Star Trek: Typhon Pact 01: Zero Sum Game

by David Mack

  “Stand clear.”

  He went silent as she embedded the anchor bolt into the stone ceiling behind her, turned, and took aim at the distant ledge. There was a soft hiss of displaced air as Sarina fired the bolt out into the perpetual night of the underground city. A few seconds later the barely visible strand of monofilament wire rushing from the anchor mount went taut. Sarina plucked the wire like a string on an instrument, clamped a miniature pulley over it, and nodded at Bashir.

  “Express elevator,” she said, “going down.”

  She tucked her knees up to her waist, and gravity did the rest. Sarina sped away, dangling from the handheld pulley as it raced down the wire toward the ledge far below. Bashir muttered curses under his breath as he found his own compact pulley among the myriad devices hidden in his disguise, attached it to the wire, and prayed that his hands didn’t choose that moment to get a cramp.

  Free fall left Bashir feeling as if he had deserted his stomach up on the ledge as he plunged headlong across the chasm in pursuit of Sarina. It was so dark in this part of Rasiuk that he was barely able to see the end of the zip line until he was all but on top of it and heard Sarina tell him via his helmet’s transceiver, “Brakes!”

  Bashir squeezed the handgrip with increasing pressure until he felt himself slow down. He glided the last few meters at an easy pace and dropped onto the narrow ledge beside Sarina. “That was fun,” he deadpanned, detaching his minipulley from the zip line. “Just out of curiosity, have you given any thought to how we’re supposed to get back up there?”

  “We’re not.” She nodded at the checkpoint below and behind them. “Look closer. The guards are only checking identichips on people coming into the sector. They’re not scanning anyone on the way out.”

  “Not manually, anyway,” Bashir replied, but Sarina was already shimmying away, heading deeper into danger.

  Moving in cautious sidesteps, Bashir followed her. He was thankful for two things during his long, shuffling walk along the ledge. First, his helmet’s visor was equipped with a powerful night-vision mode that rendered his pitch-dark surroundings into a pale green twilight. Second, because the Breen’s city was deep underground and relied on a regulated environment, there was almost no strong air movement, not even at heights such as the one he was traversing.

  They arrived at the end of the ledge. Sarina kneeled, peering down at the street below. “There’s enough shadow beneath us to cover our descent,” she said. “As for how we get inside the comm center, I’m still working on that.”

  She armed her bolt thrower and sank an anchor into the ledge. Then she dropped the bolt, which fell away, trailing an all but invisible monofilament behind it. “I’ll go first,” she said. “Stay here until I give you the all clear.” She locked her minipulley onto the line and tumbled gracefully over the edge. In seconds she rappelled down the wall and vanished into the darkness.

  It annoyed Bashir that Sarina was presuming to give him orders. I guess she’s forgotten I outrank her.

  Over his transceiver, Sarina reported, “All clear.”

  He secured his minipulley and eased himself over the edge. He descended in a classic rappelling pose, bounding off the wall at regular intervals, bending at his knees to absorb his momentum and push off again. He had to be careful not to squeeze the pulley grip too tightly, for fear of engaging the brake by accident. Then his feet touched the ground, and he detached the device from the line.

  Sarina was crouched a few meters away against the wall. Bashir stole forward and squatted behind her. They were facing the front of the military comm center. Its entrance was defended by several armed Breen soldiers, and its main doors were closed and appeared to be made of thick metal.

  Bashir frowned. “Don’t tell me we’re just going to go up and knock.”

  “I haven’t ruled that out.”

  The doors opened, and three Breen officers left the building. Bashir eyed the markings on their uniforms. “The one in front is a thot,” he said.

  “That’s like an admiral. Can’t be many of those here.”

  “What if we follow them and get just close enough to read the signals from their identichips? Then we clone the identity signatures and modify our suits with insignia like theirs. We might be able to access the entire base.”

  Rising to her feet, Sarina said, “I like it. Good plan.”

  As Bashir stood up, an electronically neutered voice said from behind them, “Actually, that is a terrible plan.”

  Sarina drew her disruptor and spun around. Bashir pivoted out of her way and looked back. Her finger started to tense on the trigger when Bashir threw his hand in front of the disruptor and snapped, “Stop!”

  He was looking at a Breen in civilian clothing. Slight of frame, the Breen had recoiled from Bashir and Sarina, apparently in fear of being shot. Bashir put his hand on top of Sarina’s disruptor and eased it down and away from the Breen, saying in a soft voice, “He’s unarmed.”

  “I am a she, actually,” the Breen said. “My name is Chot Nar.”

  “I am Ket Rhun,” Bashir said, resorting to his cover alias.

  Sarina nodded at Nar. “Minh Sann.”

  “I doubt those are your real names,” Nar said.

  Bashir replied, “Why do you say that?”

  “Because no one goes to all the trouble of having themselves zeroed just so they can go around giving out their true names,” Nar said.

  Sarina holstered her disruptor. “How did you know we’ve been zeroed?”

  “That is how I found you,” Nar said. “The surveillance networks have been reprogrammed—people who have been zeroed trigger null-value errors in the commerce grids and information kiosks. I thought all the fellowships had been warned. Did you come from one of the outer colonies?”

  “You could say that,” Sarina lied.

  “I thought as much.”

  Bashir asked, “Why is my plan to clone the thot’s identichip a bad idea?”

  “Because the surveillance network will trigger an alert the moment it detects two chips with the same ID signature,” Nar said. She circled Bashir and Sarina and peeked in an anxious manner around the corner. “I need to get you off the streets.” She beckoned them. “Follow me. I will bring you to my home. You will be safe there until I can fix your identichips.”

  Sarina looked at Bashir, and for a moment he thought she was going to say something. Then she turned and followed Nar. Bashir sighed and did likewise. Well, he mused, at least now we don’t have to sleep in a tunnel.

  The journey from Rasiuk’s nadir to the neon-lit level on which Nar resided was long under even the best of circumstances, but it was even longer this evening because Nar needed to avoid the seemingly ubiquitous nodes of the city’s urban surveillance network. Having gone to the risk and effort of intercepting two fellow dissidents before they tried to carry out whatever foolhardy plan had taken them to the threshold of the militia’s communications center, Nar was determined not to condemn them—or herself—by permitting them to be detected and recognized.

  Minor adjustments to their helmets—plucking off redundant pieces, defacing some insignia, adding a couple of random components Nar had brought along as a precaution—had made it less likely the zeroed pair would be flagged by the system’s automated pattern-recognition programs. Keeping them away from active information kiosks and commerce sensors was the real challenge, however.

  She timed their arrival at her building, a massive arcology that constituted most of Level Fifteen, to coincide with a pedestrian traffic spike caused by the impending shift change. Waves of citizens surged out of the arcology’s many entrances, bound for their late-shift employment. “This will give us some cover,” Nar said to her fugitive guests. “Stay close to me and do not speak.”

  “Understood,” replied Rhun. They remained close at Nar’s back as she led them through the arcology’s main entrance hall. Despite the crushing momentum of the crowd against which she was moving, Nar stuck as close as she could to the
center line of the hall, a high-ceilinged space that was wide enough for more than five hundred people to walk abreast and long enough to hold hundreds of such rows at once. At times of peak traffic volume, the vast concourse was a sea of functionally identical forms and faces, an irresistible force pressing in one direction or the other, out or in, all trudging in lockstep under the sickly green cast of naked fluorine lights.

  The only breaks in the utilitarian gloom were the hundreds of commerce screens that lined the walls on either side of the hall, pummeling passersby with nonstop visual and auditory assaults of garish color and blaring noise. Nar knew that she needed to keep as many bodies as possible between the screens and Rhun and Sann, lest the zeroed duo trigger null errors right here inside Nar’s home.

  They piled into a spacious lift along with a score of others, leaving room to spare as the doors slid shut and the car began its ascent. Voices called out floors, and the computer acknowledged each in turn. Nar shouted, “Seventy-one,” and her request was confirmed with a simple double beep from the overhead speaker.

  She nodded at Rhun and Sann to accompany her when the doors opened at her floor. They followed her down long intersecting corridors to her apartment. With a wave of her hand over the biometric sensor, she unlocked the door and ushered her guests inside. Then she slipped in behind them and locked the door after it slid closed.

  “Make yourselves comfortable.” She gestured at the simple furnishings in her main room: a short sofa, two chairs, a low table, and a wall-mounted vid screen that she had long ago disconnected from the municipal data network. “It is not much, but it is all I can offer you for now.”

  Sann and Rhun stood in the middle of the main room and turned slowly as they examined their surroundings. Nar could not imagine what the duo found so interesting about her residence; aside from a few pieces of art passed down to her by her parents, it had few personal touches to set it apart from any other state-approved dwelling. It was, as with all things governed by the Confederate Congress, “within established norms.” Or, as Nar put it, “aggressively average.”

  She retired to her bedroom and unlocked the clasp on her helmet’s air seal. It released with a sensation that always made Nar think of a hand releasing a choke hold on her throat. With relief she pulled off her helmet and set it atop its stand on her dresser. Next she removed her gloves, revealing her delicate, bronze-hued fingers. Piece by piece she stripped away her government-mandated shell of identity, until she was able to turn and regard herself in the bedroom mirror. She teased her shoulder-length white hair so that a few wisps fell playfully in front of her wide, jade-colored eyes, and then she donned her favorite robe, one made of metallic red Tholian silk with a fractal pattern embroidered on its back in gold.

  Rhun and Sann are being very quiet, she noticed. I hope nothing’s wrong. She returned to the living room, where the two fugitives stood huddled in a far corner, conversing in low metallic whispers that Nar could no longer understand without her helmet to translate. “Excuse me,” she said. “Forgive me for being critical, but it is impolite to remain masked after your host has unmasked.”

  The pair stood and stared at Nar for a few seconds, long enough for her to begin to feel self-conscious and then to become suspicious. “You will be safe here,” she said, unsure whether she was trying to reassure her visitors or herself. “Please remove your masks and be at home.”

  Sann and Rhun looked at each other, and they nodded in unison. They reached up, undid the seals on their helmets, and with almost grudging slowness pulled them off. When they looked up and met Nar’s gaze, her jaw fell open.

  She had seen almost every species that had ever lived under the Breen banner—but until that moment she had never seen humans with her own eyes.

  17

  Bashir was still getting used to the idea that the lovely humanoid woman standing in front of him was the same person he and Sarina had met on the street just hours earlier, and then Nar spoke. “Excuse me. Forgive me for being critical, but it is impolite to remain masked after your host has unmasked.”

  The mission briefing hadn’t addressed this circumstance. Given the intense brand of paranoia that informed so much of Breen culture, it had never occurred to the Jack Pack or to any member of SI that Bashir and Sarina might be invited to remove their disguises. Seconds passed while Bashir stood paralyzed with indecision. Then Nar continued, “You will be safe here. Please remove your masks and be at home.”

  Sarina whispered to Bashir over their private transceiver channel, “We can’t really refuse. Follow my lead, and let me do the talking.” Bashir nodded once in acknowledgment, and Sarina returned the gesture. Then they unfastened the seals between their helmets and suits and pulled off their snout-shaped masks.

  Nar’s eyes widened and her jaw fell open in a familiar expression of shock. “You…” Her voice trailed off, and she blinked. Then she took a step back and added, “You are human.”

  “Yes,” Sarina said, holding up her hands with her palms facing Nar. “We’re civilian cultural observers from the United Federation of Planets. Our mission is peaceful, and we mean you no harm.” The ease and calm with which Sarina lied made Bashir uneasy, but he trusted that she knew what she was doing, so he kept silent as she continued. “We’re grateful for your help and for shelter.”

  The white-haired woman backed away a half step. She asked in a nervous voice, “Civilians?” Sarina nodded. “Cultural observers?”

  “That’s right,” Sarina said. “We’re just here to learn about your people.”

  “Then why were you trying to break into the military communications center? Why did you attack civil-control officers in Merchants Circle?”

  Sarina shot a quick look at Bashir, as if to remind him to stay quiet. Then she replied to Nar, “First, we didn’t attack the civil-control officers, they attacked us. We defended ourselves, and we did everything we could to get innocent civilians out of the crossfire. As for the comm center, it doesn’t take a genius to see that your people live under constant surveillance. We thought that if we could access the comm facility we could gauge the scope of the surveillance program.”

  Shaking her head, Nar said, “Then you were in the wrong place. The surveillance network is run by the Breen Intelligence Directorate, not the military.”

  Bashir asked, “It’s a civil-government program?”

  “Yes. The BID is a subdivision of the Confederate Information Bureau.” An uneasy silence followed Nar’s reply. Her voice and expression betrayed her suspicion as she asked, “What happens now that I have seen your faces?”

  “That depends,” Sarina said. “Do you have any food?”

  Nar shrugged. “Some.”

  Sarina smiled. “Then maybe we could sit down, have a bite to eat, and you could tell us things we don’t know about the Breen.”

  “Like what?”

  Unable to contain his curiosity, Bashir said, “I would love to know more about your species—starting with what you call yourselves.”

  After considering the question for a few seconds, Nar said, “My people are the Silwaan. We were one of the founding members of the Confederacy.”

  Holding up his helmet, Bashir said, “I’m guessing the snouts on these things weren’t put there for your benefit.”

  With a smile of faint amusement, Nar said, “No, that feature is included to accommodate the Fenrisal. They dwell on the far side of the Confederacy from Federation space. I do not think your people have ever encountered their kind.”

  Sarina set her helmet down on a low table and eased into one of the chairs. “One of the rumors I’d always heard was that Breen have no blood and need to wear refrigeration suits or else they’ll evaporate.”

  “Whoever told you that encountered the Amoniri,” Nar said.

  Bashir asked, “Are they the ones with four-lobed brains that foil telepaths?”

  “No,” Nar said. “Those are the Paclu. They are also very strong and are one of the preeminent members of the Confed
eracy. They and the Amoniri dominate the military because they best meet its performance requirements.”

  Settling into the chair diagonally across from Sarina’s, Bashir continued the gentle interrogation. “Are you saying certain occupations in Breen society are geared to favor particular species? Like a caste system?”

  “No.” Nar edged closer. “The Confederate Congress sets uniform standards of performance and service for all positions within the military, government, and educational sectors. These criteria are chosen to ensure optimal performance, not to engender bias. That certain species are better able to meet the demands of particular occupations is not a result of favoritism but a reflection on what was judged to be in the best interest of the commonwealth.”

  “Remarkable.” Bashir grinned with sincere excitement. His jovial manner seemed to be drawing Nar closer, so he continued. “If it wouldn’t be too impertinent to ask about the masks…”

  Easing herself down onto the sofa opposite Sarina and Bashir, Nar replied, “What about them?”

  “Well,” Bashir said, “why, exactly, do your people wear them?”

  “To prevent exactly the kind of discrimination you hinted at,” Nar said.

  Sarina said, “I don’t follow you. How do the masks do that?”

  “Outside the family unit, only the CIB is authorized to know the true species of individual citizens. Because we know each other only by our official names and performance records, we evaluate one another strictly on our merits. Irrelevant factors are excluded from the decision-making process when personnel are considered for promotion. No one is advanced because of species, or physical attractiveness to a superior, or age, nor is anyone denied for any such cause. Breen are judged by their works alone.”

  Bashir chuckled. “An entire culture predicated on blind tests.” He looked at Sarina. “I’ll say this for it. It certainly sounds fair.”

  “Nar,” Sarina said, “how do citizens find mates to create new family units?”

  Shifting uncomfortably, Nar said, “Marriages are arranged by the CIB under strict, confidential seal. Unsanctioned couplings are a criminal offense.”