Heizis glowers at me over a litter of triangular Romulan datapads. To be honest, "glower" seems to be her default expression anyway. Her ready room is sparsely furnished, but it runs to two spare chairs. I sit on one, and put my armoured boots up on the other.
"So," I say, "you got any leads at all, then?"
She glares some more and waves her hand at the datapads. "Many. My automated systems are running comparisons and correlations now. If you wish to help -" She grabs a stack of datapads and shoves it towards me. "Unfiltered comms intercepts from the past twenty days. Be my guest."
I don't know how many kiloquads of data a Romulan datapad holds, but just the fact that it takes more than one to hold this data... well, I ain't gonna have time to read it all before bedtime, put it that way. "We have got to develop some leads of our own," I say. "Can't just carry on dancing to Thrang's tune...."
"Do we even have a tune to dance to?" Heizis asks.
"Well," I say, "yeah. Got another message over the same encrypted comms channel that aimed us at Nimbus III. This time, the invite's to the shipyards at Nali Caerodi. Ferengi Alliance territory. I'm figuring it'll wind up with me being whacked on the head and shoved out an airlock by a bunch of Hupyrian goons, this time." Hupyrians are reliable, they stay bought when you pay them, they have no sense of humour and don't get distracted, and they're about seven feet tall and built like rocks. Ferengi use 'em a lot as bodyguards and such, I'm guessing Thrang will figure they're worth the investment too.
"That would seem to fit the pattern," Heizis mutters. Her eyes are turned back towards the datapads. Her eyelids and sclera look greenish - bloodshot, in a Reman.
"So can we maybe break this pattern, preferably before it breaks me? I always thought working for Intelligence was supposed to be a desk job, anyway."
"Our last attempt did not end well, if you remember," Heizis snaps. "My ship barely escaped, and there were casualties -" She puts some emphasis on that last word. Funny, I'd have figured her to be the type that thinks of the crew as expendable. Well, she's gone up a notch or two in my estimation, anyway. Doesn't help the immediate problem, though.
"So let's figure this out," I said. "These 'meet me in a dark alley at midnight' messages have to come from somewhere, right? OK, it's anonymized and routed through several dozen commercial subspace networks, but there's gotta be a point where it enters the system -"
"It may even be in those comms intercepts," says Heizis, tapping the stack. "Or it may not. We cannot monitor all subspace transmissions, everywhere - but we can monitor far more than we can intelligently listen to."
It's one of the oldest problems in signals intelligence. Ever since high-bandwidth communications were invented, intelligence analysts have been swamped with chatter to wade through. Ninety-nine and nine nines per cent of it is irrelevant to what we're looking for - heck, most of it isn't relevant to anybody, even the people sending it. And, of the stuff we find that is relevant... half the time, the relevance only shows up in hindsight. Lots of people talk about killing the Federation President or the Klingon Chancellor, for example, but you only know which ones mean it when the bodies start to hit the floor.
But. An encrypted subspace message reached me. Signals analysis identified the immediate transmitter, but that was just the last step in a chain of relays. And the message itself was disguised at several points - bundled as a signals overlay on something innocuous, inserted into one network by an unscheduled pre-empt... we can backtrack it a long way, but the odds are that it started life in some anonymous public comms centre somewhere, and Kalevar Thrang just walked off the street, rented a terminal for five minutes, sent the message and was off on his merry way.
Thrang. The guy gets about. And at this point, he really shouldn't be able to.
"He breezes in and out of First City," I mutter.
"Thrang? Apparently so," says Heizis.
"Well, that shouldn't happen, should it? I mean, OK, it's a city, not a secure installation, but by now. Imperial Intelligence must have a net over the place that a cockroach couldn't get through. So how's Thrang managing it?"
"A question I would like to ask him," says Heizis.
"He's very hands-on, isn't he? Zooming around the quadrant, dosing his agents in person... you'd think his organization, his backers, would handle some of the work load for him."
Heizis grunts. "Possibly this is one reason why we still have no idea who those backers are."
"'kay. I'm just wondering, though... suppose he's sending these messages through, well, some regular spot? Something he uses, or at least revisits?"
"Thrang visits a great many places, apparently," Heizis says.
"All the more reason," I say, "why he'd want a communications facility he could rely on. Something he knows is there when he needs it, when he's making a dash between his magic dissolving agents to stop them from dissolving. See what I mean?"
"Wishful thinking. We live in an age where communications are commonplace. Thrang will have no difficulty finding a transmitter."
"Well, it's worth checking, isn't it? I know it ain't much, but it's something."
Heizis sighs. "Do you have the available data on the transmission routes of your message?"
I fish in one cargo pocket and pull out a PADD. "It's on here." Actually, so's a lot of other stuff, some of which I would normally worry about a KDF-Republic operative seeing. These ain't normal times, though. I flip the PADD at Heizis, who fields it adroitly. "Got some of the same messages to Starfleet's other intel teams, too."
Heizis grunts. "That is encouraging," she says, with an ironic edge. The sad fact is that, beaten up by Orions, Thexemians, Gorn and warriguls as we are, we are doing better, so far, than any other operations I know about. Eta Meridia was a bust, the only contact Thrang had there was the late and unlamented Mirankar Ostrogolus. The operatives on Sherman's Planet ran into an independent Orion slaving company, and some rather tense negotiations are going on between the Federation and the Syndicate about ransoming them back. As for the chaos on Demara V, where our own people were mouse-trapped into a three-cornered firefight between Federation Security, Republic Intelligence, and the guys we're not supposed to know are Section 31... well, the less said about that particular Charlie Foxtrot, the better. Personally, I'm starting to think Obisek and the Reman underground have the right idea. They're sitting tight at the Vault, sending invitations to Thrang's agents to come and meet them, there. So far, no one's taken them up on it. But, on the other hand, nobody's shooting at the Remans, or dissolving them, or setting packs of warriguls on them, so maybe they're ahead of the game, there.
"Most of the relays are along the main Federation data transfer backbones," Heizis muses. "But the message most likely originates either in Klingon or Orion space, and that means it must travel along their data backbones. Since our grand alliance has yet to result in any unified communications infrastructure... it is the points of transfer which might prove interesting."
Then she sits forward a bit, and her little green-rimmed eyes narrow. "Hmm," she says. "Interesting."
I swing my boots off the spare chair so's I can sit up straight myself. "What is?"
"One of the data relays in the Neutral Zone," says Heizis. "Orbiting Dexian VII, in the Eta Eridani sector.... It has recently changed ownership. And the new owners... are K-T MMA. Thrang's own mutual protection society."
"Oho," I say.
"It is probably just a coincidence," says Heizis. "This group is expanding, it needs communications infrastructure of its own. This must be one of many acquisitions in and around the Neutral Zone."
"Yeah," I say.
"Thrang would be a fool to have something so obviously traceable," says Heizis.
"Yeah," I say again.
Heizis sits back in her chair and eyes me. "You want to investigate it anyway," she says.
"Well, yeah," I say. "Two main reasons. First off, we need some sort of info about K-T MMA and whatever the hell it's up to, and this is a good way to start eavesdropping on their communications. Second off, the only alternative seems to be Nali Caerodi, and I do not want to get beaten up by Hupyrians. Can't stand the smell of that beetle snuff."
---
The Dexian system consists of a bunch of class D planets, lumps of rock spat out by a star that looks like it wasn't even trying to make a proper solar system. Planet VII is actually one of the more appealing of the bunch; its surface is dirty white with water ice, and it has a sort-of apology for an atmosphere, mostly carbon dioxide and methane.
The communications relay is a big thing, four antennae reaching out for kilometres in a cruciform structure, with a big metal drum-shape beneath that. Our ships look quite puny as they approach it.
"Shielding for the central power core and support systems," Ajbit reports. "The cylinder also contains a habitation module - basic thing, just for temporary support staff, I'd guess. No life signs at present." She turns a sour face towards me. "I am reading high-intensity transporter inhibitors."
"Let's have a look." I wander over to the science console. I'm starting to get the hang of these big domed Hazari consoles, now. I take a look, and whistle. High intensity is right. I try to beam over to that station, I get reassembled at the other end as a bucketload of premier-grade Talaxian fishpaste. We need another approach.
"I have Palatine on secure comms," Hal Welti tells me.
"Oh, yeah, right, put her through."
Heizis's face appears on the main screen. I ignore her for a moment. Dechenchholing's sensors are pretty good, and the internal structure of that relay is coming up neatly on the console. Heck, it's mostly assembled out of standard components, we've even got schematics on file for some of it....
"I hate to interrupt," says Heizis, "but -"
"Yeah, right,"I say. "We need to get aboard that thing, don't we? And with those transporter inhibitors, we can't do it the easy way."
"The airlock on the habitation module will be secure," says Heizis. "And a shuttlecraft will certainly be tracked on approach - even if I send my gig under cloak, it will have to decloak to dock with the module."
I study the schematics, and find what I'm looking for. "Not a problem. This place has a back door, we'll use that. Well, I will."
"A back door?" She looks genuinely nonplussed. I should take a picture of that expression.
"The cylinder is open at the antennae end. I just spacewalk across to there, make my way inside, and get in through the auxiliary inspection hatch. Here." I tap a point on the console display. "It's a standard multi-purpose module, it's got access points for use in atmosphere. Obviously, they're going to be dogged down now, but that's no problem, I just take a force field projector with me and set up an air-filled bubble where I work on the hatch. Then I get inside, gimmick any remaining security, set up a data tap -"
"And the Palatine will run an immediate intel analysis," says Heizis. "We have the specialist facilities, after all. Very well. Proceed."
It doesn't take long to suit up, even with Ajbit giving me the evil eye all the time. She's given up on telling me to leave this stuff to junior officers. Anyway, this is a walk in the park. No life signs, no power signatures from automated weapons or suchlike - this is a straightforward get-in, get-out.
So I go through the airlock, and step out into space. Weight leaves me, and the suit thrusters kick in. My trajectory is plotted automatically, and I have nothing to do but admire the view until I get inside the cylinder. It's not much of a view. Dexian VII is a grubby disc beneath me, and the ships are parked alongside the relay, and, well, that's it. It's space. Didn't think I'd ever get jaded about space, but hey.
The open girders of the antennae loom up overhead, and the thrusters kick me again, and I travel over the lip of the cylinder and down inside. The central power core is a big metal sphere surrounded by a tangle of pipes and cables and deuterium tanks; the habitation module is an afterthought tacked on to the complex. I aim myself at it. As I get close, I feel a tug, and I switch the thrusters to manual and guide myself gently down onto the roof. Artificial gravity, spilling outside the module, just enough to affect me. Makes it a bit easier to work, in fact.
I set up the field projector, and a shimmering ghostly dome encloses me. I open the valve on the tank strapped to my back, and air gushes out. I don't open the suit, though. The air will be cold as anything. Frost blooms across the metal roof of the module; shielded from sunlight, it is bitterly cold itself. My gloved hands are a little clumsy on the inspection hatch, but it's easy enough to open it - nobody really expected this sort of approach, I think. I worm my way through, into the module.
It's basic, all right - life support, communal living quarters for maybe four people, and a main computer room. Computer room's all I need. I find myself a console and hack it in a couple of minutes. It's all standard stuff, we have the details on file, and my data intrusion packages are decidedly not standard. I open up a channel to the Palatine. "I'm in," I say to the scowling Reman who appears on the screen.
"Obviously," says Heizis. "Standing ready to receive data."
I fiddle with the console, slot an isolinear chip into a standard interface socket. "Here we go." The console flickers and beeps a bit as Starfleet Intelligence infiltration routines basically pwn the commercial security software. "OK. This thing is now our zombie servant. Transmitting." We'll start with the communications logs, and all the stored traffic records, and then we'll set it up to blind-carbon-copy every message it receives over to us.
"Data receipt confirmed," says Heizis. "So far, everything is going to plan." She sounds grudging. Then her shadowed eyes widen. "What did you just do?"
I glance at the console. It looks normal to me. "Didn't do nuffink," I say.
"There was a sudden spike in the data transfer," says Heizis. "Let me analyze -"
Then the screen goes blank. OK, so that wasn't in the plan. I hit the suit's comms. "Hey, guys. Is something up with the Palatine?"
"Not that I can see." Ajbit's voice. "They're off comms, but - Pex." Now she sounds urgent. "Sensor contact on approach."
OK, I tell myself, don't panic. "What is it?"
"A ship. Can't get a proper reading - it's got some sort of stealth field, and it's very fast."
Oh, boy. One guy we know has a fast stealthy ship. Oh boy. This can't really be a coincidence, can it? "Raise the Palatine. And go to red alert. I'm gonna try and gimmick those transporter inhibitors so you can get me out of here." OK, maybe a bit of panic. I look around -
There is a sudden glare of red light. Something smashes into my back, and I go sprawling over the console. Someone is grappling me from behind, holding me down. I reach for the phaser holstered at my hip, and my arm is pinioned in another grasp. More than one, and some of them are very strong. No need to ask who they are, too. You can beam through transporter inhibitors just fine, if you're the one who set them up, and you know their frequencies.
My arms are trapped. I'm hauled off my feet and turned around. To face -
"We have a guest." Red eyes in a leathery demon mask. Lethean. Trying to smile, which really doesn't improve things. "Welcome, guest," he continues. "Let's go somewhere we can be comfortable."
No comments:
Post a Comment