Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice (17 page)

Kincade shrugged. “Maybe Martok didn't even know about it. You know how it goes with the Empire, all those noble houses and clans jockeying for position. Maybe one of them was trying to one-up the others. . . .” She paused. “Whatever the reason, I don't like it. We don't need another variable in this operation. There's too much at stake.”

He gave a distracted nod. “There's something here, under the ice.”

Her weapon was raised in a heartbeat. “More of those spheres?”

“No, it's nillimite alloy plating. Prefabricated sheets, the kind of thing the Corps of Engineers lay down on colony worlds as basic foundations. They reinforced the ground here.”

“What for?”

Nog dropped into a crouch and dug out a few fistfuls of ice until his gloved fingers touched metal. “I think . . .” He looked up into the sky. “I think this might have been a landing pad for a shuttle.”

“Good catch,” said Kincade. “You're a sharp one, Lieutenant Commander. First that booby trap and now this. I can see why you were picked for this
assignment.” She came closer, peering at the edge of the exposed alloy plate. “How did you do that, by the way? The thing with the tachyon pulse? That was quick thinking.”

He shrugged. “Not really. I've had run-ins with similar threats before, back on Deep Space Nine.” Nog paused to correct himself. “The old Deep Space Nine, I mean.
Terok Nor,
the Cardassian station. It was a bit eccentric, to say the least. Part of its security framework was a counter-insurgency program that used a similar system. It caused problems for us on more than one occasion, I can tell you.”

The tricorder scanned the structure of the metals, and data fed back to the small screen and Nog's head-up display. A slow smile formed on his lips.

Kincade seemed to sense it. “Make my day, Mister Nog. Tell me you have a clue there.”

He nodded. “I think I do.” Then his face fell as he realized what that would entail. “And it means we're going to have to remain on this ice cube for another couple of hours.”

W
ill Riker followed the faint, wood-smoke smell through the low bushes and found himself in one of the small lacunae that dotted the ornamental gardens in front of the Starfleet Headquarters building. In the shadow of the high, curved structure, the small clearing was cooled by a burbling water fountain, and in front of that was a curved bench that allowed one to sit and enjoy the grounds.

The tall and somewhat gaunt figure of a man seated there turned his head with a look of irritation on his face to see who had dared to interrupt him. Admiral Leonard James Akaar froze with a thin cigarillo half raised to his lips, his eyes widening as he recognized the interloper.

“Nasty habit,” noted Riker, nodding at the cigarillo. “Those things are bad for you.”

Akaar tensed, as if he were resisting the impulse to rise. After a moment he gave a low shrug. “It's just
markah
leaf, from my planet,” he rumbled. “Not toxic or addictive like your Earth tobacco.” Then very deliberately, the admiral pinched out the lit tip between his fingers before slipping the unfinished cigarillo back into a small silver clamshell case. “I know a freighter captain—he brings me in a few boxes from Capella now and then.” He dropped the case back in his
pocket. “A small taste of home.” He shifted his weight as if to leave, but Riker held up a hand.

“Don't get up on my account, sir. As a matter of fact, I'd prefer it if you stayed right there.”

The dismay in Akaar's flinty eyes turned to true annoyance. “Don't think that new rank of yours gives you cause to presume, Mister Riker.”

“I've never needed a rank to do that, sir,” he replied, taking a seat at the other end of the bench without waiting to be asked. “You're a hard man to reach, Admiral. It was easier to get hold of you when I was in the Beta Quadrant. Now here we are working in the same building and it's proving impossible to get a response to a simple message. If I didn't know better, I might think you were avoiding me.” He leaned closer. “That lieutenant you provided, Ssura? He's pretty handy. He's the one who found out that you come here each day for a moment of respite.”

“I have a lot to do,” Akaar replied coldly. “Many demands on my time.”

“I don't doubt it. But here's the thing, Admiral, sir.” Riker's tone hardened. “You brought me here. But you won't tell me why.”

That was enough for the elder Capellan, and he rose to his feet, dismissing the other man with a sniff. “This isn't the time or the place, Riker—”

“I spoke to Jean-Luc two days ago.” Akaar halted at the mention of Picard's name. “He was trying to tell me something important, but the signal was disrupted. I've been trying to reach the
Enterprise
for the last thirty hours, but I can't make contact. I think it's more than ion storms, sir. What's your take?”

“You should leave. Now.” Akaar glanced around, taking in the gardens.

A wintry smile creased Riker's face. “You know I'm not going to do that. I want answers, and you don't seem to be willing to provide them. If that's how it's going to be, then I'll keep looking without your help.”

Akaar exhaled heavily, a bone-deep, weary sigh. “You have no idea what's going on here.”

“My point exactly.” Riker's frustration flared, and he pulled a small padd from his tunic. “Picard said something about a group called the True Way—”

It was his turn to be interrupted, as Akaar suddenly came forward and snatched the padd from his hand. “You've been busy,” he said as he scanned the display. But in truth, there was little there. Riker and Ssura had only been able to find the most basic information about the organization. A hard-line isolationist faction on Cardassia, they were vocal about the decay of traditional values, xenophobic toward the Federation, and angry about their people's loss of empire.

After a moment, Akaar handed the device back to him. Riker saw the conflict behind his eyes before the admiral's iron-hard rigidity dropped back into place. “You're just going to have to trust me, Will.”

“No.” Riker's jaw stiffened. He was tired of being one step behind, of being forced to play a game where he had no concept of the rules, the players, the risks of failure. “I'm not a damned pawn on your chessboard, Admiral. You turned my career upside down, you tethered my ship, you reassigned one of my senior officers without consultation. I'm
done
waiting for you to come to me.”

Akaar's brows fell. “What reassignment? I ordered no such thing.”

“Tuvok. You put him off
Titan
almost the moment I got here.” Riker shook his head. “I know there's
some bad blood between the pair of you, but I never expected you to do something like that.”

“I never gave that order,” Akaar repeated, ice forming on the words.

“The command came directly from
your
office, sir.”

“Impossible . . .”

Riker watched the questions forming in Akaar's thoughts, writ large across his expression, and suddenly he realized he had been wrong; the admiral was being truthful. He knew that Akaar and Tuvok had served together in the past, and after a disastrous away mission, they had fallen out over matters that neither man wanted to give voice to. But he found it hard to believe that the Capellan would sink to interfering with Tuvok's career as some kind of deferred settling of scores. As intractable as Akaar could be, Riker had always considered him to be honorable. He felt like he was seeing past the mask the admiral wore to the man beneath. The same man he had glimpsed at the promotion ceremony, the man troubled by events beyond his control.

Akaar reached up and absently smoothed a stray length of hair back into the gray queue over his shoulders. “It had to be Ishan who cut those orders for Tuvok. It was not me. I never knew . . .”

Riker met his gaze. “So are you ready to talk to me now?”

Akaar moved swiftly, faster than Riker expected for a man of his age. Two ensigns were passing the fountain, and the admiral stepped out to waylay them. The junior officers came to sudden attention, making a poor attempt to cover their surprise.

The towering Capellan pointed at a tricorder one of them was carrying. “I need that.”

With a blink, the ensign handed it over. “Uh, sir—” he began, but Akaar was already waving him away.

“Dismissed,” snapped the admiral, returning to Riker's side.

As the pair went on their way, both of them nonplussed, Akaar worked at the tricorder's controls. Presently, Riker heard a low hum emanating from the device, and the admiral sat it down on the bench between them.

“What's that for?” he asked. He could see that the device had been reset to broadcast a short-range scattering field.

“The sake of caution,” Akaar shot back. “If we're doing this now, then I won't take any chances. Tell me what Jean-Luc said to you.
Exactly
what he said.”

Riker took a breath. “ ‘The Tzenkethi are not responsible for this.' Those were his words. I told him that the people behind the attack on the president would not go unpunished, and he was concerned. He said something about Cardassians and this True Way. . . .” He gestured with the padd. “And then the signal cut. Picard suspected we were being monitored, and I guess that proved it.” Riker nodded at the tricorder. “It seems you feel the same.”

Akaar slowly exhaled, and it seemed to age him a decade. At more than a century old by human standards, the admiral wore it well, but at this moment he seemed weighed down by his years. “This is moving too fast,” he said, almost to himself. “It's slipping beyond my reach. . . .”

“You know.” An edge of accusation found its way into Riker's words. “I'll admit, Admiral, I don't really have the full dimensions of what I've discovered here.
But you know all about it, I can see that. And you're keeping it quiet.”

Akaar eyed him. “So tell me. What is it you
think
you know?”

“If Jean-Luc Picard says a Cardassian hate group is connected to the Bacco assassination, then I believe him. And that gives me a whole lot more questions than I had when you gave me this rank.” He tapped the pin on his collar. “The galaxy at large was told that a Bajoran national was the suspected shooter on Deep Space Nine. Then we hear talk that the Tzenkethi are implicated—and by extension the whole of the Typhon Pact. That's the angle that Ishan Anjar is behind. But if that's not true, then what is?” He glared at the senior officer. “If you know who pulled the trigger that day, why are you staying silent?”

“Listen to yourself!” snapped Akaar. “You're not some wet-behind-the-ears cadet in ethics class, Riker. You've been wearing that uniform long enough to know what the realities of the galaxy are like!” He prodded him in the chest, his finger like a rod of iron. “Think, man! Bringing the Cardassian Union into the Khitomer Accords is one of the most fragile alliances we've ever created. Years of hard work to get a former enemy into the fold and at a time when we need friends more than ever. And then, just as that comes together, the ugly possibility that some of their people may have committed this high crime against us?
Of course
I kept my silence! So has Jean-Luc and everyone inside the Cardassian government who knows.”

Riker felt the color drain from his face, felt his stomach tighten. “Then it really is true. A Cardassian murdered Nan Bacco.” All the way here, as Riker had run through the possibilities of how this ambush meeting
would play out, on some level he had wanted to be proven wrong. He wanted to be mistaken, because the alternative was almost too much to grasp.
Velk said a Tzenkethi killed the president
. If that was false, then a cascade of unpalatable facts spilled out from beneath it, each threatening to sow chaos in its wake.

“I've known for some time,” Akaar said grimly. “Ishan's a Bajoran and a survivor of the Occupation. I wasn't sure how he would react if I revealed this, barely a week after he became president pro tem. At first I wanted to find more proof, a firmer certainty. . . .”

“And so you deliberately withheld this information from the office of the president?” Riker couldn't accept what he was hearing. “That's a gross violation of your oath, sir!”

Akaar's eyes flashed. “Don't lecture me on my obligations; I've held to them since before you were born!” He looked away, scowling. “I told them, Riker. I sat on this information for days. . . . Ishan's attention was fixed on Andor then, and I didn't want to complicate things even more. But after that I couldn't conscience the possibility it represented. So I gave Galif jav Velk a full briefing on the likelihood of True Way involvement in the assassination.”

“That doesn't make any sense. . . .” Riker shook his head. If the office of the president of the United Federation of Planets was fully aware that Cardassian nationals were responsible for Bacco's death, then why was he—and the rest of Starfleet—still under orders to seek out a conspiracy that originated within the Typhon Pact? Riker put that question to Akaar, but the admiral only gave a solemn shake of the head.

“When I was done, do you know what Velk said to me? ‘Picard's information is unverified and unreliable.'
He dismissed it, suggesting that the True Way was nothing more than opportunists taking credit for a brutal act perpetrated by our real enemies. Velk refused to accept that a group of ‘backward-looking agitators' could be capable of such a thing.”

The same thoughts had crossed Riker's mind, but he had no doubt that Jean-Luc Picard would never have been taken in by any such deception. When he looked up again, Akaar was watching him carefully.

“You want to know why you are here?” he asked, his voice low and grim. “
This
is why, Will. Because I needed a man like you. I reeled you in from the frontier because you can be trusted, because of your reputation. Your viewpoint is not cluttered by years of walking the halls of power. I needed someone I could rely on, to go looking where I cannot. But I couldn't move forward with that, not straight away. . . .” He paused. “That's why I forced your promotion through, against the wishes of the cabinet. That's why it wasn't Picard or Sisko or anyone else who got the call.”