Star Trek: TNG: Cold Equations II: Silent Weapons (33 page)

•   •   •

Only under the rarest and most dire of circumstances could the Imperial Guard take action without regard for the wishes of their imperator, but an ages-old decree by the
Nizora
had imbued them with the authority to act preemptively to defend the life of their leader, even when he did not wish to be saved. So it had been this day, when Hazizaar, returning too late to defend Sozzerozs from the androids’ pell-mell assault, had exercised his right to spirit the imperator clear of further peril for the good of the Hegemony.

Sozzerozs had protested, of course. He had demanded to remain, insisting, “My mission here is not yet finished!” None of that had mattered to Hazizaar. The only relevant fact now, he’d said, was that the attack the imperator had miraculously survived had also proved beyond any reasonable doubt that the Bank of Orion was nowhere near so defensible nor impregnable as its executives had led the Imperial Guard to believe. If the location was not secure, then as far as Hazizaar was concerned, the summit was over. He was taking the imperator home.

Within minutes of their rescue by the Starfleet android Data, Imperator Sozzerozs and
Zulta-osol
Azarog had been beamed back aboard the battleship
Hastur-zolis
, along with the body of Togor. Less than a minute later, the Gorn warship had left orbit of the Orion homeworld and jumped to warp speed.

The first thing Sozzerozs did was power up his encrypted subspace transmitter and send a priority signal to Domo Brex of the Breen Confederacy.
It is time he and I spoke in person
.

Simmering with rage, Sozzerozs waited more than a minute to see some confirmation that his signal had been received and acknowledged. Every moment’s delay only added to his wrath. At last, he saw the emblem of the Breen Confederacy: a crimson eye with slim dagger-like triangles above and below, and two pairs of curving tusk-like shapes on either side of the eye, one swooping upward, the other downward.

It blinked away, revealing a figure cloaked in the traditional anonymizing armor of the Breen. At once he knew it was not Brex, whose armor and mask were singularly distinctive, gold with red and black accents. This individual was dressed in gray-green armor, and his matching mask was adorned by a wide black stripe bordered in silver.
“Greetings, Imperator.”

“I will deal with you soon enough, Thot Tran. Let me speak to the domo.”

Tran’s snout-shaped mask dipped, implying condescension.
“I regret the domo is indisposed, Lord Imperator. He asked me to speak with you on his behalf.”

Sozzerozs hissed. “And by what right do
you
address
me
?”

“Forgive me, Lord Imperator. I am merely carrying out the stated orders of my domo, who sends you his deepest thanks and his most sincere condolences for the deaths of
Nizor
Szamra and
Wazir
Togor.”

He tried not to show his hatred, but his lips curled back, exposing his fangs. “Are mere words supposed to excuse the murders of my kin? How dare you use us as pawns.”

“I seem to recall you and your courtiers were willing participants in our deception.”

His taloned digits curled into fists. “Your ambassador neglected to mention you would be treating us as targets.”

Tran shrugged and spread his arms.
“Please accept my regrets, Lord Imperator. These sacrifices were necessary—and not merely for the sake of verisimilitude.”

“What reason could you possibly have for treating us as if we were expendable?”

The Breen folded his hands together.
“Since the inception of the Typhon Pact, your Hegemony has been our alliance’s weak link. If I may be frank, your past accords with the Federation are a source of concern. Had we not put you up to this summit as a ruse, we suspect you would eventually have sought out such a meeting in earnest. Now, if you or one of your successors should ever entertain that notion, you will have to remember this fiasco—and know that the Federation will be extremely reluctant to ever take you at your word again. So don’t think of this as a betrayal, my lord. Consider it our preemptive investment in your loyalty.”

Sozzerozs imagined seizing Tran’s masked head and twisting it off his body with a wet and satisfying crack of breaking bone.
And I thought I couldn’t hold the
Breen in greater contempt
. “You didn’t trust us to keep our word of honor?
That’s
what all this was about?”

Tran chortled and shook his head.
“Far from it, Lord Imperator.”

•   •   •

Awash in moist heat and crimson light, Sozzerozs was as close to relaxed as he had felt since before traveling under false pretenses to Orion. The imperator stretched supine across a basking stone in his private quarters. Across from him, Azarog luxuriated on the stone that until that day had been reserved for Togor. Sozzerozs turned his head to regard the logy Azarog.

“Tell me your thoughts regarding the Rigellian, Safranski.”

After a slow blink, Azarog turned his head toward Sozzerozs. “He says little, but when he speaks, he argues to win. He’s direct. Unconcerned with trifles.” He paused for a slow rattling exhalation. “Unlike the Betazoid, he did not smell of fear.”

“I took much the same measure of Bacco.” Dark thoughts plagued the imperator. “What I am about to tell you is a vital state secret. I must have your vow of secrecy and faith.”

Azarog sat up slowly and faced him. “I swear it upon my life, Imperator.”

Sozzerozs sat upright and mirrored Azarog’s pose. “Our invitation to the Federation may have begun as a ploy, a diversion to aid the Breen—but in the end I think it became much more.” He leaned forward. “The androids who tried to kill us were agents of the Breen. Our so-called allies were prepared to sacrifice us for their own gain—and to ensure the Federation would never again accept our bond of honor. The Breen sought to shed our blood as they made liars of us.”

The news brought Azarog to his feet. “How shall we answer their treachery?”

“I promise you, Azarog: the Breen will pay dearly for this betrayal. But now is not the time for us to become careless. Too much depends upon us.” He felt Azarog’s gaze as he padded across the compartment to a transparent metal viewport that looked out at the cold reaches of the cosmos. “Open a clandestine channel to the Rigellian, Safranski. Make him and his president understand that we will earn back their trust. I will have Gozorra provide you with intelligence regarding the Breen; I want you to share it with the Federation.”

With caution, the
zulta-osol
sidled up to Sozzerozs. “I will obey, Lord Imperator—but I would be negligent if I failed to counsel you that such a breach of our pledge to the Pact could have dire consequences—not only for us personally, but for the Hegemony itself.”

“I’m aware of the risks. But this is what has to happen.” He turned and looked Azarog in the eye. “We joined the Pact because I let avarice and envy cloud my judgment. But what I saw on Orion showed me who our true friends are. I led our people down this ignoble path; I will lead us back to righteousness.” He looked back out at the stars and envisioned the shape of the future. “I know we can’t withdraw from the Pact yet—but soon, with help from the Federation, we
will
free ourselves from this yoke of iniquity. And on
that
day, Azarog . . . 
honor will be served
.”

24

It took all of La Forge’s willpower not to wince as he peeled the blackened flesh off the back of Data’s neck to make way for a temporary dermal graft. “You’re sure this doesn’t hurt, Data?”

“Quite sure.” Like a child in a barber’s chair, Data remained absolutely still on the sloped worktable, while Worf paced slowly behind La Forge. “I register the pressure of contact, but I have been programmed not to react to cosmetic damage in the same way organic beings do.”

“Convenient,” Worf said.

“More like lucky,” La Forge said. Not only did Data’s flesh look real, it
felt
real—warm with naturalistic body heat, pliant, and just as elastic as real skin. In the past when he had helped Data make repairs to his previous body’s metallic bioplast skin, he had never come close to mistaking it for the real thing. Data’s new exterior, on the other hand, made him wonder if his injuries ought to be treated in sickbay by Doctor Crusher. He focused the bioplast fuser to seal the edges of the graft with minimal scarring. “How long will these patches hold, Data?”

“Several weeks at least.” He rotated one bare arm and frowned at its irregular patchwork of mismatched skin tones. “However, I intend to make permanent repairs as soon as I am able to regain access to my ship.”

Worf stopped pacing. “I have spoken with Ambassador Císol. Federation Security has released your vessel. You may return to Orion to claim it when you are ready.”

Data turned his head toward Worf, interrupting La Forge’s repairs. “That will not be necessary, Commander. If you will grant me permission to dock the
Archeus
on the
Enterprise,
I can instruct its AI to file a flight plan and pilot the ship to rendezvous with us in orbit.”

It took the Klingon a second to process that. “Permission granted.”

“Thank you.” He held up one finger to signal La Forge to wait before resuming his work, and he looked away, his focus distant, as if he were gazing through the ship’s bulkheads. A few seconds later, his mood brightened. “My ship is en route. Its ETA is eleven minutes.”

The first officer shot a curious look at La Forge, then turned half away from him and Data. “Worf to ops.”

Glinn Dygan answered over the ship’s comm,
“Ops. Go ahead, sir.”

“Clear the aft hangar and inform the FCO that Mister Data’s vessel is en route from the planet, ETA eleven minutes. It is to be given priority clearance.”

“Understood, sir.”

“That is all. Worf out.” He turned his always fearsome glare upon La Forge. “How long until you finish here?”

“Almost done.” La Forge chose not to be baited into reacting defensively to Worf’s brusque queries. He recognized the first officer’s impatience for what it was: frustration. After waiting a few seconds to make sure Worf didn’t misinterpret his intentions, he said, “You seem like a man with something on his mind, Commander. Anything I can do to help?”

Worf sighed. “I cannot make sense of the attack at the bank.”

La Forge finished his last pass with the fuser and patted Data’s shoulder to let him know he could get dressed. Then he looked at Worf. “What about it’s bothering you?”

The question started Worf pacing again. “The androids used tricobalt explosives to fight their way in. After Data caught them, we found they each had one bomb left. So why did they waste time sniping the defenders? Why risk entering the safe room at all? Once the door was open, they could have tossed in their bombs and guaranteed the deaths of all inside.”

“I don’t know.” This was the first La Forge had heard of the androids carrying unused explosives, and he floundered to rationalize an explanation tailored to fit the facts. “Maybe they were worried about getting hit by the blast wave?”

The first officer shook his head. “The assassins showed no regard for their safety or survival up to that point. And according to the survivors, the attackers hesitated to fire the killing shot. Why would they freeze when victory was within their grasp?”

His question lingered, unanswered, as Data put on his shirt and La Forge put away his tools. In La Forge’s opinion, there was only one logical answer:
Because killing the president wasn’t their true objective
. But to raise that possibility would invite an even more troubling question he was unprepared to face:
Then why did they go to all that effort in the attempt?

He was still pondering the ramifications of that train of thought when his office door slid open, and Lieutenant Elfiki poked her head inside. “Sirs? We’re ready out here.”

“Thanks, Dina,” La Forge said. He ushered Worf and Data out of his office, into the corridor that led to main engineering. At the end of the passageway was the central console, a pair of octagonal tables with interactive surfaces, connected by a pair of back-to-back workstations. Gathered around the console were Elfiki; the ship’s assistant chief engineer, Lieutenant Taurik; and subspace communications specialist Ensign Cyriaque Lamar. La Forge, Worf, and Data settled in at three adjacent stations around one of the octagons. The chief engineer nodded at Elfiki. “What have you got?”

The science officer keyed in commands, pulling up scan results on the linked monitors. “With help from Lieutenant Anders, Ensign Lamar identified the frequency used by the black crystal transceivers inside the android’s head. I connected the transceiver to our main array, which should give us a general idea of where this brain’s signals are coming from.”

“Assuming their control center is still transmitting,” Lamar said. “It’s likely they know we’ve captured at least one of their androids, so it’s possible they might have shut down or changed frequencies, to prevent us from doing what we’re about to try.”