, nodding to the guards. “You heard the colonel. Put them in the cages with the rest of the prisoners.”

The Klingons advanced, a wall of snarling faces and armor plates, and Nog watched as the last shreds of Tuvok's plan disintegrated in front of him.

*  *  *

Deanna Troi sat across the briefing-room table from Julian Bashir, the doctor's head haloed by warp-light as the
Lionheart
raced toward Andoria. Visible over his shoulder was the flat hull of the
Mat-Rus
, the warship keeping pace with the
Nova
-class cruiser at high cruise speed. She couldn't see Envoy ch'Nuillen's courier from this angle, but it was out there, too, following in their superluminal wake.

What struck her the most was how guarded Bashir was. She had never met the man before today, but his reputation preceded him. Troi had heard stories from Beverly Crusher and Alyssa Ogawa about his abilities. Both were clearly impressed with his achievements; from their descriptions, she had expected to meet a man of suave character and self-assurance. Instead he was circumspect and inward-looking, as if he were bearing a load that no one else could shoulder.

Instinctively, her counselor's training took over, and she leaned forward. “What can I do to help?”

At the head of the table, Christine Vale caught her eye and frowned. “Deanna, you've already gone above and beyond the call. . . .” She gave an apologetic smile. “Honestly? I didn't think any of that was going to work.”

Bashir was toying with a small medallion that the envoy had pressed into his hands, a rendition of his clan's sigil. “It was an unexpected turn of events,” he offered, managing a weak smile of his own. “I must
admit, I didn't expect to wake up with a new extended family today.”

“Andorians don't do anything by halves,” said Vale.

The doctor met Troi's gaze for the first time. “Commander Troi, ch'Nuillen made it clear that you were the one who brought all this together. Thank you for what you've done.” He shook his head. “I had resigned myself to spending the rest of my days in that little cell.”

“It wasn't just me,” Troi told him. “Christine had the idea.”

“Actually, Ezri Dax set me thinking on it,” Vale noted. “Call it a group effort.”

Bashir's frown deepened at the mention of Captain Dax's name. “Is she all right? And what about Simon Tarses and Lieutenant sh'Pash? They risked a lot to free me from the
Aventine
's brig.”

Vale nodded. “They're as well as can be expected, given what they did. But now we have you out of that damned
oubliette,
we can start on trying to get Dax and the rest of the Andor Five out into the public eye.”

“That's what they're calling us?” Bashir seemed incredulous. “Catchy.”

“The story hasn't gone away,” Troi noted, “even with everything else that's been happening in the meantime.”

He listened, and nodded. “I've been out of the loop for a little while. What did I miss?”

“Short version? Andor's pushing hard to return to the UFP, and that's going to happen, whether Ishan Anjar likes it or not. Kellessar zh'Tarash has announced her candidacy for the presidency. Elim Garak swept to victory on Cardassia—”

For a brief moment, Bashir's morose mien fell, and he
showed a genuine flash of delight. “That's excellent news! I knew we'd make an honest man of him someday.”

“I wouldn't go that far.” Vale's lip curled. “He
is
still a politician.”

Troi picked up the thread of the conversation. “In the meantime, Admiral Akaar and a few of us have been investigating suspicious activity within Starfleet Command and the Federation Council.”

“Activity connected to the Bacco assassination and the Andor incident,” added Vale. “Both may be connected in some way to abuses of executive power within the pro tem government, but so far we don't have anything we can prove.”

“That is troubling,” Bashir offered, looking away.

Troi went on. “When you reach Andor, you'll effectively be in exile. There will be investigators who will want to talk to you, but anything you can tell us now, we can pass back to Akaar.”

He didn't meet her gaze, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Commander . . . it's been a very long day for me. I'm quite fatigued. . . .” He trailed off.

Vale nodded. “We understand. Doctor Rssuu suggested you visit sickbay so he could check you over. Perhaps we should postpone this until later. . . .”

But Troi was shaking her head, sensing the barriers around Bashir's thoughts and feelings.
What is he hiding?
“Doctor . . . Julian. You're among friends here. A lot of people put themselves on the line to get you away from that asteroid. The Andorians, the crew of this ship, Captain Dax, and Lieutenant Commander Douglas . . .”