Star Trek: TNG: Cold Equations II: Silent Weapons (18 page)

The jade goliaths turned and walked away, crossing the bridge to the bank as the gates swung closed in front of La Forge and Šmrhová. La Forge sprang forward, hoping to pursue them onto the bridge, only to be hurled backward when he slammed into an invisible force field. He hit the ground hard, landing flat on his back. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, but it hurt far less than the wound to his pride. When the chartreuse spots faded from his vision, he saw Šmrhová’s hand extended to him. He grasped it, and she helped him up. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She shot a look at the dark-suited Orion security guards, who climbed the bank’s front staircase and vanished through its main entrance, then she turned back to face La Forge. “That could have gone better. What’s Plan B?”

He rubbed the ache from the back of his head. “I didn’t know we’d need one.”

“What made you think they’d let us in?”

A shrug. “I don’t know. Their cops had no problem sharing the sensor data from the break-in, so I didn’t think they’d object to letting us inspect the crime scene.”

She reacted with cynical incredulity. “Did you look at the sensor data yourself? It was fairly low-res, and more than a bit limited in bandwidth. It was designed to pick up a narrow range of energy signatures and avoid any details that could be used against the bank.”

“Such as internal structures, or other security features.”

Šmrhová nodded. “Exactly. The thought of us down there with state-of-the-art Starfleet sensor equipment, taking sensor readings of their bank’s secure sublevels, must give them fits. We’re probably lucky they didn’t shoot us just for suggesting it.”

The duo started walking, paralleling the imposing tritanium barricade that ringed the pit surrounding the bank like an empty moat. Eyeing the grand skyscraper beyond the barrier, La Forge couldn’t help but wonder what dark secrets it hid. “So, we’re not getting inside without a good reason or a printed invitation from the president. Where does that leave us?”

“Walking in circles,” she said as they turned the corner.

The night was young but the street was nearly deserted, a fact La Forge found peculiar. Then he noticed a lone figure on the sidewalk ahead of him and Šmrhová—a person with a wiry frame and a hunched posture who walked with the stiff gait of age. Within moments, it was clear the other pedestrian was trying to intercept them rather than pass by.

Before they met, the stranger stopped shy of the closest streetlamp’s pool of light, as if fearing to be exposed, but still he waved to La Forge and Šmrhová. “You’re from Starfleet.”

The two officers stopped, and Šmrhová took the lead. “That’s right.”

“I tried talking to the bank’s security people, but they won’t listen.”

La Forge adjusted the settings on his cybernetic eyes, enhancing his night-spectrum vision and compensating for the streetlamp’s salmon-hued glow. At once, the man’s face was clearly visible. He was an elderly Orion. His pale green face and pate were leathery and lined with fine wrinkles. Unkempt tufts of ashen hair above his ears matched his bushy white eyebrows, and his eyes were a sallow yellow, almost to the point of being colorless. Lowering his voice, La Forge asked, “What’s your name?”

“Pollus.” He glanced at the skyscraper. “Kal Pollus. I’m a custodian at the bank.”

Šmrhová inched toward the man, but he backed away, so she stopped and tried to infuse her voice with a soothing tone. “What did you try to tell the bank’s security people?”

“You understand, I could lose my job for talking to you.”

Trying to assuage the man’s fear, La Forge said, “We can treat this as an anonymous tip. But first we have to know what we’re dealing with. Now, Mister Pollus . . . what did you see?”

“A perimeter breach. On the service level.” He looked over his shoulders, as if fearing the sudden appearance of an eavesdropper. “The boss.”

A bemused glance passed between La Forge and Šmrhová; clearly, neither knew what to make of the man’s cryptic allegation. Once again, La Forge let the security chief lead the investigation. She asked, “What ‘boss’ are you referring to, sir?”

“The chairman!” he snapped, as if it were obvious. “He turned off the alarms and opened the door for someone, let them in. Then he went one way and they went the other.”

Alarmed and intrigued, La Forge asked, “Chairman Kinshal? Did you see who he let inside? Could you identify that person?”

Pollus shook his head. “Wore a hood. Didn’t see the face.” He shot a desperate, imploring look at Šmrhová. “Told them, but they wouldn’t listen! Said I should mind my own business—pay more attention to my work and less to the boss.” He looked back and cupped one hand over a white-knuckled fist. “Then my foreman said I was done for the night. Sent me home, told me he’d dock my pay if I kept making trouble.”

“And you’re positive it was the bank’s chairman?”

The Orion nodded. “Yes. It was definitely Boss Kinshal. I’m sure of it.”

It was too soon for La Forge to say exactly what Pollus had witnessed, but from what the man had described, it had the hallmarks of a conspiracy in the making. One look at Šmrhová’s anxious eyes made it clear to him that she’d arrived at the same conclusion.

She put an edge of command in her tone. “Go home, Mister Pollus. We’ll handle this from here. But for your own safety, forget what you saw, and forget you ever talked to us.”

He signaled his understanding with a curt nod, then he shuffled away with awkward steps, retreating into the night. La Forge and Šmrhová turned back to face the way they’d come, both of them knowing what had to happen next, and how precarious that was going to be.

“Even if we get Bacco’s protection detail to let us in,” Šmrhová noted, “the bank’s security force won’t be happy about us barging into Kinshal’s office.”

“I’m more concerned that without a sensor lock on the guy, he could get away from us. If he slips out of the building when we’re not looking, we might never see him again.”

Šmrhová frowned. “Only one thing to do, then.” She pulled open her jacket to expose the concealed combadge pinned to her shirt. “Time to call in the cavalry.”

•   •   •

Few indignities Worf had ever suffered compared to the imposition of being ordered to don his Starfleet dress uniform. He had no idea who or what would be flattered by the awkward cut of the off-white jacket with broad gold trim, but he suspected the snug blue-gray vest had been designed to kill by slow suffocation. Even the trousers, which except for gold stripes down the legs had seemed identical to those he wore with his regular duty uniform, felt stiff. He found it impossible to move freely in the clothes without rending them at the seams.

Whoever designed this should be shot,
he decided.

To his chagrin, the dress uniform had been designated as mandatory for all officers attending the president’s reception on Orion that evening—and Captain Picard had made clear that attendance, too, was compulsory. As much as Worf would have preferred to remain on the bridge of the
Enterprise
in the captain’s absence, that had never been an option.

Hoping for even a momentary respite from his uniform’s choke-hold fit, he sneaked his index finger under his jacket’s collar and gave it a gingerly tug away from his throat.

A friendly slap on his back startled him, and he jerked his hand back to his side. Then he saw Glinn Dygan sidle up beside him. The youthful Cardassian beamed with excitement. “What a party! This is really something, isn’t it, Commander?”

Worf glumly scanned the domed rooftop arboretum. Its pathways were dotted with government officials from the Federation and the Gorn Hegemony. At various key junctures stood either tuxedoed-and-eyeshaded protection agents from Federation Security, or members of the Gorn Imperial Guard dressed in silver armor draped with purple silk. “It is . . . 
something
.”

“If someone had told me just a few years ago that one day I’d be attending a reception with the president of the Federation and the Gorn imperator, I’d never have believed them.” Dygan did a double take at Worf. “But look who I’m talking to. You killed one Klingon chancellor and all but appointed his successor. This must seem routine to someone like you.”

Many terms less flattering than
routine
occurred to Worf. He frowned. “No.”

As a young Orion woman passed by carrying a tray of drinks in slender crystal flutes, Dygan snagged two of them with nimble hands and a quick smile. He extended his arm and offered one of the beverages to Worf. “Sir?”

“I am not in the mood.”

Dygan spread his arms in an expansive gesture. “But it’s a
party
.”

“It is a formal event, and we are here as both Starfleet officers and guests of the president. We cannot afford to impair our judgment.”

His rebuke left the Cardassian looking troubled and confused. After a few moments of awkward deliberation, Dygan put down both drinks on an empty cocktail table behind them. Then he turned to stand beside Worf, facing in the same direction with his hands clasped behind his back. “So . . . if we’re not here to enjoy ourselves . . . why
are
we here, sir?”

“You can enjoy yourself. Just not too much.” Hoping to end the conversation, he walked away toward one of the buffet tables. Dygan, however, trailed behind him, as if they were bound together on a chain gang. Worf turned and faced him. “What are you doing?”

The younger man blinked and was flummoxed. “Following you.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s just . . . you seem to know what you’re doing, sir.”

Worf was speechless. He couldn’t contradict Dygan’s answer without denigrating himself, and he couldn’t concur without appearing conceited. Instead, he breathed a low sigh, turned, and continued to the buffet table, where he grabbed a plate and started choosing morsels from the gourmet smorgasbord that had been laid out for the event. As before, Dygan was a step behind him, loading up his own plate and apparently using Worf’s to gauge the proper quantities. Confronted by the Klingon’s glare, he simply smiled.

As they reached the end of the table, Worf turned and blundered into the middle of a conversation between a pair of clean-cut young men in bespoke suits. The taller of the two was fair-haired and clean-shaven, and to Worf he looked (and smelled) human; the other man wore a mullet of dark hair and a black handlebar mustache in the style long favored by the Efrosians. Both spoke in the rapid style of politicos accustomed to jockeying for verbal dominance.

“I’m not saying it’s likely,” argued the Efrosian, “just possible.”

“If it were possible, we’d already be doing it.”

Worf tried to slip past them. “Excuse me.” His bid for escape was thwarted; the two men were nose to nose and refused to budge. He tried to turn back, only to find Dygan on his heels.

The Efrosian made large gestures as he spoke, as if pantomiming his point made it more persuasive. “But if we can lure the Gorn out of the Pact—”

“A fool’s errand,” the human said, rolling his eyes, “but go on.”

“—then we could focus on supporting the dissidents inside the Breen Confederacy, and lay the foundation for a future peace. In a decade or two we—”

Anger drove Worf to interrupt, “If you think you can make deals with the Breen, then you are a fool.” He thrust his plate into Dygan’s free hand, slopping some of his appetizers onto the man’s polished dress armor, then he poked his finger against the shocked Efrosian’s chest. “The Breen have no use for diplomacy, and they are not to be trusted.”

The human tried to interpose himself between his friend and Worf, but he failed. “I know the Breen aren’t receptive to diplomacy now, but if Bodell’s right, and the dissidents are able to supplant the current regime—”

“That will
not
happen,” Worf warned. “If there are Breen dissidents, the best they can hope for is escape. If they oppose the domo’s forces, they will be cut down like
taHqeqpu’.”

The Efrosian stammered, “But—but if we support them, then they—”

“Then they will pull us into a civil war,” Worf said. “More of our people will be slaughtered by the Breen, and once again we will gain nothing.”

Perplexed, the human and Efrosian wrinkled their brows at each other. Then the human cast a quizzical look at Worf. “
Once again?
I’m sorry, but we don’t know what incident you’re referring to. Could you enlighten us?”

Only then did Worf realize he had alluded to Jasminder Choudhury’s murder.

Fury and shame warmed his face, and he shouldered his way free of the two politicos, eager to be anywhere else, doing anything else, with anyone else. As he expected, Dygan hurried after him, portering both their plates like a dutiful squire chasing his knight. When they stopped near the far side of the arboretum, he held Worf’s plate out to him. “Sir?”

“Throw it away.” He turned and stared out the towering windows at the sparkling midnight jewel of Orion’s capital. “I am not hungry.”

•   •   •

“This is absurd,” Picard said. “Why have a political reception if the guests won’t talk to one another?”

Bacco sipped champagne through a sardonic smile. “Welcome to my world, Captain.”

Her chief of staff risked a furtive glance over her shoulder. “No one wants to make the first move.” She finished off her own drink in a quick tilt. “Or start an interstellar incident.”

Picard stood with Doctor Crusher in a closed circle that included Bacco, Piñiero, and Captain Bateson and Commander Fawkes from the
Atlas
. On the far side of the arboretum, gathered in their own closed ring, were Imperator Sozzerozs and the elite members of his retinue. It reminded Picard of the way teenagers tended to divide themselves into cliques, discrete sets that rarely if ever overlapped. “There must be some topic of interest that’s free of controversy.”

His assertion met with stares that ranged from incredulous to weary. Bateson cocked an eyebrow. “You think so? Name one.”

“The weather is usually a reliable source of small talk.”

The president grimaced. “The Gorn have done nothing but complain about how cold Orion is, and at least once in every meeting they remind us of the huge favor they’re doing us by suffering what they consider to be freezing temperatures for our comfort. So, as you might imagine, the subject of weather has become rather a bone of contention around here.”