“We have to do something!” T’Ryssa cried, fury filling her at the sight of the shock troops beating defenseless Kinshaya, using their force beams indiscriminately on young and old.
“We are,” Jasminder replied, though her voice was tight. “We’re bearing witness.”
Trys caught sight of a Kinshaya she recognized, a motley-furred young female she’d spoken to at length the night before, who’d been as curious to learn about Romulans as Trys had been to learn about Kinshaya, which had caused Trys some awkward moments trying to cover for her limited knowledge of Romulan customs. The young one leapt between an enforcer and an elder with a broken wing, pleading with the trooper to see reason but quickly falling before his blows.
“Gireuk that!” she cursed in Romulan. “I’m not going to stand by and do nothing!” She ran forward into the crowd, readying herself. She didn’t really know what she was doing. She had Starfleet self-defense training, but she was no fighter. She didn’t know if she could accomplish anything beyond getting her own head bashed in.
But she was past thinking. She simply had to act.
• • •
“Trys—Janil, no!” Choudhury cried as the young lieutenant threw herself into the crowd. But it was too late. And T’Ryssa wasn’t alone. Nagrom and his followers were charging forward as well, slashing at the Inquisitors with claws and fangs. Some of the Romulans were joining the fight as well, despite Vranien’s entreaties.
Choudhury knew this was a mistake. It was undermining everything Yeffir and Vranien stood for. It was letting the state win by sinking to their level. But despite all that, she also leapt into the fray. She had a duty to protect T’Ryssa. Maybe that’s my true path, she thought, not for the first time in recent months. Maybe the way of peace is not mine to find again. But at least I can protect others.
She surged forward into the crowd, giving in to her security training—and her extensive hand-to-hand combat practice with Worf. She came abreast with Trys and the others, put herself between the Kinshaya troops and the Devotionalists, and acted as she needed to act to neutralize the threats. She took hold of the righteous anger that filled her and channeled it into action. Beside her, Nagrom’s faction did the same, striking more viciously than she did, though her strikes were just as effective. Together, they made headway toward the steps, toward Yeffir. Choudhury saw a group of Kinshaya work their way around a force beam and overrun its operators, taking it out of action. For a moment, she allowed herself to hope this might turn out all right.
But then the disruptor fire began.
Blinding bolts cut through the crowd in a shocking barrage, striking down protesters indiscriminately. Choudhury recognized the sight of those bolts, their sound, their smell. She had faced them in the final weeks of the Dominion War. She looked up to the top of the great stairs, knowing what she would see: dozens of bipedal figures, encased in identical, all-concealing armor and cylindrical helmets with green visors and pronounced muzzles.
Breen.
The crowd’s momentum broke, giving way to blind panic as the barrage continued. The angry roar of the crowd changed to screaming and moaning. Kinshaya and Romulans ran, but the lightning-hot plasma bolts tore into their backs, filling the air with a charnel scent.
Choudhury held her ground as long as she could, searching for Trys and the others, guiding as many as she could to a safe retreat. Finally Trys found her, dragging a wounded Kinshaya behind her. Jasminder lifted the young quadruped onto her shoulders and ran with Trys toward the nearest catacomb entrance.
Soon they were underground, the terrors of the Breen attack behind them. But Choudhury knew the worst was just beginning.
4
TALAR SYSTEM
STARDATE 59908.7
“Have you found them?”
When Rennan Konya entered Beverly Crusher’s office, now occupied by a worried Picard and Endar (since the ambassador refused to lie in bed but Doctor Tropp had not allowed him to leave sickbay), the captain only barely managed to beat Endar to the question. Both of them had been standing here silently, sometimes pacing, sometimes pounding a wall with a fist—two men united in their anxiety for their families despite having very little to say to each other. Some of the Talarians in sickbay had begun the B’Nar mourning ritual, a sustained, high-pitched keening, upon hearing of the lives lost in the rebels’ gas attack—though the quick actions of Tropp and his team had prevented more fatalities. But Endar had asked them to defer the ritual out of respect for their hosts. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t wished to appear weak in front of them by openly expressing his fear and grief.
“No, sir,” the Betazoid lieutenant replied, shaking his sandy-haired head. “There’s significant sensor interference blanketing the entire district around M’leint, an area of thousands of square kilometers. And there are definitely no human life signs anywhere else on the planet or on any moon or asteroid within transporter range.”
“How is that possible?” Picard demanded. “Talarians don’t have the technology to block our sensors.” At the moment, the captain couldn’t care less about offending Endar by calling attention to his people’s lower technological level. But Endar didn’t seem to care much either.
“No, sir, they don’t. Nor should they have the technology to tune a transporter beam to the kind of power and focus that let those gas bombs penetrate the beaming shields.”
“Then who does have this technology?” Endar demanded. “And how could the female radicals have obtained it? They do not travel offworld.”
“Each individual technology’s signature is consistent with a number of different civilizations,” Konya said. “But put the two of them together, and the one likely possibility is the Tzenkethi.”
Picard and Endar traded an intense look. “The Tzenkethi do not share their technology,” Picard told the ambassador. “Except with their partners in the Typhon Pact.”
“No wonder the females have grown so brazen,” Endar growled. “These aliens are using them to destabilize our government. Overthrow it, replace it with one beholden to the Pact.”
“Robbing us of Talar as an ally,” Picard added, “just as they robbed the Federation of Andor.”
“This will not stand,” Endar declared. “They miscalculated, Picard. They stole my son from me, and your mate from you. I know that among your kind, the value of that loss rivals that of a son.”
“They have done that and more,” Picard said. Indeed, his fear of losing Beverly was great, a pain he had not known since three years ago when she had been believed dead at Kevratas. Nearly losing her then was what had prompted him to finally act on his long-repressed feelings for her and take her as his lover and then his wife. But what he felt now had levels he could not have imagined then. “They have robbed my son of his mother. And that is simply not acceptable. I guarantee you, Endar, we will find them.” He turned to Konya. “Lieutenant, can we penetrate the interference?”
“Knowing that it’s probably Tzenkethi gives us a starting point,” Konya replied. “They’ve no doubt improved their sensor countermeasures since our last conflict, but we’ve improved our sensors as well.” He turned to Endar. “Don’t worry, Ambassador. We’ll get your son back to you. And Doctor Crusher, Captain.”
Endar lowered his head. “It is not our way to ask for help, Captain Picard. Every hardship we face is a challenge, and our strength is measured by our ability to overcome it. But this . . . a rebellion of females . . . it changes the game. We diminish ourselves if we strike at females, yet we diminish ourselves if we do nothing to conquer an enemy. It is a devious dilemma that only an alien could force upon us. So perhaps we must accept the assistance of aliens to even the battle.” He let out a heavy breath. “You have methods at your disposal that we cannot use. You are more likely to find them than we are . . . and you can take actions against them that we cannot.”
Despite Picard’s determination to recover Beverly and Jono, the ambassador’s words gave him pause. Endar was implicitly inviting the E
nterprise crew to use the kind of force against the female rebels that the Talarians’ taboos prohibited them from using.
Sensing Picard’s hesitation, Endar went on. “You wish to prove yourselves worthy as allies. To demonstrate that Talar will be stronger as your partner in the Accords. This is your chance to do so, Picard. We are united in our deprivation now. Let us be united in our victory.”
All of Picard’s instincts as a diplomat, as a believer in justice and equality, as an officer sworn to uphold the Prime Directive, resisted Endar’s request. All his experience told him it was wrong.
But he thought of René sleeping in Beverly’s arms, or gazing up at her with wonder and adoration. He thought of the profound bond of empathy between mother and child, like two halves of a single entity—which they had truly been not much more than a year ago—and how, when he was with the two of them, he almost felt like he could share in that bond. He thought of his old friend Jack Crusher, who had placed Starfleet duties first and thus missed out on sharing in that bond between Beverly and her first son for any length of time—in part because a far younger and more naive Jean-Luc Picard had pressed him to do so, and in so doing had ultimately taken him from Beverly and Wesley forever. He had let his guilt about Jack keep him from sharing his love for Beverly for so many years, until he’d finally learned that he could only repay that debt by giving Beverly the same kind of love, devotion, and family unity he had cheated her of in the past.
And he knew that he would tear Talar apart in order to find Beverly and ensure that her family would not be ripped apart again.
• • •
Crusher awoke to find herself being dragged through what looked like a maintenance tunnel of some sort—probably underground, she decided as she studied her surroundings through slitted eyelids, hiding her restored alertness. I’ve had entirely too many opportunities to get good at dealing with captivity, she thought. But she used that experience to size up the situation. Jono was being dragged along behind her, his greater bulk slowing his bearers down. All their captors were female Talarians—no surprise there.
Soon they entered a large chamber containing some sort of massive machinery. Beverly didn’t know enough about Talarian engineering to identify it. It was the occupants that held her interest—more women, as brightly attired as the rest, but with their heads and hands bare. She briefly wondered why these militants didn’t wear something duller if they wished to avoid drawing attention. Then she realized that dressing as typical Talarian women gave them essential invisibility, the freedom to go wherever they wished and be perceived as little more than part of the scenery.
The leader of their captors, the blond woman who’d invited Beverly to join their cause, called out. “Matron Dirin!” An older female looked up in response and strode toward her. The matron was a full-figured woman whose hair was atypically dark for a Talarian, aside from the streaks of gray running through it. Beverly would have pegged her as the leader even without the title.
“I am glad to see you well, Velet, and your team.” Her gaze swept over the captives. “Excellent work.”
“Thank you, Matron.” She fidgeted.
“Something troubles you?”
“This sister is a doctor. She wished to tend to the injured. I had to prevent her.”
“They have other doctors. The delay would have been brief.”
Crusher spoke up, abandoning the pretense of unconsciousness. “Any delay in treatment can be fatal in a case like this!”
“Silence!” the matron barked. “I will hear nothing from you.”
Velet frowned. “I thought we brought her here to persuade her, win her over.”
“No chance. She is Starfleet. They side with the patriarchs.”
“But she is a sister!”
“Not of us.” The matron turned to Crusher. “Tell me, human—have you ever been denied the option of managing your own life? Ever been forbidden to speak in public? Ever had a male child taken from you at birth to be raised by strangers?”
“No,” she replied honestly. The last question had evoked a regretful thought of Wesley, but it had been his own choice as an adult to follow a path that took him far from her.
“Then you cannot understand us.” Dirin looked away, dismissing her.
“But doesn’t she represent what we seek to achieve?” Velet asked.
“She represents Starfleet. She represents the elite and powerful.”
Velet was still unconvinced. “And they will seek her out relentlessly. Just as they will seek out the ambassador’s son. We play a dangerous game.”
Dirin gave a confident smile. “They won’t find her, thanks to our friend.”
“But it will give Starfleet an excuse to abet the High Command in cracking down further.”
“And thereby show the people how cruel our oppressors truly are.”
Crusher was puzzled. She’d been wondering all along why the women had targeted her as a hostage, and Dirin’s explanations didn’t seem to make much sense. She spoke up. “Starfleet has no interest in oppressing anyone. And our laws forbid interference in local affairs. You have nothing to gain by holding us hostage.”
Dirin turned back, studying her. “We shall see. Guard them,” she ordered Velet before marching across to an adjoining room and opening the door. Beverly saw a soft blue illumination from within, shifting as a figure moved in front of it. Dirin began to speak to the source of the shadows, her commanding body language replaced by deference.
No, wait. As Beverly watched the shifting light, she realized it wasn’t the shadows that were moving—the figure itself was the source of the light, the pattern suggesting a generally humanoid shape. Moving her head to the side, she caught a glimpse of a gently glowing blue arm that moved fluidly, as if boneless. It’s a Tzenkethi! The most beautiful and delicate members of the Typhon Pact in appearance, and the most deceptive, for that beauty masked a deep-rooted paranoia and a nearly fanatical need for control.
Beside her, Jono groaned and began to awaken. Beverly switched into doctor mode and gave him a quick visual once-over. When she’d verified—as well as she could with her hands bound behind her—that Jono was recovering adequately, she filled him in on the situation. “Tzenkethi!” he hissed. “Then the Pact is behind this.”
Beverly spoke to their guard. “Is that true, Velet? Was it the Tzenkethi who provoked you to violence?”
“It was the males who provoked us,” the blond woman riposted. “The Typhon Pact has offered us aid in our struggle—aid the Federation would not give.”
“They’re using you, can’t you see? They want you to destabilize the government so they can replace it with a puppet state that’ll be friendly to them. They’re not doing any of this to help you.”
“Dezinor said the Federation would spin such lies. But you are wrong. She is a true sister.”
“Dezinor. Is that the Tzenkethi agent in there? The one your matron is taking orders from?”
Velet bristled. “I will speak no more to you.” She summoned over her troops and had them move the prisoners to another, empty side room. Jono tried to resist for a moment, but Crusher could see that the Talarian taboo against striking females held him back. Once they were shut into the room, though, he let out his anger, snarling and kicking the wall.
“Now that you’ve got that out of your system,” Beverly said, “how about we use our energy for something constructive?”
They spent the next few minutes back-to-back, working on each other’s bonds. Jono winced and apologized every time her hands touched the bare skin between his gloves and sleeves. But her slender, surgeon’s hands proved more successful at slipping out of her own bonds and then untying his. They were still locked in, but at least they were more comfortable.
“We must get out of here,” Jono said. “We must expose the Tzenkethi ploy and end this once and for all.”
Crusher threw him a look. “You really think it’s going to be that simple? This Dezinor wouldn’t have been able to
get a foothold with these women if they hadn’t already had some real grievances of their own.”
He glared at her. “These women are dupes at best, fanatics at worst.”
“Which means there’s at least a chance they can be reasoned with.”
“You tried that. It didn’t go well.”
“You’re the diplomat here, Jono.”
He scoffed. “If you could not reach them, a fellow female, how could I?” He shook his head. “You sound like Picard, telling us to negotiate with these deviants. As if he could understand anything about Talarians!”
His anger startled Beverly, even though she knew it shouldn’t. He’d made it clear already that there was still some unresolved resentment toward Jean-Luc for trying to take him away from Endar. Crusher sighed. “Jono, there’s something I need to tell you. You’re wrong to blame Captain Picard for what happened sixteen years ago.” She hesitated. “I’m the one you should blame. I’m the one who interpreted your past injuries as evidence of abuse. Who assumed you had to be a prisoner of the Talarians.”
Jono stared at her. “It was you?” She nodded. “Why? Why would you think that of my father?”
“I’m a doctor. It’s my job to try to protect people from harm. And I’d seen the things that Talarians did to their enemies.”
“In war! To those who took arms against them! Not to children!”
“If you think there’s such a thing as a war that never harms children, you’ve never been in one!” Beverly winced as she realized what she’d said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” He simply glared.
After a few moments’ awkward silence, she said, “All right. It wasn’t just a medical precaution. I only knew Talarians as warriors—and I knew a thing or two about how you treated your women. Maybe I was predisposed to expect you to be violent.”
Jono stared, aghast. “You thought we would be violent to our women? You truly knew nothing of us.”
“No, I suppose I didn’t. And there’s so much else I don’t know. I’m no diplomat, Jono. I’m not an expert at bridging cultural divides.” She moved closer to him. “But you are. That’s what’s defined your whole career, your ability to bridge the gap between cultures.”
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: The Struggle Within Page 5
