Takedown Page 2

  “You really should just watch—and listen.” Simus looked around. “Besides, none of these people seem worried to be out here, do they? The beacon is a low-value target.”

  Nearly a no-value target, Riker thought. He studied the captain again, wondering why he’d been asked to see this. There was something familiar about her, but much in his memory seemed to exist in a haze. Particularly the last few days . . .

  “Proximity alert!” called the flight controller. “Ship incoming. She’s dropped out of warp. Full impulse.”

  Riker looked to the captain. The Tellarite was clearly surprised. “Identify.”

  “Vesta-class. Registry NCC-82062,” the conn said. Riker whispered the name even as the officer said it: “Aventine.”

  Turning, he saw the ship, still far off in the distance beyond the Corvus Beacon but approaching quickly. Aventine was Starfleet’s test bed for many groundbreaking technologies; at warp, it was one of the fastest vessels around, outfitted with the revolutionary slipstream drive. And at impulse, it was almost as nimble as a ship half her size.

  “We’re being hailed, Captain Kwelm.”

  “On-screen.”

  A dark-haired woman in captain’s uniform appeared on-screen. She had bands of freckles marking her as a Trill—and she also had a warning. “This is Captain Ezri Dax of the Federation Starship Aventine,” she said. “All personnel aboard the beacon need to abandon immediately!”

  Riker turned to see Kwelm’s reaction. The Tellarite captain looked as one just hit in the face with a mallet. “What’s going on?” she said. “Captain Dax, there have been no reports of any problems aboard the—”

  Dax’s piercing blue eyes implored her. “Just do it!” The Trill continued to talk, but a screech of static was all the Laplace crew heard.

  Kwelm looked to her executive officer, a Bajoran male who shrugged. “In the absence of other information,” he said, “we should do as she says.”

  Frowning, the captain turned and toggled a control on her armrest. “All crew aboard the Beacon, this is Captain Kwelm. Cease maintenance operations, gather your work materials, and make immediately for the shuttlebays.”

  On-screen, Dax’s expression grew fraught. She couldn’t be heard, but she called out again, imploring the same, Riker assumed: Evacuate the Beacon.

  Riker watched as Kwelm stood and raised her hands. Many Tellarites liked to argue at the wrong times, and this seemed no exception. “Captain Dax, our people are in the middle of sensitive procedures on high-value systems. They can’t simply drop everything without knowing what the reason—”

  “Do what Captain Dax says!”

  Riker’s eyes widened at the sound of the new voice, crisp and free from static. He looked in astonishment at the giant viewscreen. There where Dax had been, was . . . himself?

  “Laplace, this is Admiral Riker aboard Aventine!” the familiar face on the main viewscreen said. The background behind him wasn’t the same setting that Dax was speaking from, but it was clearly a ship-to-ship transmission. “This is a matter of Federation security. All personnel aboard the Corvus Beacon must beam back to Laplace immediately!”

  On the simulated bridge of Laplace, Riker saw Kwelm’s eyes bulge. “R-right away, sir,” she said, plopping back down in her chair like an upbraided schoolchild. She tapped a button on her armrest. “Do it!”

  Riker looked back up at his own face in bewilderment. Wraithlike, he approached the large viewscreen, spellbound. With the giant image of himself looming above, he turned back to study Laplace’s bridge. Seeing it from this angle, he nodded slightly.

  A cloud began to lift. And to his right, he could see Simus watching him closely.

  “We’ve got everyone but the upgrade team,” came a voice from the comm. It was Laplace’s transporter chief. “They’re still in the middle of the procedure, Captain. They don’t want to lose their data.”

  “Hang the data!” the Riker aboard Aventine growled. “We’ve told you, there’s no time to explain. The threat’s already here!”

  Kwelm gesticulated wildly. “But we don’t understand! If you’d just—”

  The on-screen admiral’s eyebrows flared in a determined vee. “Too late. You were warned.”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when the Riker on-screen disappeared—to be replaced by the view of Aventine, now mere kilometers away, spitting phaser fire at the Corvus Beacon. The first volley struck one of the large transmitter assemblies, blowing it to bits.

  “Support team, drop everything!” Kwelm called out. “Beam out now!”

  On the simulated bridge of Laplace, Riker didn’t know where to look. Behind him, Kwelm and her crew were in a panic, rushing to ensure the return of her people—while on-screen the Aventine was firing one shot after another at the beacon’s superstructure. The station was enormous, but flames had already erupted from two of the hexagonal power pods that served the array.

  And off to the side was Simus, hands clasped over the knob of his cane, rocking back and forth as he watched it all. Riker couldn’t read his expression.

  “We’ve got everyone,” someone called to the captain through the chaos.

  “I am unable to raise Starfleet Command,” another voice said. “There is a problem with the subspace network.”

  Nearly overwhelmed, Kwelm turned to face the big screen and toggled a control on her armrest. “Admiral Riker! You have to stop this. This is our life’s work you’re destroying! Please, just tell us—”

  Riker had seen and heard enough. He turned to Simus. “Pause the simulation.”

  Simus put a hand to his pointed ear. “Pause what?”

  Riker glared. “Pause the recording!”

  Simus gestured—and the clamor immediately stopped. But unlike before, when Titan’s interior had vanished, the bridge of Laplace remained. Its occupant engineers and its frantic captain stood as frozen statues of fear. Riker stared blankly at them—and then looked up at the blazing wreckage on the screen.

  Finally, he said something. “This isn’t another simulation. This happened.”

  Simus hobbled toward Riker. “Yes, it did. This is a ship’s log from approximately two weeks ago.”

  Feeling his exhaustion returning, Riker looked down at the deck. “Why are you showing this to me?”

  “The people I represent were curious to see your response.”

  “What is there to say?” Riker looked up, tired blue eyes filled with dread at his own words. “I was aboard Aventine. And we attacked the Corvus Beacon. And that’s not all . . .”

  STAGE ONE:

  MELTDOWN

  * * *

  “A false report, if believed during three days, may be of great service to a government.”

  —Catherine de’ Medici

  Three

  U.S.S. TITAN APPROACHING THE PAULSON NEBULA

  THREE WEEKS EARLIER

  It troubled Will Riker that with all the advances made in the field of biology, no one had yet invented a pill that replaced the need for exercise. There ought to be something possible, he thought as he worked out on the rowing machine. Perhaps you could pack the effects of running a mile into a hypospray. Or maybe nanites in the bloodstream could do your kayaking for you. By not having invented anything, Starfleet Medical was really falling down on the job.

  In years past, Riker hadn’t minded physical training at all: it was one of the service requirements, of course, but it was also a way to escape the routine of shipboard life. And holodecks like Titan’s were excellent at generating interesting programs, masking exercise within sports or other activities. But that was before he became an admiral. Now, with all kinds of other matters demanding his time, he looked resentfully at the ritual of working out and the time it stole from his day.

  He continued to go to the Titan holodeck to work out; putting the equipment in his office would ensure he never exercised at all. But no longer did he bother with generating holographic mountains to climb or rivers to swim. Now it was about getting it
over with, as quickly as possible. He wondered sometimes why it was worth the bother. Part of the idea behind advancement was to not have to be the one running around, tussling with hostiles.

  But he also knew that diplomatic work wasn’t necessarily a life sentence: he might find himself on the front lines again, somehow. The greatest mind in the universe would be of no use if it couldn’t interact with the world around it. Exercise was the rent the body charged for granting the mind space. He’d pay it.

  And then there was the other reason he stayed in shape. She was standing in the open door of the holodeck, watching him sweat.

  “You look tired,” Deanna Troi said as he stopped rowing.

  “Thanks.” He disentangled himself from the machine. “Program off,” he said, and the thing disappeared.

  Only a towel remained in the room beside him. Deanna walked in, picked it up, and put it over her husband’s perspiration-soaked head. “We’re almost to the Paulson Nebula,” she said, rubbing.

  “Tidings of joy.”

  “It’s a diplomatic mission. Do you want me along on this one?”

  Riker smirked from beneath the towel. “I can’t keep dragging you along every time the Federation sends me to sit at a negotiating table for days at a time. That’s marital cruel and unusual punishment.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said.

  “They should have made you the admiral, then.” Riker stood up and wiped the sweat from his face with the towel.

  Troi studied him pensively. “You’re still regretting the promotion.”

  Riker took a deep breath. “No, it’s not like that.” He didn’t cling as desperately to the captain’s chair as some did; his mentor, Jean-Luc Picard, would only leave the bridge of the Enterprise feet-first. Something about asking for a demotion didn’t set well with Riker. And Starfleet had been accommodating. Admiral Akaar had understood his desire to be in motion and had made sure the Federation’s missions involved going places to do things.

  But the things weren’t all equally interesting, nor were the countless reports he was expected to file. It seemed every official in the Federation wanted a personal update about something or other. He gave a weary smile to his wife. “I’m just about ready for some real R-and-R, that’s all.”

  “You’ll have to settle for a shower.”

  He grasped for her. “That would be relaxing.”

  She pulled away, chuckling. “You’re doing our mission briefing in half an hour, remember?”

  Riker’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, yeah.”

  He trudged out of the room after her, thinking that just once, it would be nice if someone would let him forget something.

  * * *

  The United Federation of Planets and the signatories of the Khitomer Accords were not at war with the Typhon Pact. That was the official line, and it was also the case in fact—mostly. What had been observed in practice was something else.

  The Typhon Pact was a loose agglomeration of powers seeking to counterbalance against the Federation and its fellow signatories of the Khitomer Accords, which included the Ferengi Alliance, the Klingon Empire, and the Cardassian Union. The Pact’s members included the predictably problematic Romulans and Gorn, as well as groups whose aims were frequently unfathomable, such as the Tzenkethi, Tholians, Kinshaya, and Breen. No wider war appeared to threaten, but that didn’t stop the Pact members from causing troubles on their own, any one of which might lead to an all out conflict. Riker’s main assignment had been making sure that didn’t happen.

  There was no way to restrain the ambitions of the Typhon forces—nor, really, to prevent those on his own side from acting precipitously. Riker and Titan had been involved in a couple of dust-ups with the Breen a few months earlier: both were efforts to prevent the Breen from taking control of neutral systems without the consent of their residents. At Garadius IV, shots had been fired, and Titan had disabled several Breen ships, forcing them out of the system—but that episode hadn’t escalated into a wider conflict. The Breen were out for themselves, and their ostensible allies weren’t about to be pulled into a galactic war over a gambit gone wrong.

  In the absence of better angels landing on the shoulders of all the galaxy’s decision-makers and line officers, Riker was nearly convinced that what needed to happen was some sort of unspoken agreement about how territorial ambitions were to be managed. The Federation did not endorse the concept of carving up space into exclusive expansion zones: local races deserved the chance to decide their fates for themselves. The Prime Directive stated that self-determination was an inherent right. Riker agreed with the principle, but obviously, centuries of history had showed reality worked differently. By simply agreeing to Neutral Zones with the Klingons and the Romulans, for example, the Federation had, in essence, made a decision not to embrace some of those who might have wanted to join it. Their planets were just in the wrong place.

  It was not a perfect galaxy—and until it was, people like Riker would have to sit at tables and talk. And talk, and talk. And now that the Federation was sending him to what promised to be the biggest talkfest of all, he did the only natural thing he could. He gave a briefing.

  “Four commanders and an admiral,” Riker said, seeing the Titan officers already seated at the table as he entered the observation lounge. “Sounds like it ought to be a poker hand.”

  Tuvok said nothing, but there was light laughter from Christine Vale, Troi, and Titan’s chief engineer, Xin Ra-Havreii. The top-heaviness of Titan’s senior staff had long been a thing of some amusement to Riker: at the moment, they had everything but a captain. “Lieutenant Commander Keru sends his apologies,” Vale said as he took his seat at the opposite end of the table. “His security team has threat profiles to go over.”

  “I’m afraid we’re just wasting his time,” Riker said, “but then, we’re all in that boat.” He placed his padd on the table. “You all got the mission specs?”

  Vale nodded. “Someone on the Typhon Pact side called for a general meeting—with one representative each from four powers.” She looked at Riker. “One, and only one—for however long it takes.”

  He nodded. “No rest for the weary.”

  “Seems odd to have a peace conference when there’s no war,” Vale said.

  Tuvok templed his fingers. “There are many points of conflict where discussion would be useful. The question is, which ones do they wish to discuss?”

  Riker rolled his eyes. “I haven’t got the slightest idea. The invitation was short, specific—and relayed by the station we’re heading toward. It was undoubtedly from the Romulans, as near as our analysts can tell. And our Khitomer partners also received the same invites.”

  Troi read the names. “Romulan Star Empire, Tzenkethi Coalition, Gorn Hegemony, Tholian Assembly, Klingon Empire, Cardassian Union, Ferengi Alliance, and the United Federation of Planets.” Four from each side. “And no notion as to topic?”

  “They could want to hold a group therapy session, for all I know,” Riker said, smiling at her. “Maybe we should have sent you instead, after all.”

  The counselor smiled primly. “I have a low tolerance for futility.”

  Riker took a deep breath. Her assessment was almost certainly right, of course, but he probably shouldn’t make too much light of the mission. “The Federation isn’t about to ignore a possible olive branch—especially not when it involves the Gorn.”

  Vale nodded. “You still think there’s a chance to lure the Gorn out of the Typhon Pact?”

  “Nobody over there wants to be a junior member of anything,” Riker said. “That’s the flaw in the whole concept. The Gorn are pretty sure they’re the lowest on the ladder—and the Tholians are still catching heat for the whole Andorian affair. Maybe a little face time will crack the ice a bit more. Who knows?” He looked to the white-haired engineer. “You’ve had a look at this meeting place?”

  “I have indeed,” Ra-Havreii said. “We got a recon of the site from another Starfleet vessel going past.” He
touched a control, and a holographic image appeared, floating above the table. “What’s the name your invitation gave it? The Far Embassy.”

  The space station was shaped like a tall drum; one end featured an octagonal cap that branched outward into eight docking portals. The other end terminated in what appeared to be an enormous deflector dish of some kind. “Whose station is it?” Riker asked.

  “Admiral, I couldn’t begin to tell you,” Ra-Havreii said. “Or I could begin, but I’d never get finished.”

  Riker rolled his eyes. Titan’s Efrosian chief engineer had both a temper and a tendency to explain far too much. At least Ra-Havreii was becoming more aware of the latter. “Give it to me in two sentences, please.”

  Ra-Havreii scratched his long moustache. “It’s as if somebody went to a salvage yard and built a station out of spare parts. Everybody’s spare parts.”

  “Salvage?” Riker squinted at the visual of the Far Embassy. “The thing looks brand new.”

  “And it may be. Its various docking ports precisely match the specifications used by several of the attending powers.” The engineer flipped through the various views. Riker recognized portals of Starfleet design—if a few years out of date—as well as tractor-beam-assisted docking interfaces used in Klingon, Cardassian, and Romulan facilities, among others.

  “Awfully kind of them.” Vale rested her chin against her fist as she studied the display. “Whoever it was over there that built it, they’ve gone to a lot of trouble to be accommodating.”

  Ra-Havreii shook his head. “But not completely accommodating. Our scouts detected a transporter inhibitor field in operation. I suspect the docking ports simply ensure arrivals are first directed to guest quarters environmentally designed for them.”

  Riker frowned. “The Typhon Pact isn’t known for its hospitality.” He thought again. “Well, not most of the Pact. The Romulans will do what they need to do to make an impression—usually a false one.”

  Troi looked to her husband with concern. “The whole thing could be a trap. The Breen were trying to kidnap you back on Garadius—for no other reason than to capture a Starfleet admiral.”