The Lost Era: Well of Souls: Star Trek (46 page)

“Well done, Commander,” he said. “And all without firing a shot—more or less.”

Gaining. Talma had pushed the
T’Pol
engines into the red but still the distance between her and the Cardassian scout was dwindling by the minute. Gaining—she ground her teeth together—the Cardassian was
gaining!

Just ahead, she saw the great dense ball of the nebula cloud, its pink and purple colors more intense, the entire cloud more substantial now so close to the neutron star whirling at its heart, being fed by plasma streamers coursing from the brown star.

The
Enterprise
hailed again, but Talma ignored them. She’d listened to their twaddle: something about her dropping shields the instant they went to warp so they could beam her aboard. She’d cut off the transmission, finally. What, did they think she was that gullible? Probably blow her out of space the moment her shields were down.

Well, she’d take care of herself, thanks. Talma found every spare ounce of auxiliary power and re-routed to the engines.
If I can just get inside that nebula, I’ll lose that Cardassian, and to hell with Garrett’s ship.
She wouldn’t have a lot in the way of sensors and her tactical would be fried, but the trade-off would be worth it. The Cardassian would be blind; and then she’d hang there and bide her time.

T’Pol
edged past the outer fringes of the nebula; minute particles of dust and debris scoured her hull. The computer warned, in polite Vulcan, that the radiation level outside the ship would reach lethal levels in sixty minutes. Talma told it to shut the hell up then gave a more refined command, in Vulcan. She watched the random flashes of energy radiating through the nebula like the flow of neural energy through a network of nerves and dendrites.
Almost there
—her eyes fixed on the screen, as if willing the nebula closer would make it so—
just a few more seconds, and I’m safe.

And because she’d told the computer to can it, and because her gaze was riveted upon her viewscreen, Talma didn’t see the other Cardassian scout disintegrate; she didn’t know that the
Enterprise
had gone to warp; and she most definitely did not register the flow of ignited plasma rippling from the exploding brown star and propagating itself along the plasma streamers being pulled toward the neutron star until the nebula was a ball of plasma flame—and that was much too late.

All she could do then was scream, and even that was lost as
T’Pol
flashed, vaporized, and was gone.

She would have taken some comfort in knowing that, a split second later, the Cardassian found that it was much too close indeed.

* * *

The wall of fire expanded. It tore through one planet. Then two. A few minutes later, the third planet shuddered and convulsed and died.

And on to the fourth.

His throat was so dry he could barely draw a breath. Chen-Mai’s broken wrist throbbed, and he’d tucked it into his suit. But every step jolted bone against bone, and once he’d fainted, fallen. Awakened to find that he’d gashed open his forehead so that he had to blink blood out of his eyes. Still he dragged himself through the maze of tunnels and blind alleys, going by feel, groping along the walls with his good hand. And then, because he was so frightened, he started running, fell, clawed his way to his feet as his wrist screamed in pain, and then fell again. This time, he couldn’t get to his feet, because the ground was moving.

What was happening? The ground was alive; Chen-Mai felt the rock jolt, ripple as if composed of something liquid, not solid. An earthquake. No—Chen-Mai tried to get his mind to work rationally—
not possible, the planet was dead, it was dead, the planet was dead!

Something sharp bit his cheek. Chen-Mai flinched, turned his face toward the arched ceiling of the tunnel. He heard the sharp pop and ping of compressed rock splintering, and then a long, loud roar as the mountain began to tear itself apart.

High above, the shock waves from the neutron star coupled with those from the brown star, and rolled over the fourth planet. In a few seconds, the landscape was flattened, the mountains collapsing in, falling toward the planet’s dead core.

And, deep underground, the rock groaned, opened beneath Chen-Mai’s feet. Screaming, he tumbled into the abyss.

And on to the fifth planet.

And, finally, into empty space.

“I can’t imagine what you expect of me,” said Mahfouz Qadir, in an oily tenor. He tweezed a tiny porcelain cup rimmed with gold from an equally fragile saucer and took a delicate sip of strong, sweet coffee. “You can’t expect that I keep track of every nursemaid, housemaid, and slut on Farius Prime.”

Halak’s swarthy features darkened with a rush of angry blood. “Dalal isn’t a slut, Qadir, and you know it. Now Dalal and Arava are gone, and I want to know where they are.”

“Or what?” Qadir replaced his cup upon its saucer with a soft click of china against china. He squared the saucer on a low carved wood table inlaid with a mosaic of jewels before inclining his head up at Halak who towered over him. “Supposing that I knew and was unwilling to tell you, then what? Eh? Are you threatening me, Samir? You,” Qadir’s bright, black eyes flicked right, “and this pretty Starfleet?”

Oh, brother,
thought Garrett. “You could say that.” She folded her arms across her chest. “About Starfleet, that is. Pretty, I couldn’t care less. This isn’t an official visit, though.”

“No? Then those uniforms, they don’t mean anything? The fact that your starship, bristling with armament, is parked in orbit, its weapons trained upon my home, this means nothing? You bring weapons to my house, weapons I must confiscate to ensure my safety, and then you make demands, and this is not official, not a threat from Starfleet? How am I to take this then? How would you, a reasonable woman, take this?”

Garrett wasn’t in the mood. “Don’t count on my being very reasonable. Frankly, you can take it any way you like, but the fact remains that one of your operatives posed as a Starfleet Intelligence officer, kidnapped my first officer, and endangered the lives of my crew. And you’re right; you’re damned lucky I don’t order my ship to vaporize this house of yours. Don’t think I’m not tempted.”

“You see?” Qadir slapped a palm against his thigh. “Threats. Where are your manners, Captain? You make wild accusations and demand information.” Qadir took up a silver tray of sweets and sugared dates that sat beside his coffee cup. “Captain, be reasonable,” he said, stirring pastries with one finger then plucking up a triangular date-filled pastry scented with rosewater. “I’m a businessman. Try to understand from my point of view. The first rule of business is quite simple. Nothing is free.” He popped the mamoul into his mouth and chewed with an air of supreme satisfaction. “Everything is for profit,” he said, around sweet date filling. “So I ask you: What do you offer in return?”

Ah. Garrett thought they’d get to it eventually. What was she willing to trade? “Information,” she said. “Pure and simple.”

Still chewing, Qadir replaced the tray of cakes. Swallowed. “What sort of information?”

“The Orion Syndicate.” She caught the flash of excitement in Qadir’s eyes and knew she had his attention.

“What of them?”

Garrett gave a faint smile, and she lifted a finger in admonishment. “No, no. This is the way it will go. You answer questions first. Then
I
give
you
information. Take it or leave it.”

“Hmmm.” Qadir considered. “What if I leave it?”

“Then I’ll make sure Starfleet sends patrols through this part of space on a regular basis. Be bad for business, all those official-looking ships out there.”

“They have no jurisdiction. They have no, what do you call it? Probable cause.”

“No one’s talking about a search. This is out-and-out harassment.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Sure we can. It’s free space, right? You’re not Federation, thank God, so who are you going to complain to? So, do we have a deal?”

Qadir settled back upon his pillows and considered. A wise move, Garrett thought, because the man had a lot to lose. Mahfouz Qadir’s house, with its grilled screened windows and lush tapestries and thick marble walls, was located on a black basalt promontory that jutted out into the Galldean Sea, Qadir’s riyad—his garden where they were now—was tucked in an open courtyard that was shaded by orange, cypress, and lemon trees. In the center, squatting beneath the shade of a vaulted Earth-style Moroccan gazebo, was a low divan of green silk with a carved bloodwood frame so dark it was almost black, and on the divan, tucked amongst pillows of gold and iridescent peacock blue, sprawled Mahfouz Qadir.

He was not, Garrett had decided, an attractive man. His skin was sallow, and he had too much flesh on a frame that was much too small. She thought it likely that the man hadn’t seen his own feet for over a decade. His face was very round, with jowls that substituted for a neck, and his lips were small, with a pronounced cupid’s bow. But if he had the face of fat cherub, his eyes were those of a Donoor rat: like shiny black marbles.

Those eyes gave her a shrewd look. “Very well,” Qadir announced. “I accept. But I want a retainer. How else am I to judge that my information is worth the price?”

“All right. Two words.” She held up first one finger, then a second. “Talma Pren.”

Qadir’s rat’s eyes narrowed. “Done.”

“Where’s Dalal?” Halak said.

Qadir steepled his pudgy fingers together. “As I said, I am not responsible for every woman on the planet, but,” he held up a hand, palm out, as Halak took a step forward, “it so happens that I do know of a case very similar to what you have described. I am afraid, however, that the woman in question is dead.”

Halak’s voice came as an astonished whisper. “Dead?”

“Yes. It appears that someone broke into her home and murdered her. The apartment was ransacked, some valuables taken, the perpetrators not apprehended,” he waved a hand, and his jeweled rings sparkled, “and that is all.”

For a moment, Halak didn’t move. Then he started forward. “That’s all? That’s
all?”

“Commander!” Garrett put a restraining hand on Halak’s arm. Halak’s arm was stiff and rigid as iron beneath her hand, but she felt him tremble, and she heard the harsh rasp of his breath. “Back down, mister.”

Halak gave her a quick nod then looked back at Qadir. Hatred blazed in his eyes. “What about Arava?” Halak asked, his voice thick with emotion. “Where is Arava? Where is Klar? Are they dead, too?”

Qadir, who hadn’t flinched a muscle during all of this, gazed up with an expression of calm serenity. “No. They’re safe.”

“I don’t believe you. I can’t find them.”

“I said they were safe. I did not say that they were easily located.”

“Where are they?”

Qadir inhaled deeply, sighed. In the silence, Garrett heard the lazy drone of a fly.

“A question,” said Qadir and then, in a quick aside to Garrett, “Just one.”

Garrett gave a miniscule nod. Qadir trained his gaze on Halak. “If I tell you, what will you do?”

“I take her as far away from here as I can, as quickly as I can.”

“And she does not come back, correct?” Qadir zeroed in on Halak. “More importantly,
you
do not return, yes?”

“Not in a million years.”

“You relinquish all claims?”

Halak’s eyes slid quickly to Garret then back to Qadir. “Whatever deals you made, you made with my father. I am not my father’s son, not in that way.”

“Yes,” said Qadir, his oily tone faintly derisive, “you’re reborn, in Starfleet now. Found yourself a new family, eh? Cleaner? More to your liking?”

When Halak didn’t answer, Qadir’s pink lips puckered. “Well, I suspect that once Starfleet knows everything there is to know about you, they might not
want
you for a son. Every family exacts its own price for loyalty.”

“But that’s my problem, isn’t it? Not yours. Now, I’ve answered your questions. You answer mine.”

Qadir studied Halak for another brief moment. Then he gave a backhanded wave of dismissal. “I’ll have her brought here. Take her, and welcome to her.”

“And the boy.”

“Yes, of course, of course. But, you,” Qadir flicked a jeweled index finger at Garrett, “she won’t be as useful as you think. Her information is obsolete.”

“That’s not for me to decide, and I really don’t care,” said Garrett.

“Then we both don’t.” Qadir gave a good-natured shrug. “And now, information, yes?”

Garrett turned to Halak. “Wait outside.” When he hesitated, she said, “Go. I’ll be right with you.”

Qadir’s eyes followed Halak as he walked out of the courtyard and disappeared into the house. “A difficult man. You’ll have your hands full, Captain, presuming he’s allowed to remain on duty, eh? Assuming he’s not court-martialed, sent to prison?”

“Stop fishing.” Garrett did not return the smile. “Whatever happens, I’m sure you’ll be one of the first to know.”

“Eyes and ears, Captain,” said Qadir. “You know, there’s
a fascinating bit of Earth history I learned the other day. Did you know that Queen Elizabeth I had a most advanced spy network? Sir Francis Walsingham ran it, and legend has it that his network was so extensive and advanced it was the envy of its day. And everyone knew it, you see, that he was Elizabeth’s eyes and ears; that someone was always listening for her, watching. So when some court painter did Elizabeth’s portrait, he incorporated the most ingenious thing, a bit of code. She wears a beautiful orange mantle and if you look very carefully, you see that he’s painted tiny embroidered eyes and ears all over the cloak. Eyes and ears, Captain,” Qadir touched a finger to the corner of one of his bright, black eyes and then to the lobe of his ear, “eyes and ears.”

“Then let’s talk about one of
your
spies, shall we? Talma Pren.”

Qadir reclined on his gold and peacock blue pillows, like a child settling in for a good story. “Yes, what of Talma? Do you know I can’t find that girl anywhere? You can be sure, I’m going to give her a talking to.”

“That’s going to be a little hard. She’s dead,” said Garrett, and saw the genuine surprise in Qadir’s eyes.
Gotcha.
“Incinerated in a stolen Vulcan warpshuttle. Would you like to know how and why?”

“Please.”

“It goes like this, Qadir. Talma worked for you, a middleman I’m guessing, someone who ran interference between your mercenaries and the organization itself. So she’d be privy to a lot of information, know about your distribution corridors, where you’re getting arms and to whom you’re selling them, how you network red ice, things like that.”

“I run a legitimate business, dealing in antiques and archaeological oddities. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Garrett lifted an eyebrow. “I’m not bugged, if that’s what you’re worried about. Besides, you said it: The Federation has no jurisdiction here. Anyway, I’ll bet you that Talma Pren looked around at all this,” she motioned to include Qadir’s house, the riyad, “and wanted more. As you said, every family has its price, and I guess you weren’t paying her enough. Then along comes Laura Burke ...”

“Burke, Laura Burke,” Qadir said, a pudgy finger to his lips. “Who is this Burke?”

“Save it.” Garrett tone was caustic. “You have eyes and ears; don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“And what if I did?”

“You’re a businessman, Qadir. You know what would happen if word got out that, somehow, you let a Starfleet Intelligence operative into your organization. So you sent Talma, whom you trusted implicitly, to get rid of her. Only Talma outfoxed you, and she did a number on Starfleet Intelligence, too. She rigged the explosion on Burke’s shuttle, but then she assumed Burke’s identity. Only
you
would know that Talma had been with Burke, and so you’d assume Talma was dead. It was perfect because when Talma, posing as Burke, showed up again, you’d naturally assume that Talma’s plan had failed and Burke had, somehow, gotten away.”

“But for what reason?”

“Talma knew you were after the portal. Hell, she probably arranged it for you,” said Garrett, knowing that Qadir had no way of knowing that the portal did not exist, nor what they’d found beneath the surface of that dead planet. “She knew what was going down. So after Halak showed up and provided a very convenient cover, she knew that all she had to do was pose as an intelligence agent, take Halak, and use
him
as a middleman. She’d never be directly implicated; Talma Pren’s dead, after all. So she’d get the portal and whatever else your mercenaries found—they’d all die, by the way—and it’s likely that you’d believe the expedition was a failure, and she’d walk away, probably with more than a small fortune.”

Qadir picked up his gold-rimmed coffee cup, studied its contents for a moment then replaced it without drinking. “That’s a very nice story. But you’ve overlooked one thing. Of what possible use would the portal be for Talma? Talma runs ... ran nothing.”

“In
your
organization. It’s so obvious even you must see it, Qadir. Talma worked for the Orion Syndicate, and that’s how she managed to convince Burke that she’d be as good a contact as Arava, except Arava passed information to Starfleet, and Talma played both sides.” She didn’t add that this was the only way Talma Pren could have known about Halak and his forged documentation. Halak’s brother Baatin had given these documents to Halak, and used Orion Syndicate contacts to arrange for Halak’s disappearance.

“When she was posing as Burke, she mentioned that Orion Syndicate operatives are scattered throughout your organization. I just didn’t put it together until later that she was talking about herself, too.” Garrett gave Qadir a look of mock sympathy. “You’re going to have a really tough time knowing who to trust from now on.” (She didn’t add that Starfleet Intelligence would be all over Qadir’s case like Xanarian fleas.)