Star Trek: Enterprise - 016 - Rise of the Federation: Tower of Babel

by Christopher L. Bennett

  “By putting all those people through a thresher,” Garos replied.

  Corthoc laughed in what he imagined was agreement. “Exactly! See, that’s what I was going for, a, what is it, metaphor thing about farming.”

  “Yes, I gathered that.” Garos controlled his reaction, regretting that Malurian masks were such technological marvels, responsive to the subtlest cues from the faces within. The Zami mask he wore now was not much different from the mask he’d worn during his months on the Akaali homeworld before his exile: smooth, pink, and fleshy with thin arcs of hair over the eyes, but without the Akaali’s forehead grooves and with somewhat sharper tips to the ears, plus a paler, longer, golden-brown wig. It was a convenience to the maskmakers that so many humanoids defaulted to that smooth, babyish appearance (the biology alignment back home attributed it to the evolutionary pressure toward neoteny), but it was an annoyance to Garos that he so often had to don such an unflatteringly bland visage. Particularly since it increasingly reminded him of the human species and Jonathan Archer, whose interference on the Akaali world had led to Garos’s exile, and who had played a key role in foiling his Vertian stratagem last year.

  “I think what Corthoc is trying to say,” came a feminine voice, “is that it represents all we have to lose should Rigel align with the Federation.”

  Garos turned to Retifel Thamnos, a tall, middle-aged Zami woman with pleasantly sharp features and a mane of red-gold hair, which she wore in a less elaborate, more unruly coif than Corthoc’s while somehow making it look considerably more elegant. He smiled at her, a more sincere response than he had granted Corthoc. “Exactly the position I have come to you to advocate.” The Thamnos family had fought its way to prominence more recently than the Corthocs, building its wealth and power on the exploitation of the offworlders who had come to Rigel II over the past two centuries, and cunningly wielding that power to undermine one of the entrenched ruling families and usurp its rule of a substantial portion of Rigel IV. As such, its members had not had time to grow as decadent and inbred as the Corthoc line, thus retaining their capacity for intelligence and calculation. The Corthocs had sent Vemrim as their representative to the Malurians because it got the dullard out of their hair for a time, but Retifel had volunteered to represent the Thamnos clan because she was ambitious and politically savvy.

  “The First Families,” Garos went on, speaking mainly to Thamnos, “are the strongest rival bloc to the Trade Commission—the only native rivals with interests spanning multiple Rigelian worlds and including interstellar business partnerships. Thus, you are in the best position to undermine the Federation’s attempts to co-opt the Commission.”

  “We know all that,” a bored Corthoc replied. “But what do you have to offer us?”

  “The Raldul alignment is a powerful interstellar cartel,” Garos told him, “and we have powerful allies such as the Orion Syndicate. We are skilled at infiltration, deceit, and sabotage. We can get into places even you cannot easily reach. And we can offer you a lasting partnership, much like the one the Federation is offering your Commission foes—albeit without the moralistic restrictions the Federation seeks to impose.”

  “Now, that appeals to me,” Thamnos said, inhaling on the long narcotic stick she held between her fingers. Mercifully, her narcotic of choice gave off no disagreeable smoke or odor, but it surprised Garos that this canny, self-possessed woman would allow herself to be subjugated to one of the same addictive chemicals that her family used to entrap and control those they considered their lessers. “The Federation’s idyllic promises have made their way even to the ears of our serfs,” she went on, “despite our best efforts to limit their outside contact. It’s filling their minds with dangerous notions about rights and freedom.”

  Corthoc gave a commiserating sigh. “Oh, that’s so irritating, isn’t it? We’ve had to maim or execute so many useful workers this past quarter. And somehow that just seems to make the rest of them more rebellious.”

  “Of course it does, you fool,” Thamnos spat. “The one thing stronger than fear is hate. Make them see you as the source of pain in their lives and they’ll just fight you harder.” She smiled. “Subtlety is the key. Put the latest strain of the fever virus into their water supply, weaken and kill enough to take the fight out of them, then when they’re at their lowest, announce you’ve found a cure and come to their rescue. Earn their gratitude and they’re yours.”

  Garos controlled his reaction tightly. As refreshing as Thamnos’s intelligence and charm may have been after spending any length of time with Corthoc, she was ultimately just as selfish and decadent, her power built on the backs of her people. They would both gladly sacrifice the well-being of their planet and its inhabitants if it brought them more power. They weren’t so different from the entrenched alignments that ruled the Malurian system, preservers of the planetbound laws and traditions that hampered the race’s efforts to compete and flourish in an interstellar age. Those like Garos and Raldul, who recognized that Maluria needed a galactic presence to stand against external threats—even to preserve the race against disaster on a global scale, the Holy Mother forbid—were ostracized and treated as criminals, and thus forced to become criminals to survive. In truth, Garos felt more affinity toward the rebellious peasants of Rigel IV than toward the First Families that so cavalierly subjected them to torture, addiction, disease, and outright murder at a whim, and that hoarded offworld technologies and medicines to themselves while the masses toiled in virtually preindustrial conditions. He despised everything Thamnos and Corthoc stood for.

  But he served the good of the Malurian people, not the Rigelians. The Raldul alignment needed the wealth and influence that their extralegal dealings in the Kandari Sector made possible, and Maluria, whether the system’s leaders admitted it or not, needed Raldul to keep it strong and safe. Rigel had to be kept out of the Federation for Maluria’s sake, even if it meant Rigelians had to suffer and die. Even if it meant Garos had to climb down into the trenches with filth like the First Families.

  So he made his mask feign a suitably devious smile. “That’s exactly the kind of cunning I’m looking for, Retifel. Exactly what we’ll need if we’re to thwart the Trade Commission and the Federation.”

  Thamnos took what she evidently imagined to be a seductive drag on her narcotic stick and smiled back. “And that’s why I’m glad you’re here, my dear Dular. We’ve had designs against the Commission for decades, but acquiring the resources and support to make it happen has remained a problem. Now, perhaps, that can change.”

  Garos widened his smile. “Whatever designs you have imagined, I encourage you to think bigger. What do you want most of all?”

  Thamnos spread her arms expansively. “This. I want Rigel II. I’m tired of having to control it piecemeal, a casino district here, a bought politician there. I’m tired of having to share it with the Jelna and the Chelons and the outworlders. We are the First Families, born to rule unopposed. We should own this planet. That is what I want, Dular. And I want the Trade Commission to be so hobbled that it can’t do a thing to stop us.”

  “Nothing is beyond us if we work together, my friends.” Garos led her—and, as an afterthought, Corthoc—over to the table. “Now . . . let us discuss how we may get you what you wish.”

  May 17, 2164

  San Francisco

  “The latest report confirms our intelligence from two months ago,” Charles Tucker informed his superior. “A high-ranking Raldul member, maybe Dular Garos himself, met with First Family representatives on Rigel II. They’re planning to derail the membership talks.”

  “I see.” His superior, a square-jawed, gray-haired man who went by the name Harris, took in his report calmly. “And what do you recommend we do about it?”

  Tucker considered for a moment, then sighed and set his mouth grimly, recalling a past argument and the others that had followed. “We . . . don’t do anything. We let Starfleet and the diplomats deal with the problem.”

  Harris
studied him for a long moment, his gaze revealing nothing. It lasted long enough to put Trip’s teeth on edge before the older man relented and gave a slight smile. “You’re absolutely right. Or should I say, Captain T’Pol was right.” Tucker glared, but he was past being surprised at the lack of personal privacy in the life he led now. “The Federation is more than capable of taking care of itself . . . most of the time. It has laws, defenses, countless skilled professionals more than capable of dealing with the vast majority of its problems, and usually we serve the Federation best by staying out of its way.

  “Not to mention that it’s in our own best interests not to involve ourselves in more situations than we absolutely have to. Each intervention increases the risk of exposure.” Harris smirked. “As a wise school of philosophers once observed, the first lesson of not being seen is not to stand up. So our, ah, services should be the last resort, not the first.”

  Tucker gave him a sidelong look. “Then what are we doing here? Why are we going to all this trouble, abandoning our lives, hiding our identities, when most of the time there’s no point?”

  “I understand your frustration, my friend. You want to feel that all this secrecy, all this deception and denial, serves a purpose. But our purpose,” Harris went on, “is to watch . . . and to wait. To be ready for those—hopefully rare—situations that the Federation can’t resolve through legal and aboveboard means. Situations that only the invisible and unaccountable can address.

  “I know it’s not very glamorous or rewarding. But it’s our life. You’ve said yourself, we have to be careful not to take things too far. What we do often isn’t pretty, so the less we have to do it, the better.”

  “I know, I know. I guess sittin’ by and watchin’ has never been my style. That’s why I joined Starfleet.” Tucker sighed. “In another life.”

  Harris contemplated him for a moment. “You know . . . one of the things we are meant for is to take care of matters outside the authority of those official institutions. Situations beyond Federation jurisdiction that might someday pose a risk to the Federation.”

  Sensing that Harris was about to make him an offer, Tucker perked up. “I like to travel.”

  “Good. We need a fact finder for a . . . troubling situation that’s developing. It may be strictly a local problem, but it could affect Federation interests.” He tilted his head. “And it’s a fair distance in the opposite direction from Babel.”

  He thought it over. It wasn’t as if he were eager to flee from T’Pol. He wasn’t sure quite what the range limitation on their telepathic bond was, but they seemed to connect less often the farther they were from each other. But if what she needed was to be trusted to solve her own problems, then he’d give her the necessary space. He just wasn’t sure yet if that path would lead around to bringing them back together. For now, he supposed that was her decision to make.

  “Sounds perfect,” he told Harris. “Just tell me what the weather’s like there so I can pack.”

  4

  May 29, 2164

  Orion homeworld (Pi-3 Orionis III)

  D’NESH ENTERED the medical section of the Three Sisters’ estate to find Jofirek on a bed in the treatment area, harassing a Boslic nurse. Luckily for the nurse, the elderly Agaron crime boss lacked the speed or energy for much more than verbal advances. Still, D’Nesh chuckled at the slave’s plight. As far as she was concerned, females who lacked the power to keep males under control deserved whatever happened to them.

  Of course, D’Nesh did not have to wait for service, so she was promptly shown into the adjacent exam room and Doctor Honar-Des arrived moments later, as soon as he could abandon the patient he’d been with and run his hands through a sterilizing beam. Des was a smallish, elderly Orion, only half a head taller than D’Nesh, with a fully bald and unadorned head. He eschewed body piercings for what he called sanitary reasons, though D’Nesh had to wonder how he reconciled that with the full gray beard he wore. “What’s Jofirek in for?” she asked him idly as he pulled the curtain shut over the doorway. “Did Zankor try to kill him again?”

  “Well, he came in seeking performance enhancement. Apparently he’s having difficulty maintaining enough stamina for the celebrations. But I’ve advised him that we need to stabilize his heart first.”

  “Ugh.” She grimaced. “That’s why it’s better to die young and pretty.”

  “So what can I do for you today, Mistress?”

  D’Nesh spoke reluctantly. “I’m feeling a little tired myself. Like my . . . my game is a bit off.”

  “In what context?”

  “You know. The context.” It was difficult to get the words out, to admit that her sexual allure and potency were at anything less than full strength. After all, her power as an elite depended on that.

  But Navaar had gathered the members of her alliance here on Orion to discuss their future plans, and naturally she’d thrown the expected bacchanalia to cement their loyalty—and to celebrate the successful progression of her long-term plan for Sauria. In the past month, Maltuvis had consolidated his control of Narpra and had moved his “medical relief” troops into a second disease-ravaged neighbor, effectively conquering both nations without firing a shot. He now controlled almost all of Sauria’s mineral wealth, and there was nothing the Global League or the Federation could do about it. And it was all thanks to Orion medical science. Plagues, as Navaar had gloated, could be very useful tools. And they had a way of spreading.

  D’Nesh had joined in the festivities gamely, as usual, but had noticed that she was getting less attention from the available partners than Navaar or Maras. Of course, she could always order the slaves to do as she bade them, and yet . . . “One of the bed slaves . . . I told him to do this thing I like and . . .” She set her jaw. “He said no. Just once—all I had to do was raise my voice and he cowered nicely—but he still said no.”

  “Well, let’s take a look at you, Mistress.” She disrobed for the examination, annoyed that Honar-Des took the sight of her spectacular body in stride. True, he had been chemically castrated, or he would have been unable to control his urges enough to do this job. But not being gawked at when nude was somewhat humiliating. It made her feel powerless.

  “You’re perfectly all right, Mistress,” the doctor told her once the exam was finished. “Nothing wrong except a minor hormonal deficiency, which is perfectly natural in someone of your—maturity.”

  She stared at him in outrage. “I am not old!”

  “No, no, of course, Mistress, I never meant to suggest—”

  “Navaar’s a year older than me. There’s nothing wrong with her hormones!”

  The doctor’s eyes turned away. “Well . . . each individual is different, Mistress. I assure you,” he said, meeting her gaze again, “this is a minor inconvenience, easily remedied.”

  She grabbed the collar of his coat. “Remedy it, then. Now!”

  “I’ll be just a moment.” He left the room for the dispensary, and D’Nesh put her clothes back on—which didn’t take long. When Honar-Des returned, he gave her a container of gel capsules. “These are a standard hormone supplement for Orion females. They help restore the natural hormone levels that your body is . . . producing in lower quantities now.”

  She stared at the pills. “So this is just for now, until I get my full strength back?”

  “Well, we’ll monitor your situation and see how it goes.”

  D’Nesh could tell he was handling her. He was rightly afraid to state to her face that she was getting older, that she needed chemical help to remain as irresistible as an elite female needed to be. She’d never admit it, of course, but it was a fear she’d had to live with ever since Maras had hit puberty and begun displaying signs that her pheromonal potency would surpass that of her older sisters. If the girl hadn’t been too stupid to have any ambition, D’Nesh would have had her sold into slavery in a Klingon torture pit years ago. But the little twit wasn’t completely useless; as much as it galled D’Nesh to admit it, the two eld
er sisters benefitted from having Maras’s chemical allure reinforcing their own. If they had rejected Maras or sold her, then some rival elites might have co-opted her, manipulated her into acting against them. So D’Nesh could understand the practical, strategic reasons why Navaar kept the three of them inseparable. What ate at her was the way Navaar genuinely seemed to like the child, to dote on her and indulge her dull-witted antics. She’d never allowed D’Nesh to get away with half as much. “It’s because I expect so much more from you,” Navaar had explained on many an occasion—but it didn’t make it sting any less. D’Nesh felt she was forced to work harder than anyone else to earn Navaar’s respect.

  And now with this happening, her potency starting to fade . . . she could never tell Navaar about the supplement, or she’d never live it down. To be losing her natural potency while her older sister was still—

  “Wait,” she said to Honar-Des as he showed her out of the exam room. “Navaar’s already on these pills, isn’t she? She gets a little performance boost of her own to stay on top, doesn’t she?”

  Honar-Des looked terrified. “Please, Mistress . . . I’m obligated to keep all my mistresses’ medical information confidential. I beg you not to make me reveal . . .”

  She laughed. “Don’t worry, little man. You just told me what I need to know. Get back to your patients.”

  Honar-Des thanked her abjectly, ignoring Jofirek’s loud demands that the doctor pay attention to him now. D’Nesh left in a better mood, reassured that she could still make men grovel at her feet. Where seduction failed, there was always cruelty. If anything, she enjoyed that even more.

  June 9, 2164

  Mount Dleba Observatory, Rigel V

  “This is where Rigel began.”

  Rehlen Vons, assistant director for Rigel V, gestured proudly at the antique telescope mounted in its carefully maintained brass fittings. “It was through this very telescope,” the craggy-faced Jelna exomale went on, “that Lovar Dleba first detected the fires that the Zami of Rigel IV used to manage and clear the forests of their world. Her studies over the ensuing years confirmed the regularity and design behind the fires, and eventually she refined the instrument enough to detect the smaller fires of their permanent settlements and migratory bands. This proof that intelligent life existed on their neighboring world inspired Jelna science and engineering as we sought to develop the means to communicate with our neighbors. In time we realized the natives of Four were not advanced enough to detect us in return—but within two centuries of Dleba’s discovery, a robotic probe bearing her name made the first landing on Four and sent back the first images of the Zami people.”