General Xerek is immensely tall and thin; he wears a tight-fitting, floor-length leather coat that accentuates his thinness. His long-eared, hairless, wrinkled head perches atop his shoulders as if it belongs to someone else. The long silver-handled cane in his right hand makes a tiny clicking sound every time it touches the ancient deck plates of the Vault.
Xerek himself seems almost as old as the giant space station. There was a time when there was no such thing as an old Reman - the unforgiving mines, or the wars, took them as soon as their strength began to fail. Xerek, who fought alongside Shinzon and the Viceroy, remembers that time.
Now we stride out along a catwalk, across the great gloomy hall that is now Intelligence Central Processing. Below us, hundreds of Remans are working, their console screens carefully angled so that I cannot see what they are working on. There is a low roar of conversation in the air, like distant surf. Xerek, however, remains silent. He does not speak until we have reached the end of the catwalk, have entered his small private office. He settles himself behind his matte-black oval desk, and finally he says, "The authorities on Kralon II are not happy."
"Let them weep," I reply. Xerek makes a sound that might be a laugh.
"You say that, but there are practicalities to be considered. There always are. D'Tan wishes to show the face of friendship across the quadrant...." He opens his mouth, displays his fangs. "Ours is not the face of friendship."
"Friends do not let other friends build star-destroying weapons," I say.
"True. Perhaps." Xerek snorts. "You succeeded in stopping that arms transfer, at any rate. Success excuses much. Even an unhappy planetary government. I hope, though, you do not plan to make a habit of that."
"Not more than once more, I hope."
"Ah. Yes. The project's name, Solarcide 2. I understand the implications."
"They concern me. If this second weapon was ready for delivery, we must assume that Solarcide 1 is still further advanced. Stopping it would seem a matter of urgency."
"Possibly," says Xerek. "Possibly. Though you must also consider whether this first project, this pilot project, perhaps, has already failed, or was merely a... a technology demonstrator."
"Those are reassuring possibilities. Our plans, however, should take account of the possibilities that are not reassuring."
"Quite." The gaze of Xerek's hooded eyes seems to sharpen as it focuses on me. "So. In your opinion, how should we proceed?"
I shake my head. "There is precious little to go on. We stumbled upon this project by the merest chance - a detection sweep, run by my ship, which registered a trilithium signature; a research facility which could offer no explanation of that signature -"
"Many commanders would have dismissed that as a sensor error," says Xerek.
"That would have been the reassuring conclusion. I elected not to be reassured."
"Quite." Xerek's expression is sour. He leans back a little in his chair. There is only one chair; like all his visitors, I must stand before his desk, in this little cave-like room. "So. How do you intend to replicate your good fortune?"
"Trilithium has a distinctive signature, and our agents should be alerted to search for it. Beyond that -" I shake my head. "The freighter that was supposed to take the weapon from Kralon II never arrived. We are unable, therefore, to follow up that link in the chain. And the records from the warehouse... they are bizarre. Requisitions, instructions, detailed blueprints simply appear in their comms records, as if they came out of nowhere." I narrow my eyes. "I am concerned over this, too."
"You suspect infiltration of the data networks."
"I do. On a low but pervasive level. The freighter was warned off, and I do not know how. And these transmissions of data from nowhere - they call to mind something else, too -"
"Yes." Xerek shifts in his chair. "The countdowns. The late lamented Admiral Trosek, and others." He exhales, a sharp rasping sigh. "Something is hiding in the shadows. Well. The shadows are our people's friends, and it will learn that in due course. In the meantime...."
He leans forward. "The weapons makers were paid, and that money cannot appear out of nowhere. Backtrack it. You will have the full resources of our forensic accountancy division, and they can out-think even the Ferengi. And I will implement your suggestion, of placing trilithium scans at the forefront of our agents' attention. It seems insufficient, but until we can shed some light into the shadows, it is all we can do. You may begin."
I salute. "As you order, General." And I turn on my heel, and march out of the office. Behind me, I hear Xerek make a vague grumbling sound.
I cross the catwalk, my mind occupied with thoughts, few of them cheerful. Xerek is right, the payments to the illicit weapons dealers were real, and currency transfers can be traced - given time, and tedious effort. Well. I cannot be afraid of tedious effort.
But someone is still out there, with a weapon that can destroy a sun. And someone reached through the heart of Republic security and killed one of ours, a senior officer... and left no trace except a mocking message.
I make my way through the corridors of the Vault, the vast space station that has been a refuge for the Reman people for... too long, now. Normally, I would feel secure here, in the heart of the Reman Underground's war machine - but if this shadow-dweller can strike at a Republic Admiral, is even this place safe?
I am brooding on this question, and others, when I reach the door of my quarters and stop. The door... the door is not as I left it. It is not a sliding door, but a substantial metal hatch... and, in this comfortable dimness, I can see that it is, ever so slightly, ajar.
My hand drops to my waist, to my plasma pistol in its holster.
There is no way to open that door discreetly, so I do not try - I grasp the handle, pull hard, and move quickly inside. The light is no brighter inside than it was in the corridor. But that is no problem, for a Reman.
I draw the pistol. "If you think to hide in darkness, you should be aware, you will not succeed."
The figure reclining on my couch stirs. I snarl. The shabby mining uniform, the heavy boots, the scruffy topknot of hair, the reticulated patterns on the skin - I know them all.
"Yeah, figured as much," says Pexlini. "Listen. I need a favour."
---
I slide the pistol back into its holster. Pexlini relaxes, her heavy mining boots doing untold damage to my upholstery. "A favour," I say. "What you need is shooting. Tell me why I should not oblige you."
"Too much paperwork," says Pexlini. "Anyway, you can always shoot me after I've said my piece, so why not wait a bit?"
There are things strewn across the floor by the couch - a solid-looking secure case, a large box, a stack of datapads. I ignore her, walk over to the replicator, turn it on. "Water, four degrees Celsius, one glass." I shoot a glare in her direction. "You want me to say something like 'very well, then, talk'. But I know you, you will talk whether I encourage you or not."
"OK, so listen," says Pexlini. "I don't know how much you know - on the one hand, Starfleet Intelligence ain't in a hurry to advertise its embarrassments, but on the other, you guys are no slouches when it comes to picking up rumours, yeah? So let me tell you how it looks to me."
"Do I need something stronger than water?" I ask.
"Up to you. I stole and lost an artifact called the Mask of Dhalselapur as part of a Delta Quadrant operation. Said artifact has now turned up for sale, and half a billion credits appeared in my personal account. Intelligence has drawn obvious conclusions, and here I am, sort of not officially."
"The Vault is known as a safe haven for the desperate," I say. I turn back to the replicator. "Earth coffee, standard temperature, one cup."
"So I figure I have been set up. Kinda obvious. Question is, who by? Answer is, someone who doesn't like me - OK, that doesn't narrow the field - but also someone with resources. Big resources. Like not just enough to sling a humongous bribe into my account, but also enough to find the Mask or make a convincing duplicate. Someone with a lot of money and a lot of skills, who doesn't like me. So what name springs to mind?"
I pass her the coffee. "Now you want me to say Kalevar Thrang. Well, there. I have said Kalevar Thrang."
"Seems reasonable, yeah? Bears a grudge, throws resources around.... But Thrang ain't stupid, and I don't believe for one minute he's going to all that trouble and expense just to nobble me. Gotta be part of a larger plan. With me so far?" She takes a sip of coffee. "Yeeps. What is this, a sixth-generation copy of the replicator pattern?"
"The logical assumption," I say, "is that Starfleet Intelligence will divert resources towards investigating your innocence... and Thrang wants those resources diverted. Away from whatever he is doing."
"My thoughts precisely."
"You will now, of course, be diverting even more Intelligence resources, since you are now a wanted fugitive -"
"Oh, rubbish. Everyone knows perfectly well I'm not gonna sit in Spacedock and wait patiently to be cleared. Zorik is probably letting me run so's he can see where I run to and what rocks I turn over along the way. Guy ain't stupid." She grimaces at another swallow of coffee. "So. What doesn't Thrang want people to look at?"
"There have been several incidents demanding our attention," I say reluctantly.
"OK, like what?"
"Incidents that I should not discuss with a Starfleet renegade whose security clearance, by now, has been reduced to the point where she is not allowed to read kindergarten picture books." I sigh, and sit down on a chair, facing her.
"Your supposition is improbable in the highest degree," I say. "Even if you are innocent.... It would be neat, it would be elegant, for all our misfortunes to have one common root. Real life in general, and intelligence work in particular, are neither neat nor elegant."
"Yeah, true enough."
"Your people, and mine, have a dozen powerful, ingenious and resourceful enemies."
"Including whoever programmed this coffee. So where else you gonna start?"
I glower at her. The truth is, given orders to shine a light into shadows and see what lurks there, I have nothing definite to follow. Kalevar Thrang... the augment renegade is devious, clever, and he has resources whose depths are not known. At any rate, he has a name and a face. It is a starting point... and, as Pexlini knows, such starting points are not easy to come by.
"It is a possibility. Worth pursuing. For me." My glare intensifies. "I see no way in which you could assist me. You are a refugee, now, without resources -"
"Well, now," says Pexlini, "that ain't strictly true." She lifts one boot off the couch and kicks at the metal case. "I got my humongous bribe outta the Federation, which is kinda another reason why I think they're letting me run. Got skinned to death on the conversion, and buying my way in here wasn't cheap, but what the heck, it's all Thrang's money, I reckon. And there's still enough left to get me a decent set of wheels."
"Wheels?"
"Yanno, transport. There's a stack of gold-pressed latinum in the big case, the data pads have a bunch of negotiable securities on them, and there's enough beetle snuff in the smaller box to put half Ferenginar into orbit. So that's the favour I came to ask." Pexlini settles herself back on my couch. "Take that lot, and go buy me a starship."
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