Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice (40 page)

“Transporter room.”
The admiral sounded as if he was standing beside him.
“We're right in the crossfire; the
Snipe
is breaking up!”

Radowski's heart leapt into his mouth. Sensors said there were half a dozen souls on that ship—and he only had his hands around one of them. He knew he could quit the beam cycle and restart the process in a heartbeat, maybe try a broad-spectrum snatch or a skeletal lock in hopes of scooping them all up in one go. . . . But the risk level went through the roof for that. There was a good chance he could lose everyone like that. But if he took this one person all the way, he
wouldn't be able to try again. He knew that now; he could see the fading sensor reads on all the others. It was taking all the power from every transport circuit on the
Titan
just to hold on to one decaying signal.

No,
he reminded himself,
not a signal. A person. One Starfleet officer.

Radowski went at the controls with renewed impetus, cross-patching the matter stream to B- and then C-circuits, boosting the gain as he went. Sweat beaded his brow, but finally the pitch of the transport effect shifted, and he knew he had it. He dared to look up.

The white glow faded to reveal a blue-skinned Bolian woman in a threadbare civilian jumpsuit. She was injured, dark cerulean blood forming a patch in her abdomen. Bowen snatched the medkit from behind the console and bounded up onto the pad. “Medical emergency, transporter room three!” he shouted.

He caught her as she fell and saw the nametag on her breast.
Ixxen, Y
. “Hello there,” she said, her voice slurred from shock. The Bolian's hand flapped over his tunic. “Hey,” she added, “nice uniform. I have one just like it.” Her eyes fluttered, and she fell silent.

“Radowski, do you have them?”

“One, sir, injured but alive,” he said, gathering up the woman with a low sigh. The weight he felt on him had nothing to do with how heavy she was. “I have her.”

*  *  *

“Damn!” Riker looked away from the expanding ball of plasma that was all that remained of the
Snipe
. The Klingon warships broke off and pivoted, heading down toward lower orbits that would put them directly over the surface of Nydak II.

“Confirming, freighter destroyed with all . . .”
Lavena stopped and took a breath. “Destroyed with all hands but one,” she corrected.

“Chancellor Martok's ships are taking up geostationary firing positions,” added Dakal. “They're targeting the structures on the planet below.”

“No traces,” Riker repeated gravely.

“Sir . . .” Ssura glanced up at the admiral. “Shuttlecraft
Marsalis
has been safely recovered. No fatalities reported.”

Riker turned back to the main viewscreen as fire began to rain down from the Klingon warships, burning into the clouds and whatever lay beneath them. “I think we've worn out our welcome here. Lieutenant Lavena, set a course back across the border to Federation space, best possible speed.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I think it's time to go home and face the music.”

D
eanna Troi halted as she walked along the corridor and crossed to an oval portal in the
Lionheart
's hull. The orbit of the starship was crossing Andoria's day/night terminator, and as she watched, the star Epsilon Indi rose and bathed the cobalt blue planet with a cool, sharp radiance. Unlike the deep azure of the oceans on the two worlds she thought of as her spiritual homes—Earth and Betazed—Andoria's were the milky color of sea ice or rare blue jade. Beyond the planet, a massive ringed gas giant caught the reflected glow, and if she looked carefully, Troi could see the faint flickers of storm cells deep in the layers of its turbulent atmosphere.

Other motes of light moved in the darkness: starships of the Imperial Guard, martial and swift in their aspect. They resembled swords, daggers, and shields, and the implied threat in their construction wasn't lost on her.
Lionheart
seemed isolated and alone here, shadowed by the ships of a people that should have been thinking of Starfleet as friends and allies.

They don't trust us,
she thought,
and who can blame them?
When the Andorians eventually rejoined the United Federation of Planets, even with the cure to their species' reproductive crisis in hand, it would still
take a long time for that distrust to fade.
But today is a step in the right direction.

One of the ships drifted close to the medical cruiser—the ambassadorial courier
Kree-Thai
in the midst of preparations to make the return voyage to Sol, now that its most recent mission was completed. Envoy ch'Nuillen was still needed at the seat of Federation power to make his people's wishes firmly felt. Troi's meager luggage pack hung from her shoulder, and she was eager to board the Andorian ship herself. She missed Tasha desperately and couldn't help but wonder how her daughter was faring in the care of the Togren family back on Earth; she had been left with little choice but to leave her child behind in the Denobulan's safekeeping. Dragging a four-year-old girl along on what had almost become a prison break would not have been an example of good parenting, and she comforted herself with that.

She stepped away and entered a transporter room to find Julian Bashir waiting inside, with Christine Vale and Commander Atia standing with him.

That same troubled expression Troi had seen on him in the briefing room still marred Bashir's features. “Well,” he began. “I suppose this is good-bye.” He extended a hand to Troi. “Commander, thank you again for all you have done for me. I'm sorry I couldn't reciprocate.”

Vale and Atia exchanged looks but said nothing, so Troi ventured a reply as she shook his hand. “I think we all understand the circumstances, Doctor. The important thing is that you have your freedom.”

“For now,” he corrected. “Lieutenant Commander Darrah brought me up to speed on the political situation back on Earth. . . . I think if Ishan Anjar wins
the presidency, my stay on Andor will be quite short-lived.”

“
If
he wins,” Troi repeated.

“Extradition requests take a while,” said Vale. “A lot of things can change in that time.”

Troi sensed the frustration in him. “And what are you going to return to?” he asked. “I know you all risked a great deal for me. Please don't think I'm not grateful.”

“Gratitude not required,” Atia answered for all of them. “The worth of the deed . . . is the deed.”

Bashir reached into a pocket in his tunic and removed an isolinear chip. “I'd like to ask for just one more favor, if I may?”

Vale took the chip and examined it. “And this is?”

“There's a message on there, for someone very important to me.”

“Sarina Douglas?” asked Troi, sensing the ghost of strong emotions in Bashir's surface thoughts.

He nodded, and Vale handed the chip to Atia. “Not a problem, Doctor. We'll see that she gets it.”

Bashir took a step toward the transporter dais but hesitated on the threshold, and Troi sensed his reluctance to take the last few steps.
Once he has left this ship, he's an outcast.
“Don't worry, Julian,” she told him. “This won't be permanent. You'll come home again.”

“I have no doubt of that,” he told her. “It's just under what circumstances that troubles me. I broke the law, there's no getting around it, and it's not that I regret what I have done. I accept it. But it needs to mean something.”

“It does,” Vale reminded him gently. “You helped save a species from extinction. I'm pretty sure they'll have a parade waiting for you down there.”

“Really?” Bashir's lips pulled into a faint smile. “I hadn't thought . . .”

“ ‘Bashir's Miracle,' ” said Troi. “That's what they're calling it on Andor.”

“I can't take the credit,” he insisted. “I didn't do it alone. . . .”

There was a chime from the transporter console, and the thin-faced Edoan officer standing there peered down at it. “Signal from the
Kree-Thai
. Diplomatic team is incoming.”

“Bring to place,” ordered Atia.

The Edoan's head bobbed on his long neck, and motes of energy gathered on the pad, swiftly forming into the distinct shapes of an Imperial honor guard and an older Andorian woman in elegant robes.

“Doctor Bashir?” she asked. “I am Savaaroa sh'Nuillen, bondmate to the envoy. He has asked me to introduce you to the Parliament Andoria and to our people.” The
shen
offered Bashir her hand. “It is my honor to meet you. Please, if you will join us?”

“The honor is mine, madam,” he said smoothly, and Troi saw confidence return to his manner as he stepped up onto the pad.

“Coordinates locked for Lor'Vela,” said the transporter operator.

Bashir gave them one last smile of farewell before he nodded to the Edoan. “Energize.”

The group shimmered into white pillars of light and was gone.

Troi watched the glow fade, musing. “My turn now, then.” She stepped up to where Bashir had been standing. “The envoy has graciously offered me a lift.”

“Not just you,” said Vale. She turned to Atia and straightened, becoming formal in her behavior. “Commander,
as much as I regret it, I think this is as far as I can take the
Lionheart
before I risk flying her over the edge. As of now, the ship is yours.”

The Magna Romanii woman's normally controlled, careful aspect cracked, and she was genuinely surprised. “You have certainty in this?”

“I do,” Vale replied firmly, tapping her combadge. “Computer? Log the date and time. Command of the
Starship
Lionheart
is now transferred to Commander Atia, acting captain.”

“So noted
.
”

“I . . . relieve you.” Atia was hesitant.

“I stand relieved,” said Vale. “Very relieved, actually. My first command was a pretty good one. I wish it could have been longer. Captain Ainsworth is going to inherit a fine crew.”

“We will fall to purpose,” Atia promised. “But question must be asked. Why now? Is there not more to do? With the traitor Maslan in irons and likely others of his ilk still out there upon the field?”

Vale nodded. “True. But you've done more than enough. And I'm not going to put this ship and this crew at greater risk. Like Bashir said, I'm going to have to answer for what I did, for the orders I gave you. . . . But unlike him, I can't outrun it.”

“True,” noted Atia. “Would it trouble you to know Darrah and I kept orders for arrest from your attention?”

“
My
arrest?” Vale's eyes widened.

“Aye.” Atia smiled. “Orders seemed to have arrived after you left. Inconvenient timing.”

Vale walked up to join Troi on the transporter pad. “Lock onto the
Kree-Thai
and send us across,” she told the Edoan.

Atia stood at stiff attention and gave them both a nod. “Duty is known clearly now,” she told them. “Tell Admiral Riker he need only speak and
Lionheart
will answer call.”

“Energize,” said Troi, and their journey back into uncertainty began.

*  *  *

The door closed behind him, and Admiral William Riker looked into the haunted eyes of his own ghost, seated there at the far end of the
Titan
's briefing room.

“William,” said the other man, with an incline of the head.

“Thomas,” Riker replied, and immediately he flashed a contrite grin. “Tell me something; did that feel as strange to you as it did to me?”

“More so,” said Tom. “It's good to see you. You look well. I guess congratulations are in order for the promotion and . . .” His twin gestured around. “Everything else.”

Was that a slight edge of jealousy he caught in the other man's tone?
Riker decided not to dwell on it and took a seat across from his “brother.” “I'm glad you're alive,” he said, and he meant it. “After the Dominion War, you just vanished. . . .”

Tom nodded. “I stayed dead for a while. It didn't take.”

Riker had a hundred questions he wanted to put to the other man, but so many of them had nothing to do with the matter at hand. He took a breath and pushed those to one side, focusing on what was immediately important. “How did you get pulled into this business with Active Four? I've read Tuvok's report. . . . Soldier of fortune never really seemed your style.”

“You'd be surprised what choices you have to
make when the best options are all closed to you.” The resentment again, just for a moment. Tom sighed. “The truth is, I was running out of road, and Kincade happened to find me at the right time.” He looked away. “Everyone who believes in what the Federation stands for was angry about Nan Bacco's murder. Kincade offered me a chance to regain something and to do some good. I took it.”

“What do you know about her?”

“Not much. Rumors that filtered out of the special-ops community. If half of them were true, it's a wonder she hadn't been drummed out of Starfleet before this. Even Section 31 would balk at some of the things laid at her feet. I didn't believe the stories myself; perhaps that was naïve of me. . . . But maybe she had a guardian angel looking out for her, keeping her in uniform.” Riker let Tom's implication lie where it fell, and after a moment, he carried on. “At first I didn't look too hard at it. But then when Tuvok and Nog joined the team, and we saw it was Velk calling the shots, that's when I started to wonder about why Kincade had recruited me specifically.”