Star Trek: TNG: Cold Equations II: Silent Weapons (2 page)

She extended one finger and sneaked the chip beneath her palm with a magician’s sleight of hand. “What am I looking for?”

“Anything related to the finances of the persons and corporations identified on that chip.” He cast furtive looks over his shoulders, as if he were concerned about mechanical surveillance or eavesdroppers on one of the most privacy-obsessed worlds in the quadrant. “The entities in question should already be known to your associates. Some of them have been flagged for investigation for more than a century, and all are currently on the SI watch list.”

His demeanor was calm and professional, but the scope of what he’d requested put Tohm on edge. “This is quite a bit more than I was led to believe you’d need.”

“What degree of aid had you anticipated?”

Studying his reaction, she said, “An address, perhaps. Maybe some comm records. Nothing quite this”—she tapped her finger on the isolinear chip—“incendiary.”

The youthful android seemed unfazed by her admission. “Should I interpret your reticence to mean you cannot or will not assist me in this matter?”

“Not necessarily. But I’ll need to know more about what I’m investigating.”

Concern creased Data’s brow, and a thin frown pursed his lips. “I am reluctant to say too much, for a number of reasons.”

His evasiveness captured her interest. “What can you tell me?”

“The subject of my inquiry is an individual who has eluded Starfleet custody on at least two occasions, and who has traveled throughout the Federation and beyond under more than a hundred aliases. He possesses knowledge that I think might be vital to Federation security.”

Tohm searched Data’s face for any hint of mendacity, but his expression was all but inscrutable. “What makes you think the Orion banking industry has the intel you want?”

“As resourceful and independent as this person has proved to be, he still has occasional need of the Federation and its resources. But even if he did not, I believe he is unwilling to sever all ties with our culture. If he is to maintain such contact, however tangential, he must have some manner of financial identity we will recognize and accept. I have ruled out the Bank of Bolarus and the Ferenginar Credit Exchange as the havens for this identity. He would not entrust his fortune to depositories under the control of our rivals, and he cannot be using an account at an institution that reports its holdings to the Federation government. That leaves the Bank of Orion as the most likely shelter for his remaining financial personae.”

I’ll give him credit for this much: he’s thorough.

She slid the chip off the table and tucked it into her pocket. “I’ll see what I can do. But I have one more question.” He cocked his head and affected a quizzical look, prompting her to ask, “You’re not currently on active duty, so why are you
really
looking for this guy?”

Her query seemed to amuse Data, who suppressed a smile and looked at the table for a moment until he recovered his composure. “Let it suffice to say that it is . . . a family matter.”

“All right, then.” He appeared satisfied to let his answer stand, so she did the same. “I’ll need a couple of days. How do I reach you?”

A tilt of his head in the general direction of downtown. “Contact me at the Royal Suite of the Imperial Star Resort, under the name Miller.”

“The Imperial Star?” She was certain she must have misheard him. “The one inside the Nalori diplomatic compound?” He nodded. She was about to ask why he was using the
nom de voyage
Miller, then thought better of it. “Fine. I’ll be in touch soon.”

He stood. “I look forward to hearing from you.” They shook hands, and Tohm was surprised to find Data’s flesh warm to the touch, and his fingertips slightly callused. He smiled as he released her hand. “Good night.”

Tohm watched Data weave his way out of the room, and then she slipped out of the café through its rear service door. For the briefest moment as she stood in the alleyway, she felt the dread of being watched—but when she turned to confront her stalker, she found only an empty lane, darkened windows, and the muffled drone of nighttime traffic in the Orion capital.
You’re getting paranoid,
she teased herself.
Maybe you’ve been a spook for too long.

Hands tucked into her pockets, she quickened her steps back toward the Federation Embassy. Because as certain as she was that no one was following her, she knew that in her line of work, sooner or later she would be wrong.

•   •   •

Radiant and prismatic, the gas giant’s rings arced across the
Enterprise
’s main viewscreen. Picard gazed upon them in wonder, swelling with admiration for their ineffable beauty and harboring unspoken regret over the idea of tampering with such natural marvels.

Limned by the soft glow of bridge consoles, his crew attended to their duties with a minimum of conversation; semimusical response tones punctuated the white-noise hush of life-support systems and the low-frequency pulse of the impulse engines. Gathered around the aft bulkhead’s master systems display were Lieutenant Dina Elfiki, the strikingly attractive young senior officer of the ship’s sciences division, and two specialists from the astrometrics team: Lieutenant Corinne Clipet, a dark-haired and soft-spoken theoretical physicist from France, and Ensign th’Verroh, an astrophysicist who the year before had chosen to remain in Starfleet, even though it had meant being disowned by his family after Andoria’s secession from the Federation. The trio of scientists had been charged with carrying out the principal tasks of the
Enterprise
’s current mission: infusing the rings of Azeban V with the same kind of regenerative metaphasic radiation that had made the Ba’ku planet inside the Briar Patch of such interest to Starfleet.

The trio’s low murmuring, full of esoteric jargon and clipped reports, made poor fodder for eavesdropping, so Picard shifted his attention to the port-side station closest to his command chair. The ship’s new chief of security, Lieutenant Aneta Šmrhová, was engaged in a hushed but tense exchange with the first officer, Commander Worf. The broad-shouldered Klingon loomed over the slender but athletic human woman, who’d recently had her raven hair shorn to a stylish and asymmetrical bob that swept forward on the right, beneath her jaw.

Šmrhová’s struggle to preserve a façade of cool professionalism in the face of Worf’s withering criticism was apparent, and Picard wondered—not for the first time in recent weeks—if his first officer was treating her unfairly. The young woman, a native of the Czech city of Ostrava, had served on the
Enterprise
for more than four years without drawing a single negative word from Worf, but since the first day that Picard had promoted her to fill the post left vacant by the death of Lieutenant Jasminder Choudhury, it had seemed as if Šmrhová could do nothing that met with Worf’s approval. It felt uncharitable to ascribe Worf’s hostility toward Šmrhová and his micromanagement of her job performance to his grief over the violent loss of his inamorata Choudhury, but Picard found himself at a loss for another plausible explanation for his first officer’s behavior toward the new security chief. Compounding his concerns was the fact that Worf had pointedly declined several summons to meet with the ship’s counseling staff, and after the senior counselor, Hegol Den, had made such a session mandatory, Worf had sat silently through two consecutive appointments.
If this situation doesn’t resolve itself in the next day,
Picard decided,
I’ll have no choice but to intervene.

Worf stepped away from the security console and passed Picard as he returned to his seat on the captain’s right. His mien was serious and alert. “Our activities continue to attract interest.”

“The same ship again?” In the week since the
Enterprise
’s arrival at Azeban V, the crew had detected fleeting signs that they were being shadowed by a cloaked Romulan warbird.

The Klingon’s aspect turned grave. “A new signal has been caught on sensors. Lieutenant Šmrhová and Ensign Rosado have reason to suspect our new observer is a Breen warship.”

Picard frowned in concern. Just as they had been warned by Starfleet Command prior to starting their mission, they had become a locus for the Typhon Pact’s attention. “What of the reports from the Beta Aurealis system? Have they been verified?”

A subtle nod. “A reconnaissance flight by the
U.S.S. Starling
confirmed the presence of a Tzenkethi mobile surveillance platform. It appears to have been deployed to monitor our operations here.” He shot a disgruntled look at the rings on the viewscreen. “But if they learn how fruitless our efforts have been, they might soon lose interest.”

“I suspect their interest will last as long as our attempts continue.” He called up the most recent tactical scans on the command screen beside his chair. “Run three battle drills at random intervals over the next six shifts.”

“Aye, sir.”

Picard stood and walked aft to the master systems display, where he insinuated himself silently into Elfiki’s work group.

As the other officers took note of his presence, their conversation tapered off, and the svelte Egyptian woman turned and graced Picard with a coy smile. “Captain.”

“Lieutenant. Has your team made any progress since yesterday?”

Anxious, evasive looks traveled back and forth between Elfiki, Clipet, and th’Verroh. “That depends, sir,” Elfiki said. “Do you consider documenting the myriad ways in which our first round of energizing pulses failed to produce anything remotely resembling metaphasic radiation to be evidence of progress?”

“Not as such, no.”

She averted her eyes toward the deck to downplay her mild embarrassment. “Then I guess the answer would be no, we haven’t made any significant progress. Sir.”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Lieutenant. Setbacks and negative results are par for the course in scientific research.” He gestured at the display. “How do you plan to proceed?”

Elfiki nodded at Clipet. “Corrine?”

The chestnut-haired Frenchwoman stepped up to the MSD and began keying in commands, triggering simulations on several screens. “We believe that part of the reason our first round of experiments yielded no change in the rings’ energy output is that too many of the elements and compounds inside the rings are inert. However, there is a high concentration of kytherium in the rings’ dust. I think that if we introduce a catalyst such as corvelite, we could break down the kytherium, releasing a number of highly reactive compounds that might respond to our efforts to initiate metaphasic conversion.”

It was the most promising lead that Picard’s crew had presented to him so far. “Very good. How long until we’re ready to proceed?”

“Four days,” Elfiki said. “We’ll need to replicate a sufficient quantity of the catalyst to seed the rings, but we can’t store that much at once, so we’ll need to stock up to maximum capacity first, then continue production during the distribution phase.”

Picard nodded. “Make it so.”

Elfiki, Clipet, and th’Varroh replied in unison, “Aye, sir.”

Picard returned to his chair. As he settled in, Worf leaned over and said in a low voice, “Do you think their plan will work?”

It was a legitimate question, but not one Picard knew how to answer. “It’s hardly my area of expertise, Number One. But if I were to hazard a guess? I would say no.”

Worf’s glum mood deepened. “I do not understand why the
Enterprise
was chosen to carry out such an ill-planned experiment. Why not send a science vessel, instead?”

His question led Picard’s eye back to the tactical report on his command screen, and the mounting evidence that the
Enterprise
appeared to have become the Typhon Pact’s primary object of interest. “I suppose that depends on what, exactly, Starfleet hoped to accomplish by sending us here. If the goal was to replicate the rings of Ba’ku, then perhaps this was an error. But if the idea was to draw the attention of our rivals . . . then I’d have to say we’ve succeeded beyond their wildest expectations.”

•   •   •

It was a slow day in the Happy Bottom Riding Club, the crew lounge of the
Enterprise
. Most of the tables were empty, and only a handful of officers and noncoms were scattered around the spacious compartment decorated in aeronautical memorabilia from twentieth-century Earth. Sal, the bartender, set down two glasses of real booze, one each before Geordi La Forge and Ravel Dygan, then stepped away to let the men contemplate the beverages they’d ordered on a mutual dare.

In front of La Forge was a squat tumbler of
kanar,
a syrupy alcoholic treat from Dygan’s homeworld, Cardassia Prime. The chief engineer picked up the glass and rolled it in a slow circle, testing the viscosity of the fluid within; the
kanar
moved like industrial lubricant. He took a whiff of it and wrinkled his nose in confusion. Its sweeter notes seemed enticing, but it was laced with a pungent kick that threatened a less than benign drinking experience.

Wary of imbibing, La Forge said to Dygan, “You first.”

The Cardassian operations officer, who was serving on the
Enterprise
courtesy of the Officer Exchange Program, seemed equally suspicious of his pale golden libation. He held it up to the light, sniffed it, then recoiled in fear and revulsion. “What did you say this was called?”

“Tequila.” A mischievous grin lit up La Forge’s face. “Be careful. It packs a wallop.”

Dygan put down the glass. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

La Forge laughed. “Of course it is.” He was still chuckling as he shook his head. “I haven’t done something this dumb since I was at the Academy.”

“My friends and I were much the same as cadets at the military academy on Kora II.” The recollection turned his mood wistful. “It’s hard to believe so many of them are gone now. Most of the people I knew back then died in the Dominion War.” He wore a sympathetic expression as he added, “I’m sure that’s a feeling you know all too well.”

La Forge nodded. “Sorry to say, yes.” He stared at the opaque surface of the
kanar
as he gathered his thoughts. “It’s not that I can’t make new friends, but it seems to get harder as I get older. And sometimes I just don’t seem to get as close to new friends as I did to old ones.”