Star Trek: TNG: Cold Equations II: Silent Weapons (29 page)

He grasped her reasoning. If the Romulans were sincere in their desire for détente, then a stronger relationship between the Hegemony and the Star Empire would serve two purposes at once: it would bring the Gorn under the wing of a larger power with the technological prowess and military strength to persuade the Breen not to meddle in the Hegemony’s affairs, and it would give the Gorn a chance to steer the Romulan government toward a lasting peace—and maybe even, in a generation or two, a formal alliance. “That would be a worthwhile outcome for the summit, Madam President—provided it can be accomplished with discretion.”

The human smiled. “Trust me, Imperator—discretion is what we do best.”

•   •   •

Surrounded by a labyrinth of rusted pipes, ruptured conduits, and derelict reactor housings, Šmrhová was plagued by the suspicion that she was being deceived. Acting on a request from Commander La Forge and Mister Data, she and Worf, along with a security detail and science specialists from the
Enterprise,
had beamed down to the last site the defunct android was known to have visited before its capture: the abandoned power plant. Now the security chief stood in the shadow of the main reactor under a patch of open sky—a luxury made possible by the long-ago collapse of the main building’s enormous roof—and she felt . . . 
manipulated
.

A huddle of officers outside the entrance to the reactor’s control center split up, and from its nucleus emerged Commander Worf. The Klingon looked as irritated as Šmrhová felt, and he walked toward her with long and purposeful strides. As he approached conversational range, he said in his bold baritone, “Our teams have found nothing.”

“I didn’t think they would,” Šmrhová grumbled.

Worf met her mild complaint with a severe glare. “Explain.”

“Are you kidding me?” She waved her arms at the cavernous corroded facility. “Look at this place, Commander! No power, no comm lines, no access to the city’s infrastructure—at least, none that we’ve found so far. What were we supposed to find here? A hideout?”

He refused to blink or back down. “A clue, Lieutenant.”

“Well, I think we’ve already found it, sir.” She nodded toward the vast, murky pool of contaminated water that, thanks to evaporation, only half covered the dormant heat exchangers. “As far as I can tell, the thorium traces are the only thing to find here. What’s more, I think we were supposed to find them—and the android copy of Bacco’s chief of staff.”

The first officer scrunched his brow with a doubtful frown. “I do not see what an enemy would gain by exposing its own assets in that manner. Especially not one so valuable.”

“Neither do I, but think about how we got here.” She held up fingers one at a time to keep count as she continued. “One, Geordi and I acted on an unsolicited tip that led us to expose Chairman Kinshal at the bank. Two, the Piñiero impersonator, despite having an almost perfect shot at any target she wants, missed the president and the imperator, then escaped. Three, we get an anonymous tip that leads us to the real Piñiero’s body. Four, we find thorium traces that lead us here, to the power plant, and that leads us straight to the Piñiero look-alike.”

Worf shook his head, refusing to accept her conspiracy theory at face value. “The shooter missed because the president’s protection agent shot her first. And the anonymous tip could have come from a citizen who saw suspicious activity and reported it.”

“Have you dealt with the Orions, Worf? They’re not the type to tip off law enforcement.”

With smug assurance, he replied, “Then why did the bank’s custodian warn you and Commander La Forge about the chairman’s breach of security?”

“I asked myself the same question. Unfortunately, I didn’t ask it until an hour ago. I just heard back from the bank’s personnel director. They have no employment record for anyone named Kal Pollus. Or any name remotely similar, for that matter.”

That news sparked his interest. “Then who was it who gave you the tip?”

She shrugged. “No idea. I had Balidemaj run a check against the Orions’ public databases and census information to see if we could find him, but the only match for that name is a man who died ninety-two years ago.”

“Naturally.” The first officer’s imagination was clearly engaged. “Could your informant have also been an android? An accomplice of the infiltrators?”

“I don’t know. Considering that they know how to spoof our sensors, I don’t see why it couldn’t have been. Of course, it could just as easily have been some random low-life paid off to bring us the information and give us a fake name.”

Worf crossed his arms, and his body language became tighter and more closed-off as his gaze became a thousand-meter stare, fixed on some unseen idea in his mind’s eye. “Whether he was another android, a biological accomplice, or a paid cutout is irrelevant. No matter how he learned of the plan to infiltrate the bank to assassinate the president and the imperator, the more important question is this: Why would someone who possessed that information choose to share it with us? And was it given to us by the conspirators themselves—or by someone seeking to sabotage them?”

“All excellent questions,” Šmrhová said. “Unfortunately, I don’t have answers for any of them—yet.” She looked around at the roving teams of investigative scientists. “So, what do we do next? Because honestly, I don’t think this is a productive use of our time.”

He frowned, then sighed. “Very well. Order all teams to finish their current tests and return to the
Enterprise
. Then join me and Commander La Forge outside the plant’s main gate.” He started walking away, his mind focused on whatever plan he was concocting.

Šmrhová called out, “What’s our next move, sir?”

He stopped and looked back. “We tell the Orions we are halting our investigation and preparing to leave the planet.” His eyes brightened with a gleam of diabolical amusement. “If I am right, someone is about to make certain we have a very good reason to stay.”

21

Berro squatted down, took Olar’s hand, and helped his comrade sit up in the open transmogrifier pod, from which climbed clouds of noxious vapor. Freshly reshaped from his previous identity as Siro Kinshal into a nondescript young male Vulcan, Olar seemed woozy and bewildered. Steadying the other agent with a hand on his shoulder, Berro asked, “How do you feel?”

“I’ve been better.” Olar blinked his eyes hard, then drew a deep breath. “Was it my imagination, or was the turnaround on that really fast?”

“It wasn’t your imagination.” He pulled Olar to his feet.

After a few seconds, Olar regained his balance. He nodded. “I’m okay.” He let go of Berro’s hand and pressed his fingertips to his remodeled face. “How did it turn out?”

“Better than mine.” Even though it was just a temporary visage on a distant avatar, Berro still felt mildly self-conscious about the aesthetic shortcomings of his android’s latest template. He imagined his new form—bald with a bulbous nose and bulging eyes beneath wild graying eyebrows—must have been modeled on the ugliest human male in existence. “Run your diagnostic. I’ll ping the lab coats and see if we have new orders yet.”

Olar turned away as he submerged into a full-system diagnostic scan, and Berro faced in the other direction as he accessed the circuit for the direct comm line to their handlers at Korwat. The hailing prompt buzzed only once before Hain replied, her voice like a disembodied presence inside Berro’s mind.

He concentrated on sending his response mentally rather than speaking aloud.
All objectives completed. We’ve made the switch to our new identities. Olar’s running a system check, but I don’t expect any complications. We’re ready to receive the extraction plan.

An apologetic note in Hain’s voice heralded bad news.

A tiny jolt, like a nervous twitch inside Berro’s brain, accompanied the upload of a data file into his body’s storage buffer. The embedded application self-launched, and in a matter of seconds his field of vision filled with written mission briefs and tactical maps detailing the engagement strategy.

The more Berro read of the mission plan, the more certain he became that someone had drafted it in error. Losing his focus, he muttered, “Control, this can’t be right.”

It was Konar’s brusque voice that replied,

Olar finished his self-analysis and turned to face him, signaling that he was joining the conversation. Berro acknowledged him with a look as he replied to Konar.
Our tactical profile up to this point has been built around infiltration. This isn’t what we were trained for.

Konar was dismissive.

Close-quarters combat, yes. But this combines urban guerrilla combat with commando tactics
. Did he truly not understand the problem? Or was he merely being obtuse in order to stifle discussion?
Sir, this is a mission for the Spetzkar, not us.

Konar reined in his temper and tried to affect a conciliatory note.

Olar looked stunned as he pored over the plans. “Sir, do you have any idea what kind of collateral damage this plan will cause?”

Maintaining a cool demeanor was taxing Berro’s patience.
Our original mission profile expressly forbade excessive collateral damage. We were told that neither the Orions nor the Gorn would tolerate any fatalities among their people. Has that changed?

The supervisor’s tone became strained.

Berro was prepared to accept the conversation as concluded until Olar silently pointed out a series of fine-print details in the mission profile. Once more incensed at the illogic of the SRD’s orders, he fumed,
What about the endgame scenario you’ve sent?

Resentful and obviously weary of the argument, Konar replied,

Olar snapped, “Sir, did you even
read
it? Most of the expected outcomes involve our destruction. Even the most optimistic projection results in our avatars being damaged beyond repair. Never mind the potential risks to us, what about the sheer waste of resources?”

Konar’s response was infused with a low-key, barely contained rage.

“Yes, sir.” The two field agents exchanged worried glances. It was obvious now to both of them that despite all the time and resources the SRD had invested in the program, it was being treated as if it were worthless, just some expendable resource to be spent at will.

Understood,
Berro projected back along the thoughtwave.
We’ll need a half hour to prep. We’ll be in attack position in precisely forty minutes.

Konar’s voice departed from their thoughts, but Berro and Olar both knew that the supervisor and Hain were watching their every movement and listening to their every word. That was the worst part of this mission, in Berro’s opinion. Even when he seemed to be isolated, he was never truly alone. Few notions terrified him more deeply. His only solace growing up in the masked anonymity of Breen society had been the sanctity of his privacy, its inviolability. Now he lived a life on display, hidden behind nothing more than the faces of strangers.

He let go of his petty grievances and kneeled to open the munitions crate. “I’ll prep the charges,” he said to Olar. “Make sure the rifles and sidearms are charged.”

The other agent shook his head and opened the wardrobe in which they kept their small arms. “I really hoped it wouldn’t come down to this.”

“So did I.” A rueful grimace broke through Berro’s stoic façade. “But I kind of figured it would.” He lifted a shaped demolition charge from the crate. As he studied the blue-gray cone, he felt the strange calm that comes from facing the inevitable. “So it goes. Let’s get to work.”