Star Trek: TNG: Cold Equations II: Silent Weapons (15 page)

Breathing a contented sigh, Bacco put down her fork and picked up her wine. “That was amazing,” she said to Piñiero, “but I can’t eat another bite. I just want to take a nap.”

In the four-and-a-half years since Nanietta Bacco was first elected president of the United Federation of Planets, she had consumed many a late dinner with only her chief of staff for company. Most of those working meals had been taken at Bacco’s desk inside her office on the fifteenth floor of the Palais de la Concorde in Paris, and had consisted of something whipped up on short notice. The food, after all, was never the point of those ad hoc repasts; it was just something to keep her and her advisers from starving while they debated points of policy or the consequences of
realpolitik
in an increasingly volatile galaxy. They rarely made time for anything beyond essential sustenance; their schedules just didn’t permit such luxuries.

Tonight, their table for two had been a study in culinary extravagance. The bank’s executive chef had treated them to a splendid five-course meal—soup, appetizer, entrée, salad, and dessert—accompanied by a flight of wines that far surpassed any she had ever imbibed before. Every dish had been a marvel of presentation and substance, the portions perfect in size to leave them satisfied but not overburdened. However, for Bacco the best part of the meal had been the company. She had known Piñiero for decades, since the younger woman had been a child, and she had come to think of her as a trusted friend as well as her chief of staff. In the past several years they had weathered a tumultuous first term in office, and now they were plotting strategy for next year’s reelection campaign, which already promised to be fiercely contested. Bacco’s connection with Piñiero had deepened to a level she had come to think of as kinship. She was a part of Bacco’s family.

Piñiero dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, then set it down beside her plate. “Please tell me I can skip the reception tonight. I’m begging you.”

“If I have to go, so do you. This is what I pay you for.”

“I thought you kept me around for my scintillating wit and brilliant intellect.”

“Nope, just a pity date for official state functions.” She savored a tiny sip of Sancerre, reveled in its floral nose and honeyed flavors. “All kidding aside, we need this to go well tonight. Today’s talks felt like a setback.”

The younger woman didn’t mask her disappointment. “They were. Every time we started to make progress, the same issues tripped us up. It’s like the agenda’s booby-trapped.”

Bacco suspected there was more than a seed of truth in the complaint. “Do you think they’re doing it on purpose? Maybe trying to wring bigger concessions out of us?”

“Who knows?” She sipped her Jack Daniel’s neat. “I’m meeting Safranski tomorrow for breakfast, to see if we can defuse a few of those traps before they come up.”

“Good. We could use a break in there. And not
just
in there. Lately, it seems like the Typhon Pact’s breathing down our necks everywhere we go—the slipstream fracas, that fiasco with the Tzenkethi’s artificial wormhole, not to mention losing Deep Space 9.” She felt torn between hope and surrender. “It feels like every time we have another showdown, it ends with them gaining the advantage. Swinging the Gorn back to our side would be a big win for us. This summit’s a major opportunity, and we can’t afford to waste it. . . . We need this.”

“I know.” Piñiero’s somber mien reflected the gravity of Bacco’s point. “Which is why we might need to accept that we can’t accomplish everything at this one meeting. Maybe the best plan for now would be to use these talks to lay the groundwork for a second meeting, a tripartite discussion involving Chancellor Martok and maybe even Emperor Kahless.”

“First, we’d have to meet separately with Ambassador K’mtok, and then with Martok.”

Piñiero continued the thought as if it had been her own. “We’ll bring the Klingons on board first before we put them in a room with the Gorn. Makes sense. But I wonder how much both sides will try to get from us in exchange for burying the
bat’leth,
if you know what I mean.”

“That’s a good point. We can’t go overboard with promises unless we want to be the only ones making sacrifices for the sake of peace. At the same time, we can’t be cheap about this. Effecting this big a shift in the balance of power might be worth rebuilding a few worlds for them, or ceding colonization rights in some of the outer sectors, to get them both to the table.”

They sat back, both of them pondering that scenario, turning it over in their imaginations. Before they resumed the discussion, the door signal chimed softly. Bacco turned toward the doorway as she called out, “Come in.”

It slid open, and the bank’s chairman, a trim and dapper Orion man named Siro Kinshal, stepped inside, shadowed by Bacco’s personal protection agent, Steven Wexler. The executive stepped up to the women’s table sporting the gracious smile of a head waiter. “Madam President. I hope your dinner was satisfactory.”

“Everything was wonderful, thank you.”

Kinshal looked at Piñiero. “Our pastry chef wants to know if you enjoyed dessert.”

“Very much. Send her my compliments.”

“It will be my honor, Madam Piñiero.”

Bacco smiled as she observed Kinshal’s demeanor toward her friend.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s hitting on her. I’d better jump in and save her.
“Is the rooftop arboretum ready for tonight’s reception?”

“Almost, Madam President. Your protection detail is still securing the venue.”

“I see. I just want to let you know I’ve added a few more names to the guest list.”

Unfazed, Kinshal nodded toward Wexler. “Your agent has the particulars?”

“He will. We’re finalizing the list now.”

“Very good. I’ll see him tonight during the final security check. Might I recommend you both take advantage of the interim to freshen up, and perhaps steal a few moments of rest?”

Piñiero mirrored Bacco’s amused expression. “You read our minds, Mister Kinshal.”

“In that case, I shall take my leave. With your permission, Madam President.”

“Granted. We’ll look forward to seeing you tonight.”

Kinshal bowed slightly. “Until then.” He backed away five steps, turned, and made a prompt exit that managed not to look the least bit rushed.

As soon as the door closed, Bacco smirked. “I think he likes you.”

Piñiero raised an eyebrow and glanced at Wexler. “Agent, if that man tries to touch any part of me other than my hand,
shoot him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

•   •   •

Standing in the center of the Bank of Orion’s lush and exquisitely manicured rooftop arboretum, awash in the fragrance of citrus flowers and freshly turned earth, Agent Steven Wexler saw potential security risks everywhere he looked. He pointed at the glass-paneled dome overhead and asked the bank’s director of security, “Are there any buildings in the capital tall enough to have a direct line of sight into this space?”

“None.” Akili Kamar, the tall, copper-haired, and enticingly athletic Orion woman spoke with calm confidence. “This is the tallest structure in the city. Air traffic has been rerouted and our airspace marked as restricted for the duration of tonight’s event.” She looked up but kept her hands folded behind her back. “As fragile as the dome appears, it is quite resilient. Those panels are transparent duranium, and they are protected from the outside by a shaped force field, and reinforced by another inside. Nothing short of a full-scale bombardment, or an impact by something larger than a commercial passenger ship, can breach it.”

Hazizaar, the
sikta
for Imperator Sozzerozs—a title that Wexler had learned meant “captain of the Gorn leader’s personal guard company”—pivoted slowly and hissed as he studied the perimeter. “There are too many points of ingress and egress.”

Kamar took a moment to study the room’s layout. “Most of those doors will be sealed before the reception begins. Only three will be active tonight.” She pointed at the two exits that opened into short hallways that led to two dedicated elevators programmed for access to the delegations’ respective residential suites. “One each will be reserved for the use of your leaders and their escorts.” Then she turned toward the room’s main entry, three sets of Brobdingnagian double doors side by side. “That will be the primary entry point for guests and bank security personnel. I trust the sensor arches we’ve provided meet with your approval?”

“Yes,” Hazizaar said. “But I want guards on all the other doors.”

Before she could object, Wexler added, “So do I. And I’ll go a step further. I want one of my people and one of Hazizaar’s on opposite sides of each sealed door.”

Their unified request ruffled the ostensibly unflappable Orion. “Such measures are not an efficient use of your limited personnel. If you are adamant regarding that deployment pattern, the bank’s security contingent can . . . .” Her voice trailed off in the face of unwavering stares from Wexler and Hazizaar. “Very well. I’ll leave it to the two of you to assign your people as you see fit, and mine will patrol the main room, disguised as catering staff.”

“That works for me,” Wexler said. He nodded at the replicator nooks behind the wet bars and buffet tables. “How certain are we that no one can tamper with those?”

“Positive.” Kamar oozed smug surety. “Not that it matters. We won’t be using replicated food or beverages at tonight’s event. Everything is being prepared fresh by our chefs, and all drinks will be mixed to order from real spirits.”

Wexler cleared his throat. “Nothing consumable enters this room until it’s been scanned by trained medical personnel from both my team and Hazizaar’s.”

“Naturally. I assure you, Agent, we haven’t forgotten the protocols your service shared with us prior to your visit. We’re well aware of the precautions that must be observed.”

The snap of fast-approaching footsteps turned Wexler’s head. Siro Kinshal, the bank’s fastidious and ever-smiling chairman, approached with the genial affect of a man who had spent his career solving the problems of others. “Good evening. Is everything ready for tonight?”

“Just sorting out a few last-minute details,” Kamar said.

Kinshal looked at Wexler. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“No, sir. Nothing we can’t fix.”

“Very well. Do you have President Bacco’s final guest list?” Wexler handed a data chip to the chairman, who tucked it inside his jacket but maintained steady eye contact with him. “Splendid.” Something about Kinshal’s stare made Wexler uncomfortable. It might have been its unusual duration, its unblinking ferocity, or the way the middle-aged Orion seemed to gaze straight through Wexler’s eyes. By instinct, Wexler rarely shied from a challenge, but this time he felt compelled to look away from the man and try to direct him toward the inscrutable archosaur. “Hazizaar? Anything else you want to bring up?”

The Gorn took one more look around. “No.”

Kamar smiled. “Excellent.” She nodded at Kinshal. “I’m sure you have other matters to attend, sir. Please be assured, the reception will start on time, and security will be ready.”

“Carry on, then.” The executive walked away, one hand in his pocket, as if he had not a care in the world. To be so nonchalant in the midst of such an affair, he was either the most confident man Wexler had ever seen, or an idiot without peer in the known galaxy.

Wexler wanted to write the man off as a fool, but the way Kinshal had stared at him, looking him right in the eye without fear or self-consciousness . . . that troubled him. Not that it was the sort of thing he’d have any idea how to document in his daily activity log.
Got eyeballed by a strange middle-aged Orion man
was more likely to end up as poker-night joke fodder for his smart-ass friends than as actionable intelligence for the agency.

“Let’s finish our tour of this floor and the one below,” Kamar prompted him and Hazizaar. “The sooner we work out the details, the sooner this party can get started.”

Hazizaar and Wexler signaled their agreement. They followed the Orion security specialist out of the arboretum, continuing their efforts to anticipate and prevent every possible disaster that might befall their heads of state. Wexler knew that no defense was ever perfect. Mistakes could be made. Enemies could divine weaknesses heretofore unknown. Every day that he reported for duty, he knew that might be the day he finally failed.

All he could do was strive with every ounce of vigor and every spark of thought to make certain today would not be that day.

•   •   •

Parading around in another person’s identity, Olar felt exposed, obvious, even ridiculous. He was certain someone would see through his traveling deception, his shadowplay of another man’s life, but to his amazement, no one did. Impersonating the bank’s chairman, Siro Kinshal, he had come to understand that the man must have been terribly isolated and desperately lonely. None of his peers or subordinates, it seemed, knew him well enough to realize that Olar was little more than a smiling doppelgänger, an unctuous replicant of the man they’d pretended to know.

They either feared him or had no care for him at all,
Olar realized.
I walk around in his likeness, and no one knows the difference.
For a Breen accustomed to living behind a mask, it felt strangely natural once he’d realized the parallel.
His aloofness was his mask. The peoples of the outerworlds are just as anonymous as any of us. Their disguises are simply less obvious.

He passed Kinshal’s tall and elegant female executive assistant on the way into his corner office and issued orders without slowing his hurried pace. “No calls, no visitors.”

“Yes, sir,” the young Trill woman said, half risen from her chair, as if expecting to be summoned for dictation or maybe some salacious purpose behind closed doors.

Disappointment dimmed her hopeful expression as Olar added, “Thank you, Idina.”

The door closed behind him, and he forced himself not to gape at the cityscape that wrapped around him on two sides, a sparkling wonder beyond floor-to-ceiling plates of glass. Instead he turned his back on the jeweled beauties of night on Orion and sat down at Kinshal’s broad, uncluttered desk.
How marvelous it must be to delegate every bit of tedium from one’s life,
he thought.
And how worrisome to think that every outsourced duty is being mishandled.