THE AUTOPSY OF A LIE

Posted on Tue Jan 27th, 2026 @ 6:32pm by Commodore Stephen MacCaffery

2,780 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: The Tavrik Accord: Orchestrated Chaos
Location: Medical Bay & Secure Command Node, Island Chain Seven, Tavrik III

Time: Day 3, Afternoon (1200)

The Medical Bay smelled of antiseptic, recycled air, and the sharp scent of blood from a fresh corpse.

Commander Sarah Mackenzie didn’t look up from her console. Her fingers moved across the LCARS interface with the percussive rhythm of a pianist playing a dirge.

“Dead men tell the best tales,” she said, her voice flat, stripped of the diplomatic veneer she wore for the negotiations. “Mostly because they can’t object to the interpretation.”

Commodore Stephen MacCaffery stood on the other side of the bio-bed, unable to meet Mackenzie’s eyes. He stared at Kelok’s corpse. The Vethari envoy looked smaller in death, his once-bright skin now a dull gray. The wound in his chest filled Stephen with guilt and anger.

“Interpretation is a luxury we don’t have, Commander,” Stephen said. His voice was low, carrying the gravel of a man who had been awake for forty hours. “Governor Veln is hyperventilating in his quarters. He thinks we’ve started an extermination campaign. If I don’t give him a reason to lower his weapon, the Gilded Hand won’t be the only thing firing on us. I need facts. Cold, hard, admissible facts.”

“Facts are inbound,” Mackenzie said. “But the body speaks first.”

Stephen glanced at the holographic projection shimmering above the body. Dr. T’Lana, appearing in clear blue from the Valley Forge, studied the corpse with her usual Vulcan calm.

“Report, Doctor,” Stephen ordered.

Dr. T'Lana's voice cut through the tension in the air. "The wound is theatrical," she stated, prompting Stephen to furrow his brows. "Theatrical?" he repeated, skepticism creeping into his tone.

T'Lana gestured toward the chest wound with cool precision. "Observe."

As she spoke, the room's hologram magnified the chest wound, showing its internal structure in layers. "The thermal marks match a Starfleet Type-2 phaser at Level 10," she continued, her gaze fixed on the burn. "But it's not that simple."

Stephen felt both concern and curiosity. "Wrong how?" he asked, aware that every detail mattered. "Normally, a Starfleet weapon delivers heat and a neuro-shock pulse at the same time for a quick, painless death."

T'Lana's previous words hung heavy in the air.

"Here, however, the sequence has been inverted. The device was tampered with to first deliver intense heat, creating a severe burn, followed seconds later by a delayed neuro-shock pulse. This is unusual because it wastes energy and prolongs suffering, which contradicts Starfleet's principles of humane treatment, thereby suggesting deliberate manipulation."

Her conclusion hit everyone in the room. They all understood what it meant: someone wanted this death to look like a brutal Starfleet execution.

Petty Officer Sato, standing by the bio-bed with a tricorder, looked up. She looked pale. “That implies…”

"It implies the weapon was deliberately altered to make the injury look visually brutal, as if caused by a Starfleet phaser, but in a way that wastes energy and doesn't kill efficiently. It was meant to create a recognizable but misleading wound for anyone incapable of examining the technical evidence and just seeing the result."

“Precisely,” T’Lana said. “The weapon was a prop. The murder was a performance.”

“Just like the data Rennik planted in the lab,” Mackenzie said, finally looking up. Her eyes were hard. “Tharn isn’t fighting a war. She’s producing a drama. And Kelok was just a prop.”

Lieutenant Commander Anton Steerforth walked in, looking worn out. His uniform was wrinkled, his hair messy, and his hands shook as he held a PADD. It was clear he hadn’t slept much and was under a lot of stress.

“Tell me you have something, Anton,” Stephen said.

"I have something," Steerforth rasped. "But it may not be reassuring. I analyzed the 'Section 31' code Rennik uploaded. Its encryption key is carefully crafted and complex. The program uses a recursive structure, procedures that loop back on themselves, and its coding style is almost identical to old Starfleet Intelligence protocols."

“But?”

“But he got cocky,” Steerforth said, a grim smile touching his lips. “He used a base-eight compiling error in the footer.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow.

"Starfleet code is written in base-ten, which uses digits 0 to 9. It's a long-standing standard, even for covert operations or classified projects. In this sector, only the Vethari Trade Guilds write secure code in base-8, using digits 0 to 7. For them, it's a common way to make accounting calculations simpler."

“He signed it,” Stephen murmured.

“He counted on the ‘Section 31’ label to scare us.”

Stephen turned back to the body. The facts were coming together with a sudden, frightening clarity.

“Tharn kills Kelok to validate the lie,” Stephen said, reconstructing the narrative. “She uses a modified weapon to frame us. Rennik plants the data to frame a rogue faction. They squeeze Veln between a dead envoy and a Federation conspiracy. Veln panics, breaks the treaty, and the Vethari walk away with the mineral rights.”

“It’s almost perfect,” Mackenzie said. “Except for one thing.”

She entered a final command on her console. A sharp, triumphant chime sounded.

“I just broke Kelok’s personal logs,” she said.

Stephen stepped closer to her station. “And?”

“Kelok wasn’t part of the plan,” Mackenzie said softly, reading the scrolling text. “He was the leak.”

The screen filled with transcriptions. Private communiques. Not to the Vethari High Council. To a contact on Starbase 369.

“He was trying to defect,” Mackenzie said, her voice dropping. “He found out what Tharn was really moving. It isn’t just medical supplies and trade goods. He found the manifests.”

“What are they moving, Commander?” Stephen asked.

Mackenzie looked at him. “Disruptors. Plasma charges. Shield generators. Enough to turn a border skirmish into a sector-wide war. They aren’t just destabilizing Tavrik III for the minerals, Stephen. They’re using the chaos to hide an arms pipeline to the Romulan Free State.”

A heavy silence filled the room, thick with dread and a sense of betrayal.

Arms dealing. Destabilization for profit. It wasn’t diplomatic maneuvering. It was organized crime on a planetary scale.

“Tharn didn’t kill him to frame us,” Stephen realized, the cold knot in his stomach tightening. “She killed him because he was about to hand us the smoking gun.”

“And used the body to frame us as a bonus,” Khorev rumbled from the corner, where he had been a silent, stone statue. “Efficient.”

“Ruthless,” Stephen corrected. “We have the motive. We have the forensic proof of the frame-up. But Veln won’t believe a holographic autopsy or a decrypted log. He thinks we manufacture digital truth.”

“He needs something he can touch,” Mackenzie said.

“The manifest,” Stephen said. “Kelok references a physical manifest. A hard copy hidden in the warehouse shipment he was supervising.”

“If we get that manifest,” Stephen said, “we prove Tharn is smuggling weapons. We prove Kelok was a whistleblower. We break Veln’s paranoia.”

“And if we don’t?” Steerforth asked.

“Then Tharn starts a war in the next hour,” Stephen said. “I need to talk to the Governor.”

The walk to the Kaldari guest quarters was tense. The conference corridors seemed to get narrower with each step. Hazard Team officers stood at every turn, reminding Stephen of the pressure in the air. Outside Governor Veln’s quarters, militia waited, tense and nervous, their fingers close to their triggers. Stephen knew that frightened men with weapons were dangerous.

“Hold position,” Stephen ordered Khorev and the detail. “I go in alone.”

“Sir—” Khorev started, his objection a low growl.

“Alone, Lieutenant. If I bring a guard, I’m an invader. If I go alone, I’m a hostage. He’ll like those odds better.”

Khorev didn’t like it, but he stepped back.

Stephen approached the door. “Governor Veln. It’s MacCaffery. I am unarmed.”

The door didn’t open.

“You have five minutes,” Veln’s voice came through the speaker, distorted by fear and audio filtering. “Then I order my shuttlers to launch. If you try to stop us, we will fire.”

“Open the door, Veln. I’m not here to stop you. I’m here to save you.”

The lock cycled. The door slid open.

Veln sat behind a heavy desk, disruptor within reach. He looked haggard, all confidence gone, replaced by fear.

“You killed him,” Veln accused, his voice shaking. “Kelok. He was a moderate. A voice of reason. And you burned a hole in his chest.”

“I didn’t,” Stephen said, walking slowly into the room, keeping his hands visible. “And you know I didn’t. Because if I wanted to kill a Vethari envoy, I wouldn’t use a weapon that screams ‘Starfleet’ to anyone with eyes. I’d use a toxin. Or an accident. Or I’d have him disappear.”

“Your Section 31—”

“Is a ghost story Tharn is telling you to keep you afraid,” Stephen snapped, his voice hard. “Look at the logic, Governor. Who benefits? If the peace talks fail, who wins? The Federation wants stability. You want autonomy. The Vethari? They want the blockade lifted so they can move their product.”

“Product?” Veln frowned. “They trade grain. Medical supplies.”

“They trade death,” Stephen said. He pulled a data chip from his pocket and slid it across the desk. “Kelok wasn’t a martyr for their cause. He was a defector. He was coming to us. He found out that the Vethari is shipping disruptors. Using your cargo and ships transpoder codes to hide it.”

Veln stared at the chip. He didn’t touch it.

“Lies,” he whispered. “Digital forgeries. You control the computers, Commodore. You can make them say anything.”

“The autopsy,” Stephen pressed. “The burns were faked. The neuro-shock signature is wrong. It’s a Vethari mimicry.”

“Data,” Veln spat. “More data. I saw the body. I saw the burn.”

“Then look at the money!” Stephen slammed his hand on the desk, shattering the calm. Veln flinched, his hand jerking toward the gun. Stephen didn’t move. “The Vethari are using you. They’re using your fear to hide their smuggling ring. If you leave now, you become her accomplice. When the Federation Council finds those weapons, and we will find them, you will be the one holding the bag. Do you want to go to war for Vethari profit margin?”

Veln wavered. Stephen saw the doubt crack the paranoia. The industrialist understood profit. He understood leverage.

“Proof,” Veln whispered. “Not chips. Not words. Physical proof. You say there are weapons? Show me.”

“The warehouse,” Stephen said. “Kelok’s logs say the manifest is there. In the crate marked for ‘Agricultural Stabilizers.’ We get the crate. We open it. You see the disruptors with your own eyes.”

Veln looked at the disruptor on his desk. Then he looked at Stephen.

“You have one hour,” Veln said. “If you bring me a weapon from that warehouse, I will stand down. If you don’t… I will burn this island to the sea.”

Stephen walked back into the Command Node. The air felt heavy with tension.

“He gave us an hour,” Stephen said. “He wants the crate.”

“The warehouse is in the Vethari-controlled zone,” Khorev said. “Tharn has doubled the guard. If we send a Hazard Team, it’s a firefight. We start shooting, Veln panics, game over.”

“We can’t storm it,” Stephen agreed. “We need to walk in. Someone with clearance.”

“I’ll go,” Steerforth said. “I can hack the lock.”

“You’re Starfleet,” Mackenzie said. “Tharn sees a uniform near that warehouse, she’ll claim we’re planting evidence. It has to be diplomatic. Legal.”

She stood up. She smoothed her uniform jacket.

“I’ll go,” she said.

“Sarah,” Stephen started, the use of her first name slipping out before he could stop it. “No.”

“I’m the senior legal aide,” Mackenzie argued, her voice calm, logical, irrefutable. “I have jurisdiction to inspect cargo under the Provisional Tavrik Accord Protocols. Clause 14. ‘Disputed commercial assets may be reviewed by arbitration counsel.’ I can walk up to that door, present a warrant, and demand entry. If they shoot me, they shoot a lawyer. Even Tharn knows you don’t shoot the lawyer.”

“Tharn murdered her own envoy this morning,” Stephen said. “She doesn’t care about the rules.”

“She cares about their appearance,” Mackenzie countered. “She’s trying to frame us, Stephen. If she guns down an unarmed JAG officer in broad daylight, the frame breaks. She has to let me in.”

“It’s a trap,” Khorev said. “She will let you in. She won’t let you out.”

“Then I’ll be quick,” Mackenzie said. She looked at Stephen. Her eyes were clear, fierce. “We need the manifest. I’m the only one who can get close enough to grab it without starting a war. Let me do my job.”

Stephen looked at her. He saw the same steel he had seen in courtrooms across the sector. The absolute refusal to back down when the law was on her side.

“Khorev,” Stephen said, his voice tight. “Get her to the perimeter. Keep a sniper team on overwatch. If anyone so much as looks at her wrong, drop them.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Anton,” Stephen turned to Steerforth. “Jam their local comms. I don’t want the guards at the warehouse talking to Tharn until Sarah is inside.”

“On it.”

Stephen turned back to Mackenzie. He wanted to say be careful. He wanted to say don’t do this.

“Go,” he said instead.

The walk to the warehouse felt like traversing the surface of the sun. The heat was oppressive, thick with humidity and salt.

Mackenzie walked down the center of the permacrete path. She carried a silver briefcase, the universal symbol of bureaucracy. She walked with a measured, confident stride. Head up. Shoulders back.

I am the law, she told herself. I am the process.

At the edge of the clearing, Khorev and two Hazard Team marksmen disappeared into the foliage. Mackenzie was alone.

The warehouse was a plain, functional prefab building. Two Vethari guards stood at the door, their weapon spines raised. They watched her approach with tense, nervous energy.

“Halt,” one of them barked. “Restricted area.”

Mackenzie didn’t stop until she was three meters away. She set the briefcase down on a crate. She opened it and pulled out a PADD.

“I am Commander Sarah Mackenzie, Judge Advocate General’s Corps,” she announced, her voice projecting clearly. “I am executing a search warrant under Clause 14 of the Provisonal Tavrik Accords. Open this door.”

The guards glanced at each other. This wasn’t in their script. They expected soldiers. They got a bureaucrat.

“We have no orders to admit Federation personnel,” the guard sneered.

“You don’t need orders,” Mackenzie said, stepping forward, shoving the PADD into his personal space. “You need a lawyer. Because if you deny this warrant, you are personally liable for obstruction of a diplomatic inquiry. That carries a twenty-year sentence in a Federation penal colony. Do you want to spend the rest of your life mining dilithium, or do you want to open the door?”

It was a bluff. Mostly. But she sold it with the absolute conviction of the JAG Corps.

The guard hesitated. He looked at the PADD. He looked at the door.

He keyed the release.

“Five minutes,” he grunted.

“I only need two,” Mackenzie said.

She stepped inside.

High on the ridge overlooking the compound, Sella Tharn lowered her macro-binoculars.

“She’s inside,” Tharn said. Her voice was ice.

Next to her, Dr. Rennik adjusted his own scope. “She’s going for the stabilizers. She knows.”

“Kelok,” Tharn cursed. “He told them.”

“If she finds the manifest,” Rennik said, “we lose Veln. We lose the contract. We lose everything.”

Tharn watched the warehouse door. She thought of the years of planning. The bribes. The careful orchestration of chaos. All of it is unraveling because of one persistent human lawyer.

She tapped her comm link.

She tapped her comm link. "Asset Four," she said. "Initiate the contingency."

"The bomb?" Rennik asked, his eyes widening. "Madam Envoy, that's... that's an escalation."

Tharn watched the warehouse, weighing her options. She thought about the years and sacrifices behind her plan. Now, it was about more than profit, it was about survival.

"It's a resolution," she said coldly. "We can't let that manifest leave the building. And if a 'Kaldari Extremist' bomb just happens to detonate while a Federation officer is looting their supplies... well, it's a tragedy. But it proves the region is too unstable for the Federation to manage."

She looked at the warehouse one last time.

“Goodbye, Commander,” she whispered. “Burn the board.”

End Log

Commodore Stephen James MacCaffery
Federation Special Envoy
Tavrik III

 

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