During the Dominion occupation of 2374, Jem'Hadar soldiers trampled more than just the soil of this peaceful Federation planet. The emotional scars of that violent invasion have remained all these decades since the war ended, and now it appears that some Betazoid citizens have taken it upon themselves to exact justice for the war crimes committed by the Dominion forces. Free Vorta and Jem'Hadar now seek membership in Starfleet, and serve aboard countless ships across the quadrant, but we have received disturbing reports that some have been the recent victims of an as yet unknown form of psychic assassination. Starfleet has sent you and your crew to investigate these inexcusable attacks, and bring the perpetrators to justice. We cannot forget the events that took place on Betazed, but we cannot risk further provocation in the eyes of the Dominion by allowing these attacks to continue.]
[This is actually out of sequence, in terms of the lit challenge threads in the Star Trek Online forums... but it fits in, chronologically, between the end of "Fallout" and Tylha being on holiday in London at the start of "Heresy", so here's where it's going.]
Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding RXS-43 Bluff King Hal
Anthi Vihl is sitting on a sort of throne, upholstered in leather that shimmers with golden highlights, its flared armrests cushioned with white fur. In front of her, the control console is made of some dark hardwood, polished to an impeccable gloss, studded with sapphires, rubies and diamonds that serve as control buttons. Despite all this, she still looks perfectly composed and professional.
"I still can't believe you wangled one of these things, sir," she says.
I lean back and snuggle against my furry headrest. The command chair of the Risian corvette makes Anthi's seat look like a folding camp stool in comparison. "Fastest thing in Federation space," I say. "While King Estmere's in the yards, this is an ideal opportunity for Experimental Engineering to get some solid performance data on those engines."
"Of course it is, sir," says my exec, dryly. She glances around. "And this looks a real vision of the bridge of the next generation of Starfleet warships."
"Well, we might have slightly fewer pot plants," I say. "Still, it's a good way to travel, isn't it? Let's get to warp. Navigational deflectors to full, bring warp core intermix to criticality... raise footrest... activate back massager." As an afterthought, I add, "And run full subspace sensors, I'd like to get some readouts on our drive fields." The trip back to Earth should be swift and uneventful, but I might as well gather some more data along the way.
"Skipper." F'hon Tlaxx turns to me; the communications position is decorated with all sorts of gilded horns and trumpets, out of which his blue face peers in confusion. "Getting a distress signal - commercial freighter, SS Dharsour - says there are casualties aboard."
"Oh, right." Bang goes the uneventful trip. "Maximum speed to their location; advise them we're en route to assist; alert Dr. Beresford and medical section to accept incoming wounded."
---
The freighter is a giant ugly conglomeration of shipping and passenger modules, nearly a kilometer and a half long. Floating in the void beside it is a much smaller craft: the familiar stubby shape of a Danube-class runabout.
"Registry checks out as SS Dharsour, USS Liffey - decommissioned in 2398, released to the Betazed civil authorities for use as a transport," rumbles Three of Eight. The nightmarish shape of the former Borg looks very out of place in the luxurious setting of the corvette's bridge. "No life signs on the Liffey."
"Skipper," says F'hon, "I've got Captain Dadb of the Dharsour on the line."
"Let's hear it."
The freighter captain is a Tellarite, short and dark, with typical Tellarite directness. "I've got three dead bodies on board," he says, "and no idea how they got dead. At least, I've got no idea - this Betazoid special investigator says he knows, but -"
"Special investigator?" I ask.
Dadb looks sourly at me. "He turned up with a bunch of dire warnings a couple of days ago," he says. "I've got him right here if you want to talk to him. If you think it'll do any good."
"Just a moment." I hit the intercom switch. "Tell Dr. Beresford to go to level one quarantine and decontamination protocol - unexplained deaths. And get Commander Yulan up to the bridge, I'd like her input." I look back to the screen. "Bulpli Yulan is my security commander, and she's a Betazoid. Maybe she can put her head together with your guy."
A new voice speaks from the viewer, a sharp, precise tenor: "No. I have explained this to Captain Dadb, now I will explain it to you. This is a murder by a Betazoid terrorist group, and the perpetrators have undoubtedly fled already - a cloaked ship will have come in to make pickup." A man steps into the screen's field of view; short, stocky, with crew-cut iron-grey hair and black Betazoid eyes.
I turn to Three. "Likely?"
"Not possible," Three says. "No warp signatures except the three vessels currently present."
"There you are, then," I say. "You can't cloak the subspace disturbance of a warp signature, and we have our sensors out at full capacity. There's been no cloaked ship. If there's been a murder done, the murderers must still be here."
---
The Betazoid investigator's name is Lounis Parrion. He stands in the improvised mortuary aboard the Dharsour, and regards us unsympathetically with those dead black eyes. Before him, three sheet-covered forms lie on three tables. The air is very cold, and shimmers with the glow of an anti-microbial field.
"Lanek'idon," he says, indicating one still form. "Akat'itil. And Enel Murcett. Two Jem'Hadar, on their way to Vulcan to participate in trials of a ketracel substitute. And a retired Cardassian military officer. I think he must have been the main target - our intelligence suggests as much. The Jem'Hadar were - a bonus. As it were."
On my left side, Samantha Beresford is scanning the medical records and comparing them with her tricorder scans. On my right, Bulpli Yulan stands very still. The statuesque Betazoid's eyes are just as black, and just as watchful, as her compatriot's.
"No micro-organisms, no toxins," Samantha mutters. "Signs of neurochemical imbalances... I guess it's consistent with some sort of telepathic effect." She shakes her head. "It's a diagnosis of exclusion, of course...."
"Nevertheless," says Parrion, "that is what it is. Believe me. I know."
"The Sword of Betazed," says Bulpli in flat tones. "Or whatever they're calling themselves these days."
Parrion gives a curt nod. "I've devoted my whole career to hunting these people," he says. "Seventeen separate incidents - some like this one, others much worse. And in all that time, I have only brought two of the terrorists to justice. These people are fanatics, skilled, powerful, and dangerous. They strike, and they fade back into the shadows -"
"Well, they can't fade this time," I say. "My ship's detectors are full out - nobody is entering or leaving the vicinity without us knowing about it. So, they've got to be aboard this ship, still. It's a big ship, but it's not so big that we can't search it from top to bottom."
"And what then?" asks Parrion. "These terrorists are psychic assassins, trained in mind manipulation, deception, illusion, psychic assault. What chance does your security stand, against talents like that?"
"We've got our own talents." I glance at Bulpli; her face is stone. "My crew includes Betazoids, Vulcans, Remans, even an Aenar. We can use our own psi-talented people to supplement the security details. Maybe they're not up to the standard of these terrorists... but, if they can block them long enough for an ordinary security trooper to fire an ordinary phaser -"
Parrion shakes his head. "Perhaps," he says doubtfully, "perhaps. But your chances are not good, even so."
---
Back aboard the Bluff King Hal, I ask Bulpli, "So, what can you tell me?"
"About what?" She looks strained, uncomfortable. It's unusual, for her. "The deaths? Parrion is almost certainly right. The situation as a whole?... To tell you the truth, sir, he's probably right about that too."
"The Sword of Betazed," I say. "Who are they?"
Bulpli's expression grows yet more troubled. "Back in the Dominion War, the Jem'Hadar and the Cardassians attacked and conquered Betazed."
I nod, silently. I know this; everyone knows this. It was one of the darkest days of the Dominion War. The Founders' forces struck with terrible precision and overwhelming force, overrunning the planetary defences in a mere ten hours, and exposing the heart of the Federation to the dangers of attack. Bulpli continues, "It was a military occupation, with... all that implies. The Dominion and the Cardassians have a reputation. They - did things to earn it. I was too young to remember, but some people have never forgotten. Never been able to forget."
Her tone hardens. "You know about the Cardassians' intransigence with regard to suspected war criminals. When it became clear that no one would be held to account -"
"Those who couldn't forget... couldn't let it pass," I finish for her.
"Yes. We're not a warrior culture like you Andorians, we don't have much in the way of weapons or military tradition. What we do have... is our psi abilities." Her eyes are haunted, now. "We are trained to respect them, to respect the minds we touch. Our sense of ethics, of propriety, should prevent any abuses of psi power. But, given enough motivation, those ethics can be overriden. The reprisal groups - they've called themselves the Sword of Betazed, they've used other names as well - have managed to overcome their scruples."
"I... see."
"I'm not sure you do, sir. Being a psi-assassin like these people... it's not like learning to use a gun or a knife, or even learning a martial art. It means making your self into a weapon. Your soul, if you will."
I think about that. I'd prefer not to think about it. "What about the people the Betazed government sends after them, then? Special investigators like this Parrion?"
"They... have to understand how these things work. They're trained, in theory, up to the same pitch as the terrorists themselves. Our government has very few investigators like Parrion, and those they have, they support with resources and wide latitude of action. Sir, we don't have the people to match Parrion, or the Sword terrorists. I might be able to block out a Sword attack for a short time... there are very few others aboard who could."
"Who?"
"Zodes Andeteph, probably. Temerix, almost certainly." The Aenar and the Reman - well, I knew something of their abilities. "Anyone else, I'm not sure. Commander Sirip has some training, maybe some of the other Vulcans too, but I wouldn't place much reliance on it."
"All right." I sit back and consider. "Then we'll do as much as possible with mechanical aids. These Sword guys can't fool a sensor scan from a ship a couple of kilometers away from them, can they?"
"I wouldn't think so, sir." Bulpli shakes her head. "It's getting closer that will be the problem."
---
Hours pass. Bluff King Hal's sensors may not be up to a Starfleet science vessel's standards, but they're good enough for this. I have to believe this.
If we can account for all the crew and passengers on the ship, then any anomalous life signs in unexpected places must be our killers. The problem, of course, is that the Dharsour is huge and full of hiding places, and it has four hundred crew and more than a thousand passengers. Searching it could take days, maybe even weeks.
Another possibility, though, is that the terrorists are part of the crew or the passengers... in which case, a detailed study of the ship's security recordings is what we need. Eyewitnesses, I suppose, would have had their senses or their memories blanked out by the Sword terrorists' psi abilities - but security holo-recordings don't lie, don't have minds to manipulate. Given time and attention to detail, it will be possible to reconstruct the movements of everyone aboard that ship - it's a huge task, but it's feasible.
And I'm willing to give this one all the time and effort it needs... because these terrorists need to be caught.
---
The freighter's passenger section includes one compartment that's fitted out for a group of beings from Cyereg XVI. They're a life form which flourishes at temperatures far below most humanoid limits - even a Breen would freeze in their comfort zone. The compartment is shielded, sealed, and surrounded by elaborate refrigeration equipment. As a hiding place, it seems impossible - and the very impossibility of it, perversely, appeals to my way of thinking.
I'm standing in an inspection hatch, waist-deep in piping for the refrigerants, when Parrion finds me. He stands over me, looking down with those black eyes, and says, "This is pointless."
"Well," I say, "it was just an idea. There are all sorts of nooks and crannies in a system this size -"
"Not this specific thing," Parrion says. "Your whole search." His voice is flat, hard and angry.
I clamber out of the inspection hatch. He doesn't offer to help. "Sensor scans and forensic searches should work, surely?" I say. "These people aren't magicians. They might deceive or confuse sentient minds, but they can't fool machines."
"Your machines," Parrion says, "are read by sentient minds. Your sensors are being watched by operators, Vice Admiral, and those operators will see whatever the terrorists want them to see. If a cloaked ship approaches - or, rather, when - no matter how sensitive your tachyon scans and subspace detectors, your crew simply won't see what's on their screens. The only way to deal with these people is to confront them with a mind as highly trained as their own. A resource you do not have."
"Except for you."
"Yes. I'm the only expert here, Vice Admiral, and I'm telling you this is pointless. The terrorists have either gone already, or will be gone soon. Perhaps an exhaustive analysis of your sensor data will tell you, much later, when they escaped - but you can't prevent them from escaping."
His voice softens slightly. "You should give up, Vice Admiral. You've given it your best shot, no one could fault you for that. But you are simply not equipped to deal with this. Go back to where you can do some real good."
I close the cover of the inspection hatch. He sounds so damned reasonable, that's the worst of it. But I hate to give up - but maybe he's right. After all, he is the expert.
"I'll... go back to my ship," I say, "and - and reassess the situation."
He nods, seemingly satisfied. "Think about it, Vice Admiral." And he turns and goes.
---
He's right, of course. I lean back on the couch in my sumptuous ready room, stare at the ornamental mouldings on the ceiling, and admit to myself: he's right.
But it goes against the grain... I suppose I'm used to finding a technological solution; to using the sophisticated machinery and the raw power of a starship to solve my problems. It galls me that this situation doesn't allow for that. All those sensor arrays, all that computing power... useless, because the minds behind it can so easily be influenced.
There is, of course, my android officer, Amiga - maybe she wouldn't be affected. But there's only one of her, and versatile though she is, she can't be posted at every potential escape route.
I stare at the ceiling and sigh.
Yes, Parrion is right. Probably. But there's still a little nagging worm of doubt, somewhere in my mind....
I stand up, go to the comms unit, and call Bulpli Yulan. "Parrion wants us to quit," I say, without preamble.
Bulpli's voice sounds low and depressed. "Let's face it, sir, he's the one who'd know. Whether we were doing any good, that is."
"Yes... I suppose so.... Bulpli, are these Sword guys really such - psychic supermen, though? There's kilometres of empty space between us and them, not to mention deflector shields, metal hulls - can they really reach the minds of our sensor operators?"
"It's - well, Parrion says they can. And he'd know... he managed to take a couple of them down, after all. He's got first-hand knowledge of their capabilities."
"Seventeen incidents, he says. And only two arrests. It's not an encouraging track record."
"It's better than some other special investigators," Bulpli says. "Though I gather he had a stroke of luck - the two he captured had been on the wrong end of some internal power play among the Sword. We think of these terror groups as - well, as monolithic - but they have their internal dissensions, and Parrion was lucky enough, and good enough, to take advantage of one."
"Hmm." That nagging doubt is still there. "Let's keep going for... another day, let's say. Then we can reassess, and if we're still making no progress, we'll take Parrion's advice." I sigh. "I'll sleep on it. Maybe a night's sleep will put things in perspective."
And I go to bed. And four hours later, I awaken, and that nagging worm of doubt has grown to a colossal dragon.
---
"Sorry, sir," says Klerupiru. The Ferengi data-warfare expert blinks and yawns. "I was asleep," she says, with a touch of reproach. Of course, Ferengi - like so many other humanoids, unlike us Andorians - have regular sleep cycles.
"Sorry," I say, without much sincerity. "But this is important. I think I know what we're looking for, and you three -" I look from Klerupiru to Three of Eight, then to Amiga "- are my best chance to find it."
"A computer problem?" says Amiga, her metal eyes gleaming.
"A computer and a telepathic security problem," I say. "Ferengi minds are opaque to most telepaths, right? Four-lobed brains. Likewise, your positronic matrix, Amiga, and your Borg modifications, Three, have got to make you hard to read, at the least."
"Conceivably," rumbles Three. "Though, if the Sword of Betazed has the capacities ascribed to it -"
"I'm not so sure it does," I say. "But, in any case, I don't want you going over to the Dharsour. If there's anything you can't get by remote access to their computers, tell me, and I will get someone to go and get it. I won't go myself, because I'm damned sure I don't have any telepathic defences worth speaking of." I look around the computer lab. "Ideally, I don't want any of us to leave this room. Not until we're sure."
"Sure of what, sir?" Klerupiru asks.
I tell them.
---
Time passes. The three computer experts work their own particular magic, and I sit and watch, and worry.
I try not to think about what they're doing. I try to concentrate on something else, and then I worry that thinking about something else will look suspicious, but I can't think about what they're doing, as that will look suspicious, and anyway, if I'm right, all this worrying is pointless, because I'm too far away for my thoughts to be detected... unless I'm wrong... unless I'm wrong about one thing, and right about others, which I can't think about, but which I also can't stop thinking about....
Fortunately, they find the answer before I go mad.
"You're right, sir," says Klerupiru. She looks surprised. I would feel insulted, except the conclusion is surprising.
My combadge chirps at me. "Shohl."
"Skipper." F'hon's voice. "Parrion has beamed back aboard his runabout. He's signalled us - preparing to depart."
So, he is that good. Or he's trying to pre-empt my decision. Either way, my course of action is clear. "Go to red alert. Stop him."
"Sir?" F'hon sounds puzzled. But he doesn't let that slow him down; the alert sirens are sounding while I sprint to the bridge.
I charge through the doors to a reception committee of baffled stares. Anthi is there, and F'hon, and Bulpli - "Get the ship moving. Full impulse. We need to stop that runabout before it goes to warp."
"Sir, what's going on?" Anthi asks.
I sink down into the embrace of the command chair. "I finally figured it out. It's like that old saw, about the one common factor in all your failed relationships." I look at Bulpli. "Seventeen terrorist incidents, and who's the only powerful telepath we know was there every time?"
"But -" Bulpli still looks baffled.
"But he caught two of them. Yes. Two that were on the wrong side of a struggle inside the terrorist group. And Parrion was on the right side."
"Liffey is coming about," Anthi reports. "Warp engines charging to criticality."
"Plot an intercept, course four two mark seven. Cut in the impulse capacitance cell, and stand ready the subspace wake generator. Move!"
Bluff King Hal surges forwards. Acceleration presses me deep into the cushioned seat. The corvette's designers left the inertial dampers just a fraction of a point below full - they knew their ships' owners would want to feel that speed. I feel it now, as Bluff King Hal dashes across the space that separates us from the Liffey.
The subspace wake generator cuts in with a deep unsettling rumble, using the corvette's own drives to scramble spacetime in the near vicinity. It'd stress a full-sized starship's engines; the runabout is thrown around like a cork in a storm, discharges sizzling from its warp nacelles as it spins helpless in the storm of forces. My ship slows, turns, comes about.
"Still reading one life sign aboard," Anthi reports. Well, that's a relief.
"Send an arrest team," I order. "Everyone we've got with any sort of psi rating." I turn to look at Bulpli's troubled face. "Your job, I'm afraid."
---
Parrion blinks dazedly at me across the ready room table. The impact of the subspace wake left him disoriented and spacesick. That's good; it gives us all a better chance of handling him. Bulpli stands behind him, her hand on her phaser; she's flanked by Zodes Andeteph and Temerix, equally taut and alert.
"We can prove it," I say. "The Dharsour's security recordings were doctored, altered - once we knew what we were looking for, we knew how and when. My computer officers were even able to reconstruct the original data. The records show you entering Murcett's cabin, and the Jem'Hadars' too. They were alive when you entered, dead when you left. That's good enough for me."
He glares at me with those black eyes. I think, if his psi abilities weren't scrambled by the spacesickness, I'd be dead too, now.
"They deserved it," he said. "Murcett was one of the occupation troops in the war - I know that, I traced him. And as for the Jem'Hadar - living weapons. Expended by their own makers like, like so many rounds of ammunition. Always more of them, but killing a couple is a start, at least." His ragged voice rises. "They deserved it. You sit here in your smug Federation luxury - you don't know what it was like, to see your world invaded, your home burned, your family killed -"
I can't help it. I rise to my feet, and every telepath in the room flinches as I point to the scar on my cheek and shout, "Where do you think I got this?"
Parrion gapes at me. The burst of anger passes as quickly as it came. I sink back into my chair. "Fanatics," I say. "You don't think anyone's pain matters but your own. The Infinite knows, I've fought Nausicaans in battle since then... but killing them, just for what they are? No."
"You don't understand," he mutters, but the heart has clearly gone out of him.
"No. No, I don't. And I don't think I want to. I'll leave that for the authorities on Betazed. I'm sure they'll listen to any defence you have to offer... at your trial."
A gleam comes into his eyes. "You're very sure I'll stand trial, aren't you? I may have... exaggerated... the Sword's abilities, Vice Admiral, but I can assure you, I'm a highly capable telepath. Certainly better than these three behind me. Are you sure you've got a cell that will hold me?"
"We'll give it our best shot," I tell him. I touch the ornate comms console. "Amiga. We're ready."
Parrion's eyes widen as the android enters. Of course, he didn't know she was one of my crew. Nor did he know about the hulking figure in silver armour and faceless reflective helmet beside her.
"This is Commander Amiga," I say. "And this is - well, we call him Mr. M, when we activate him."
"I do not have all the prisoner restraint subroutines available to similar holograms at Facility 4028." The voice from the MACO photonic officer's helmet is surprisingly mild and pleasant. "Still, I believe my programming is adequate for most contingencies. And I concur with my commanding officer's judgment - you might have the ability to cloud a positronic mind, or a holographic one, but you will be very hard pressed to work on both, at the same time."
Amiga takes his arm. To say that she has a grip of steel... would be a gross libel on the alloys of her bones. "Come this way, please." Her voice is polite, but her metal eyes gleam hard and brilliant.
But they are no harder than Bulpli Yulan's black ones.
---
"Where to, sir?" asks Anthi.
I settle down in the command chair. Comfortable though it is, I feel restive, somehow. Maybe the harder seats on King Estmere or Spirits of Earth are better suited to me, really.
"First, rendezvous with that Betazoid cruiser, transfer our prisoner, make our depositions," I say. "After that, we're on our way back to Earth." I lean back. "We turn in our engine data to Admiral Semok, and then I'm taking some of that overdue leave. I could do with a break."
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