Chapter 10 – Parade/Riposte

Janeway headed for the brig, two security officers in tow. She had found herself taking an instinctive liking to the burly, red-headed Ensign by her side, and was trying to engage him in conversation as they went, albeit with limited success. Maybe he was intimidated by her rank, or perhaps his long sojourn in a Romulan prison camp had made him socially awkward around women? She had the impression that he could be quite voluble in the right company, even if it wasn't hers.

No matter. Arno Schmidt had agreed readily enough to the role she assigned him for the interrogation, although something flashed in his eyes as he did so. The involuntary betrayal of a secret appreciation for tables, turned?

They arrived in Cargo Bay Two where the interview would take place, and the men spent a few minutes checking over the security features engineering had installed on rather short notice. She looked around as they tested out the chair, secured the exit against external tampering, and verified both computer voice access and a mechanical alarm system.

What struck Kathryn the most, as she scanned the room, was its echoing emptiness. The Borg alcoves were gone, and even though they had seemed eerie and alien at first, over time they had acquired something close to the familiar, their green glow almost welcoming to those, like her, who knew the warm, human life they sustained in defiance of their designers' wishes. Now, more than half of the space was taken up by featureless supply containers.

While Janeway captained Voyager, they had had little call to separate prisoners for questioning; most interviews had taken place in the brig itself. For example, the one she had carried out with a still-recovering, suddenly human Seven of Nine. Seven of Nine. Who had lived in this room for four years.

Once Schmidt nodded his satisfaction, Janeway took her own seat, separated by a small, featureless table from the chair that would be occupied by the man the two officers would now fetch. She dismissed them with a determined nod, knowing they would not hear what she did - old demons, unfolding and stretching their rustling wings, despite the bright light she had requested.

Kathryn had, of course, used Cargo Bay Two for … questioning … once before, when Seven had been taken, by Captain Ransom of the Equinox. Her abduction had been the least of the crimes committed by the man responsible, but it was the memory of her own response to his outrages that sent unwilling shudders down her spine:

Noah Lessing. The contorted face, eyes dark with a terror she had inflicted, using the most lethal tool at her disposal – his own knowledge of how his ending would look … the same knowledge that had driven her to an anger so righteous that … She choked back the thought.

In the seven years she had led her ship through the Delta Quadrant, she had never been that close to losing her way; in many ways she was still accounting for that loss. There had been many others, but none so sharp, none so clearly revealing of the Kathryn Janeway that could be.

She swallowed, hard, and cleared her throat in the echoing room.

One thing Kathryn did know now, in this present, was that she was not looking forward to this new undertaking. Nor had she mistaken the undercurrent in Tom's voice – despite his seemingly light-hearted words signaling his remembrance - when he had asked her to take it on. What had he been counting on that she would do? Or that she would not do?

No matter. This was her task, and she would not lose herself again. She was not … them.

At least not anymore.

And never again.

The door whooshed open, and Schmidt pushed the Talari inside the bay and down on the chair opposite Kathryn's - not gently. With a determined growl he instructed the computer to "apply shackles," and watched with a satisfied grin as the computer interpreted his remarks by erecting small force field tendrils around Tekol's lower body and his legs, effectively securing him against both the seat and the legs of the chair which itself was bolted to the floor. He would be able to move comfortably, but not to rise until released by an authorized voice command.

The image gave Kathryn the shivers.

"He's all yours, Admiral," Schmidt said, stepping back to lean up against the wall beside the door, arms crossed. His companion stood at ease on the other side, hand on his phaser. "I don't think you need to be particularly nice to this guy; he seems bent on meeting his maker anyway."

Kathryn gave Schmidt a frosty look that was only in part the result of their pre-determined roles in this interrogation. Its core of genuine revulsion at the Ensign's choice of words was not lost on Farqoth, though, who immediately shifted his focus towards her.

"Tell me. What was the name of the officer who died destroying the Gettysburg?"

Taken off-guard by the question – it was clear he was expecting something else – Farqoth blurted out a name that sounded a bit like "Loran".

Good. A response. Get him responding...

"I assume Loran had loved ones who died at Talasar?"

"Grandparents," came the reply, as Farqoth straightened himself out in his chair, testing the invisible restraint that kept him in place in the process. Already, this was not going in a direction he had expected.

"He must have been very upset when they died, to do what he did." Kathryn's voice had a husky, almost gentle warmth to it as she spoke.

"He was very young. I'm not sure he'd ever actually met them in person. But the memories on Talar are strong, and we will never forget what was done to our people, on Talasar." His chin came up, ready to take on anyone who would doubt his comrade's devotion to their cause, expecting a challenge.

It didn't come.

"How about yourself? Did you lose someone you cared about? Close family?"

"No. But I had just joined the expeditionary forces, and saw the aftermath of the massacre when we arrived on Talasar. I helped dispose of the bodies, those that remained, that the survivors hadn't taken care of yet. And I took the testimonies."

He glowered at Kathryn, defiantly.

"You do not forget something like that."

"No, I don't suppose you do. It scars you for life."

Farqoth looked at her, confusion written on his face. Clearly, the last thing he had expected was understanding.

Good. Keep him off balance. Talking, responding. Change topic.

"I assume you served under Marshall Talith? You seem to hold her in high regard."

"I was assigned to the same ship when she was only a Lieutenant. The first ship that went to Talasar, after the massacre. She lost family there, I was told. She rose through the ranks quickly, after that, and devoted her life to defeating our enemy. The daring raid she led to Denaros, that blaze of glory in which she showed these … these aberrations of sentient life what Talar can achieve, will be sung about for generations."

Kathryn's sudden challenge, why the Children had essentially condemned the subject of their adulation to die on the Gettysburg, was met with a finely nuanced, clearly well-rehearsed, speech about the eternal benefits of Dying For The Eternal Glory Of Talar, however unknowingly. How she managed to keep the bile rising from her throat she would never know; she envied the freedom she had given to Schmidt who used it to spit contemptuously on the floor.

But then Farqoth frowned, shadows of anger and genuine puzzlement crossing his face.

"I do not understand why Marshal Talith is now content to sit and … talk, together with that traitor Naldar, when we were so close to defeating them."

"You mean, after Kyven?"

Farqoth glared at her. "Yes, of course I mean after Kyven. What was done there could – should - have been done to all of Denaros. And all of their worlds. We could have gotten rid of them once and for all, claim what's ours."

Genocide. He's rationalizing, even advocating genocide …

Kathryn kept her voice even. "Why do you call Naldar a traitor?"

Farqoth's head snapped up. Obviously, this woman didn't get it. "Because he could have given the order to destroy all of Denaros. Should have given that order. Not just showed them that we could do so if we wanted to. Then the war would have been over. Instead, they went running to you, to alien outsiders, to try and make an ignominious peace."

He glared at Kathryn, who didn't respond, content to let him have his say even as something in what he was saying struck her: Why had the Talari not pressed their advantage? What did they need from Denaros, that its destruction could not provide?

"Peace."

Farqoth's voice was now a mixture of dripping contempt and sermon-like thunder. It was clear that he was on a roll, just as it was clear that he was on well-trodden ground - his words a refrain, frequently sung, acquiring their self-sustaining truth through the very act of repetition.

"Peace - with people who would slaughter little children. Who would take our resources and use them to expand their mindless empire. The people of Talar cannot stand for such blind and reckless surrender of our future – a future we, the Children of Talasar, are willing to secure for them with our lives."

So clearly, Kathryn concluded, the idea was to force Talar to complete the destruction of Denaros; these fanatics had convinced themselves that not only was it worth dying for that goal – not to mention do unto the children of their enemies what had been done unto their own - but that it was perfectly acceptable to trigger the extinction of a species. The murder of innocent bystanders such as the crew of the Gettysburg was clearly not worth even the breath required by rationalization.

But Farqoth was not done. Having embarked on his righteous rant, he was clearly in a mood to continue. Or maybe there were a few talking points he simply had to include in his speech, in order to convince himself? If fanaticism was a house of cards, Kathryn knew, all the pieces needed to be there to sustain it. And she knew she had to have them all.

"Luckily my comrades found people who were willing to help us stop Naldar's insanity. And with their help, we will see that this war is finished."

He cast Kathryn a look laced with cunning and smug superiority. She itched to ask the direct, the obvious question – who? But there was no point; a zealot flying on the wings of his own rhetoric would not likely take too kindly to being disrupted with questions about mere facts.

Time for a little provocation, then. She cast a look at Schmidt, who took the hint with a promptness she had expected - and an enthusiasm she had feared, but could not help but secretly second. As long as he did not come close to the line she herself had once so very nearly stumbled over …

"Yeah, so you did. You found someone who gave you the ships and the cloaking technology – and you used that to attack a Starfleet vessel that had no involvement in your war. Real smart, you and your little helpers. 'Coz now we're involved, and we'll blast you and your little shit-gang of wannabe martyrs into the oblivion you obviously crave."

"Ensign," she warned, putting as much deliberate indignation as she could into her voice, even as she found the sudden need to suppress a deep-throated chuckle. "Restrain yourself."

Little shit-gang of wannabe martyrs? No wonder Tom had cut through a space-ribbon's length of red tape, tightly coiled, to get this man released for active duty. Birds of a feather …

Schmidt made a show of looking chastised-but-unrepentant, and leaned back against the wall after one more satisfying spit.

She decided to take a chance. "And based on what I am given to understand, you may have used up your main tactical advantage already. You managed to get off one lucky shot, and now we have the other weapon in our shuttle bay. The peace talks will proceed, of that you can be assured. I'm not sure what game your so-called friends are playing, but I doubt that the Children of Talasar feature in it in the long run."

That bit; clearly, being considered irrelevant was not appreciated by the man who was sufficiently convinced of the importance of his cause – however irrational it may be - to die for it. Farqoth tried to rise up in his chair in indignation, only to be pulled back by the force field. He sat down again, heavily. The effect was less than dignified, but he made up for it in the insolent tone in which he growled out his next words.

"You will never stop the course of justice. The cry of the children of Talasar will echo through the generations, and only the death of their enemies will bring them peace."

With that he sat back in his chair, arms crossed before his broad chest, the interview clearly over, despite repeated efforts by Janeway to coax, cajole and provoke additional responses.

It was not until Arno Schmidt's attempt to return Farqoth to his cell were disrupted by reports from Asil about phaser fire in the brig, that Janeway understood something very clearly: That someone else onboard Voyager might hold the answers to some of the questions she had posed.

…..

Tom stared at the compression rifle with a baleful eye, but only a part of his conscious mind was devoted to considering the danger it represented. For the moment, his main focus was a string of self-deprecating curses, directed at his own stupidity.

Yes, the Delta Flyer was his own ship, brought onboard under the 'Captain's yacht' privilege - thereby bypassing the interminable waiting list for the official allocation to his ship of the Fleet's newest shuttlecraft. And yes, as such it was not completely subject to Starfleet regulations. But that, he realized, did not excuse in the least his failure to secure her weapons locker with his command codes. That had to do with basic common sense. Which he, apparently, lacked in spades.

Moron. Idiot. Cretin. Shit. Shit. Shit.

He looked over at Icheb and Talith, who were keeping themselves appropriately still. Icheb was glancing down at his console, and straight back at him. Tom dipped his eyes briefly in acknowledgement. Yes.

So they had a plan, such as it was; the question was implementation and timing. Well, he was the one who had screwed up here, so it behooved him to take point.

"So, you're gonna shoot us now, Major?" he said conversationally. "And then what? Who'll fly the ship? Have you looked at these instruments? I'm told they're a real sonofabitch to figure out. Took me months, and I'm the one who designed them."

"Quiet," Pakoth snarled, waving the rifle in Tom's direction. "You fly the ship where I tell you, or you and your crewman will die. If you do as you're told, you'll be spared. The Talari is mine, though. She'll make a good trophy, and having her will make me a hero on Denaros."

"Fly you where, exactly?" Tom inquired. Might as well get the coordinates out of the guy before taking him out. Provided they could. Take him out, that was.

Thank goodness, the guy was cut from the immediate gratification mold, and provided the desired information immediately.

"Coordinates eight-four-seven-six-four-point-zero," Pakoth dictated, obviously pleased with himself. He watched Tom enter the coordinates on the helm. "Warp Six."

Tom nodded, and flicked a few switches on the Flyer's console. None of these were in any way related to the engine, but felt pretty secure in his ability to rely on Pakoth not knowing that the ship's port landing lights were now configured precisely to McKinley station specs, rather than those of DS6. He swiveled in his chair and faced the Denarian.

"Okay, so you've got a gun now," he said, injecting a new tone into his voice, something between yawning boredom and mild contempt.

"Problem for you, though, is that this is a Starfleet gun. I doubt that you've seen anything like it before, on that backward rock you call your home planet. So if I were you, I'd make real sure that you don't mistake the safety for the firing pin, and don't forget to set the power flux capacitor on 'forward'. Because if you don't do these things, it'll backfire on you something fierce. As in, pop goes the weasel." He made a plopping sound with his lips and a small gesture with his hand, the opening fingers signifying the unmistakable bloom of an explosion.

Pakoth pulled the weapon closer to his body, almost hugging its butt to his side. "You lie," he snarled. "No one designs a gun like that."

Tom shrugged diffidently. "Perhaps on Denaros they don't. They're not very big on forward planning there, I've noticed. But in Starfleet, we always assume that our kit may fall into the wrong hands, and so we build in a few precautions against people with sticky fingers. Try it, see if I'm right. Me or Talith, don't really care who you aim at. Won't make any difference, honestly. So, please, go ahead."

With deliberate nonchalance he reached for his own holstered phaser, all the while keeping an eye on Pakoth as he did so. As expected, the man hesitated slightly, tilting the weapon up slightly to look at the trigger before pulling it, to make sure there were no buttons he might have missed. Tom took advantage of the rifle no longer being trained on his mid-section, threw himself out of his chair and rolled under the console. He pulled his own phaser out as he went down.

His shout of "Now!" proved unnecessary. Icheb lunged for his console and the three holograms sprang to photonic life in front of Pakoth. Startled, the Denarian pulled the gun back from its slightly-off focus on Tom and fired at the representation of Naldor, who had materialized closest to his position wearing his usual indignant facial expression. The shot went through the hologram, whose matrix wavered slightly, and discharged harmlessly against the cabin wall where it caused a series of sparks to erupt.

The misfire bought Tom sufficient time to train his own weapon on Pakoth - but as it turned out, he did not need to pull the trigger. Talith was on the Denarian in a whirl of limbs and felled him with a single chop of the side of her hand, delivered to the man's apparently sensitive neck ridge. She kicked the weapon away from him before picking it up and training it on their would-be captor.

"He must have found the power flux capacitor," she commented drily.

Tom couldn't repress a chuckle as he picked himself up off the floor - something that used to be a bit easier, he thought ruefully.

"Yeah," he replied. "Guess he did. Good work, everybody."

He dragged Pakoth's limp body into a corner of the cabin, not bothering to check the man's vitals, and called on the computer to activate a force field around him. Then he went back to the conn.

"Let's see what we got." Tom punched up the coordinates Pakoth had given to him, and routed them to the screen. "Icheb, overlay with the warp resonance tracings from earlier."

"You know this place?" he asked Talith, whose local knowledge would presumably come in useful. She seemed interested in playing for his side for the time being – who was he not to take advantage?

"One of the Denarian colonies," she confirmed after a single glance at the small planetoid the coordinates yielded. "Small, but on the outer edge close to Talari space. We attacked it a few times, but it's riddled with caves so most of their sensitive operations are deep underground. Not much to hit."

"A good place to hide things, then," Tom mused, as his finger was tracing one of the resonance traces he had considered random before, but could now clearly identify as heading towards this same planetoid.

"Like what, Captain?" Icheb, the natural scientist, was always curious to learn, and Tom was happy to oblige.

"Well, apart from a base of operations, I'd expect to find evidence of the fact that whoever is operating on Midas is playing both sides, the Denarians as well as the Talari."

"You mean, is playing for both sides," Talith corrected with a frown.

Tom looked at her thoughtfully, and shook his head. "No. No, actually, I don't. I doubt that whoever is down there is playing for anyone but themselves, and they probably are playing you for all you're worth."

…..

The brig was swarming with tricorder-wielding security officers, most grouped around the lifeless body of the crewman who'd been on duty in the brig, and the equally still remains of Farqoth's sidekick inside the cell. Ayala was quick to take charge, and ordered all but Schmidt out of the room for now; this site was secure, and there was a possibility that problems might arise elsewhere. Two officers were dispatched to take the bodies to Sickbay via site-to-site transport, the remainder was asked to await further orders.

Even after Ayala had rather unceremoniously shoved a protesting Farqoth into the empty cell, the room remained well-populated with him, Schmidt, Harry and Janeway all crowding around the console. He nodded at Schmidt to do the necessary.

"You'd think whoever did this never heard of security cameras."

Schmidt's contempt, as he routed the record of the last hour inside the brig area onto the screen of the console, had an edge to it that had little to do with the perpetrators, and everything with his anger at the death of a comrade. The commands he entered came with the force of a one-two-three punch, until the screen flashed to the precise time when he had removed Farqoth from his cell. Only then did he exhale sharply, and forced his shoulders to relax under Ayala's firm but reassuring grip.

"They probably haven't," Harry shrugged. "Apart from warp drive and weaponry, both the Denarians and the Talari are pretty far behind in their technological development. In this case, that's probably a good thing."

He stepped aside a little to allow Janeway and Ayala access to the screen as well.

"Fast forward, please."

Schmidt tapped in a few commands and the images on the screen accelerated. The security officer could be seen, his movements jerky, as he periodically bent over the screen confirming the oxygen level and temperature in the cell, and that the force field was still in place. Once he walked over to the field, presumably to look at his charge whose husky form lay still on the bench. Asleep, it seemed.

Harry tried to suppress his very keen, very present understanding of the fact that what they were watching were the last moments of Crewman Adil Chowdhury. The man had joined Starfleet to escape one of the war-ravaged colonies ceded to the Cardassians, only to die here in the supposed safety of the brig, the victim of another war - one of which he knew nothing. Harry knew that his urge to slow down the replay out of respect for the fallen was irrational, but was only marginally bothered by the fact that he couldn't feel the same way about the Talari who was just as dead, and by the same weapon.

As if she sensed – and shared - some of his thoughts, Janeway gripped his arm lightly.

"The best we can do for Chowdhury and his family now, Harry, is to identify his murderer."

Harry nodded, not satisfied, but stilled, for the moment. Thank goodness, it was Tom who'd have to make the call to that family... A shadow crossed the lens, and he pointed at the screen. "There!"

Schmidt stopped the transmission, and started to advance it, frame by frame. No one who had spent hours in the same room with the Talari and Denarian delegations could mistake the man – short, stocky, flowing robe - who first walked up to Chowdhury, as if to engage him in conversation. Chowdhury frowned and started to turn slightly sideways, as if to reach for something on his console, when the alien visitor casually extended his arm – causing his ceremonial robe to fall back and to reveal a phaser.

Alqil, civilian aide to the Naldar, the Supreme Talon of Talar.

Two quick blasts, and Chowdhury doubled up over his console. He did not appear to have had a chance to trigger the security alert he had been reaching for so rather late, let alone to touch his own weapon; whether his delayed reaction was due to human misjudgment, or because he had been improperly trained or instructed, might be a matter for one of Starfleet's boards of inquiry, Harry knew. Now that Voyager was back in a universe where such things existed.

What happened next on the screen was a surprise, though. Rather than simply lowering the force field and killing his apparently primary prey, Alqil engaged the other Talari in conversation. Whatever questions he asked, or challenges he made, were obviously meant to benefit from the muzzle of the phaser he pointed at the prisoner, but the man simply crossed his arms in front of his chest and spat out what seemed like a series of curses.

Losing patience quickly, Alqil fired into the force field. He was momentarily taken aback when the shot resulted in a major outburst of sparks but no harm to the prisoner, and looked around to determine whether he had set off any alerts.

No one came, but it was clear even to him that his actions would likely set off sensors somewhere. He ran over to the console and, phaser still trained on his intended victim, punched commands into the console until the force field disintegrated. He fired off three quick shots and headed for the door, not bothering to watch the Talari would-be terrorist crumble to the floor.

Harry swallowed. He had come prepared to die in the name of the children of Talasar – would this senseless death at the hands of one of his own give him the martyrdom he so clearly craved? Hopefully not, and Harry felt surprisingly little guilt at the vindictive thought.

Ayala's reaction was instantaneous. "Computer, locate the Talari delegate, Alqil."

"Mr. Alqil is in the quarters assigned to the Supreme Talon, Naldar."

Harry hit his comm badge. "Double security teams to President Naldar's quarters, Deck Six. Phasers on stun. Arrest or incapacitate his aide, Alqil."

The look he briefly exchanged with Janeway was a clear 'And I don't care which it is'. He nodded at Ayala and Schmidt, who lost no time in tearing out of the room to join their comrades in the hunt for the suspected killer, and turned back to his former Captain.

"Did he really think he'd get away with this, on a ship this size? What on Earth can he have been thinking?"

Janeway shook her head. "It's not what he was thinking that matters, Harry. It's what he thought the dead man knew, and what he was trying to hide."

NOTE: The word parade, as you probably guessed, has little to do with ticker tape and celebrations. It's the French term for 'parry' – the blocking of the opponent's attack with your blade. A riposte is the responsive move that follows immediately after the parry. If there's an English word for it I haven't heard it, but I've heard this one used often enough by people who've never touched anything more martial than a Swiss army knife.

It is when having to sort out the intricate play of parries, ripostes, counter parries and counter ripostes - especially in foil and sabre fencing, where sequence matters - that the judge really earns her keep. Miss a call, and all hell breaks loose…