“Another reason?” she said.
“Or, to be more precise, I want a doctor there. This friendship between the Venetans and the Tzenkethi took us completely by surprise, Doctor. And our intelligence networks on Ab-Tzenketh are excellent. So how did we miss this?”
“I don’t see how a doctor can answer that question,” Crusher said. “You’d be better sending Choudhury—or, better still, send a specialist along, someone from Tzenkethi Affairs—”
“My specialist is on his way already. No, I have a particular purpose in mind for you, Doctor. I want to know whether the Tzenkethi are influencing the Venetans biochemically in some way.”
“A biochemical influence?” Crusher was baffled. “Aggression enhancers? Hallucinogens? Is that the kind of thing you mean?”
“I’ll leave the technicalities to you, Doctor.”
“Is that possible, Beverly?” Picard asked.
“Anything’s possible, Jean-Luc. We know very little about Tzenkethi physiology, and even less about their medical science—”
“And, with your prior experience of the Venetans, you’re the person best placed to judge any differences in their behavior, Doctor. Look around. Compare and contrast with your previous visit. Take tricorder readings—samples if you have to. But find out whether there’s a biomedical reason for the Venetans’ sudden shift toward the Tzenkethi and this new hostility toward us.”
Crusher nodded slowly. She remembered the Venetans as welcoming. Perhaps this idea wasn’t so farfetched. “Very well, Admiral. I’ll do my best.”
“Good. What else? Oh, yes, you’ve still got that Cardassian glinn from the officers’ exchange program, haven’t you, Jean-Luc?”
“Glinn Dygan, yes—”
“Might be time for his moment in the sun. See what help he can be with the Cardassian contingent. All right, that’s it. Keep the reports coming in, Jean-Luc. I’ll be waiting to hear them. Beverly, enjoy revisiting Venette.”
The channel cut off. Crusher exhaled. Beside her, Picard tapped the table with his fingertips—once, twice—and abruptly stopped. He gave no other sign that he was perturbed at having his plans thrown into disarray so late in the day. Crusher wasn’t fooled.
“Well,” he said at length, and calmly, “it seems that our mission to the Venette Convention is now rather more complicated than it was.”
“Complicated by Cardassians, no less.” Crusher perched on the side of the desk. “Do you really think the Venetans will be angered by their involvement?”
Picard leaned back in his chair and rested his hand upon hers. “I think there’s a strong possibility. They’re not well-disposed toward the Federation anyway. To bring the advertised diplomatic teams from the Federation and Ferenginar is one thing. To add representatives from another major power . . . As I said to the admiral—”
“The Venetans could see it as a last-minute attempt to put pressure on them.”
“And without many reasons to take us at our word when we assure them that it’s not.”
Crusher nodded. The Federation had an unfortunate history with the three systems that comprised the Venette Convention. When she had visited the convention, as Beverly Howard, all those years ago, the Venetans had been in the early stages of establishing links with the Federation. All had progressed smoothly. Ten years ago, they had been on the verge of applying for Federation membership. Then the Dominion War had intervened, followed by the horror of the Borg Invasion, and the political destiny of these three small systems had quite simply been forgotten. Until they’d announced their new trading agreement with the Tzenkethi Coalition, that is. Now the Federation diplomatic service was scrambling to make up the ground lost in a decade. The Venette Convention bordered upon some interesting (not to mention sensitive) spots.
“Chen’s going to be disappointed,” Crusher said.
“I’d better inform her of the change of plans—” Picard started suddenly, and Crusher turned to look behind her.
At the table, René had lost interest in his own drink and had got hold of his mother’s mug. His hands were too small to manage the weight, and the mug was now balancing precariously on the edge of the table. One small push and . . .
. . . Down will go baby, cradle and all.
Crusher crossed the room in a split second, catching the mug midway between table and floor.
“Nice save,” Picard said appreciatively.
“An eye for critical situations,” Crusher said, “and the reflexes to deal with them. Two more reasons why I should come along on this mission.”
• • •
“So . . . this friend of yours,” said Bowers.
“Not really a friend,” said Dax. “More a friend of a friend.”
“All right, this passing acquaintance of yours—”
“I wouldn’t even call him a friend of a friend. I mean, Netara dated him . . . twice, maybe? Three times at the very most.”
“All right, so you had a friend at the academy called Netara, and she dated this guy Alden three times . . .”
“Could have been four.”
“Three or maybe four times . . .”
“But over several months,” Dax said. “He was around a fair bit. I don’t want you to think he was a complete stranger or anything . . .”
Bowers lifted his hand to stop the flow of information. “I get the idea. And what I’m getting at is this: why exactly are you pulling all the stops out for this guy, Ezri?”
Dax, who had been smoothing down her uniform and looking around the Aventine’s state-of-the-art transporter room to make sure everything was spotless (it was), stopped and thought, Good question.
“Given that by this point in your life he’s surely no more than a minor footnote . . .”
“I guess . . .” Dax paused to think. “I guess, because he was around during an important bit. You know, right near the start, when you’re not shy or nervous anymore, but the end isn’t anywhere near in sight, and so you’re just enjoying the freedom and the comparative lack of responsibility.”
“I think I just about remember that,” Bowers said wistfully. “Despite the rusting memory and the dimming haze of time.”
“And Peter Alden, he was a year or two older than the rest of us. The crowd I went around with. It made a difference. We all wanted his approval, anyway, and then, to top it all, he was brilliant, Sam. A standout student. Obviously destined for great and important things.”
“‘Most Likely to Be Admiral Before the Rest of Us,’ huh?” Bowers frowned. “I knew a few like that.”
“No, not that type at all! Not pushy or self-important—the very opposite. Cooler, quieter. Modest, almost. But confident in himself. Like he had his eye on what was really important. Whenever one of us said anything—and you know ‘youngsters,’ too much to say most of the time—we always had half an eye on Peter Alden. What did he think of it? Did he approve? Was he disappointed? Everyone raised their game when Peter Alden was around.”
Dax paused. What about shy, gawky, hapless Ezri Tigan, who had found Peter Alden yet another entirely daunting experience that the academy was throwing at her? Had she raised her game? Had she ever raised her game, before Dax?
“Even Ezri Tigan?” Bowers said gently.
Dax laughed. “Yes, I think that once or twice even she managed to shine for Peter Alden.”
Bowers smiled. Dax twitched her uniform again. Trust Sam to know what was really going on in her head, to guess what it meant for her to be meeting someone who had known her before Dax.
It seemed a long time since Ensign Ezri Tigan, half qualified as a counselor and with slightly less than half a clue, had unexpectedly become the host of the venerable Trill symbiont, Dax. She’d been twenty years old. Time passed, and these days the people who had known her as Ezri Tigan seemed fewer and farther between. So when the Aventine had been assigned to collect Peter Alden, an intelligence expert on Tzenkethi affairs, and take him to rendezvous with a diplomatic mission en route to the Venette Conventio
n, Ezri had been struck by the name. The thought of glimpsing that girl again—through someone else’s eyes, and someone whom that girl had admired—was tantalizing.
And to be able to show off the Aventine was the icing on the cake. “Most Likely to Be Admiral Before the Rest of Us”? Dax was still a player in that game.
Beside her, Bowers smiled. “I see,” he said. “‘Ezri Dax—My Success Story.’ ”
“Something like that.”
“Then I’m honored to find myself part of the parade.” Bowers cast an appraising eye around the transporter room. “So . . . does he have it?”
“Have what?”
“The glittering career that everyone predicted.”
“I lost track. You know how it is. But I imagine Starfleet Intelligence hasn’t been wasting his talents.”
“I imagine not. Your uniform’s perfectly straight, by the way,” Bowers said. “Oh, and you’re captain of one of Starfleet’s most advanced vessels.”
They exchanged grins. Dax patted Bowers on the arm. “Where would I be without you, Sam?”
“Here, probably. Hush. Your guest is about to arrive.”
The Aventine’s transporter chief, Spon, operated the controls, and Commander Peter Alden of Starfleet Intelligence materialized before them.
He was a taut man in his midthirties, all lines and angles, with dark hair graying at the temples and a slight frown etched upon his face. When he saw Dax, a smile softened the tension at his mouth and eyes.
“Ezri,” he said, offering her his hand. “Good to see you. It’s been . . . what, ten years? Twelve?”
“Must be,” Dax said, smiling back. She’d forgotten how good-looking Peter Alden was, and he had one of those faces that become more interesting with age and experience.
Alden glanced around the transporter room. “Your ship . . .” He laughed. “Well, it’s amazing!”
“I know,” Dax replied, beginning to laugh herself. Their hands were still clasped together. Gently, Dax detached herself from him. “Want to take a look around?”
Alden tucked both hands behind his back. “I’d like nothing better.”
They smiled at each other. At Dax’s side, Bowers cleared his throat. “Oh!” said Dax. “Yes! Allow me to introduce my first officer, Commander Samaritan Bowers.”
“Sam will do,” said Bowers, offering his hand. The two men exchanged pleasantries and handshakes.
Bowers turned to Dax. “Shall I accompany you on the tour of the ship, Captain? I know you were just saying that you didn’t know where you’d be without me—”
“D’you know, Sam, I think I’ll just about cope by myself.”
Dax gestured to Alden to go ahead through the door, and she followed him out. “May I be the first,” Bowers breathed into her ear as she went past, “to remark that your ex-roommate’s ex-boyfriend is a fox.”
“Shut up,” ordered Dax.
2
FROM:
Civilian Freighter Inzitran, flagship, Merchant Fleet 9
TO:
Ementar Vik Tov-A, senior designated speaker, Active Affairs, Department of the Outside
STATUS:
Estimated time to border: 37 skyturns
Estimated time to destination: 42 skyturns
Merchant vessel 3, hold temperature low but stable. Monitoring.
Over the years, the Enterprise had hosted countless diplomatic receptions, and Doctor Crusher and Captain Picard had evolved a system for working the room. Starting at opposite ends, they would move around the space in a figure eight, meeting briefly at the center to trade information, before moving on to the side of the room that the other had recently navigated.
“Make sure you speak to the Ferengi diplomat,” Picard murmured, as they passed each other. “Madame Ilka. I think you’ll find her very interesting.”
Madame, Crusher thought. Now that’s something I’ve not seen before. She glanced across the room to where a petite Ferengi female stood, twisting her fingers around the stem of her empty glass, observing the chattering guests with an air of distant amusement. Crusher extricated herself from her conversation with a junior member of the Cardassian team and began to move toward that end of the room. Picard, meanwhile, headed off in the direction of the lead Federation negotiator, Jeyn. Veterans of many similar missions together, they greeted each other with hail-fellow-well-met joviality.
Halfway toward Ilka, Crusher realized that the Ferengi woman had spotted her and had turned her gentle amusement to Beverly’s nonchalant approach.
At last, Ilka took pity and beckoned to her. “Doctor Crusher,” she called, “why don’t you join me in my corner?”
Relieved to be able to abandon her futile attempt to sidle up discreetly on the other woman, Crusher grabbed two flutes of champagne and headed straight for her. Ilka took the proffered glass and sipped the liquid. She was middle-aged by Ferengi standards, with a higher than usual brow and perhaps slightly small earlobes. She wore a plain gray and silver dress, very elegant and conservative, that almost acted as camouflage against the ship’s bulkhead. It was an interesting fashion statement. Most of the Ferengi women one saw in public tended to opt for bright, almost garish, colors, with plenty of decoration, as if celebrating their new freedom to dress as they pleased. Ilka’s one concession to prevailing taste was a pair of long earrings. Crusher noted, however, that they did not join together at the bottom in the usual style. She liked this innovation. The old style had always faintly reminded her of chains.
Ilka stared at her with huge, bright, intelligent eyes. “Have you met our new Cardassian colleague yet, Doctor?”
“Detrek?” Crusher shook her head. “No, not yet. I believe she’s not yet come aboard.”
“She is something of a mystery,” Ilka murmured.
“I gather it was a last-minute decision to send her along. She may well still simply be receiving her brief.”
“Perhaps.” Ilka took a sip of her drink. “Are you optimistic about the prospects of our mission, Doctor?”
“Beverly, please.”
“Beverly.”
“Am I confident about our mission?” Crusher pondered the question. “I have to say that I have mixed feelings. The news that the Venette Convention was seeking closer ties with the Tzenkethi came completely out of the blue.”
“For us, too,” Ilka said softly.
“We had such close links with them in the past. We had hoped to be welcoming them into the Federation—”
“But things change, and can change very quickly.”
“They can indeed, Madame Ilka, but not always for the worst.”
Ilka’s smile broadened. She had long white teeth, meticulously sharpened. “I would call that typical Federation optimism!”
“And I would suggest that Ferenginar proves my point.”
Ilka threw back her head and laughed, a frank, unforced laugh that warmed Crusher to the heart. She liked this small, clever Ferengi woman.
“Go ahead!” Ilka said. “Ask me whatever you like!”
“I wouldn’t dream of doing that,” Crusher said swiftly. “You must get tired of being treated as a specimen.”
Ilka briefly closed her eyes, her gaiety changing in an instant into something closer to fatigue. She leaned toward Crusher and lowered her voice in confidence.
“You know our history,” Ilka said. “As a girl I barely set foot outside my father’s house. At the age of consent I was traded by him in marriage for a controlling interest in a shipping company. By good fortune, the man to whom I had been sold happens wholeheartedly to support the advancement of females. More than that, he was willing to put latinum behind that cause. By that happy set of circumstances, I am now the first Ferengi female to be appointed head of a diplomatic mission. I have come this far by keeping my ears open, my mouth shut, and my wit sharper than that of everyone around me. There are many on my homeworld eager to see me fail in this task.” She considered this statement and glanced around the room to where several of her junior
s were in conversation with members of the Federation diplomatic mission. “There are many on my team eager to see me fail in this task.”
“You can trust me, Madame Ilka,” Crusher said sincerely.
Ilka studied her with her bright, wary eyes. “I’d like to think I can. But I’ll hold some of my latinum in reserve a little longer, I think.”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” Crusher replied.
Smiling, Ilka polished off the last of her champagne. She twisted the stem of the glass between her fingers. “An interesting beverage,” she said. “A kind of wine, is it not? Champagne, if I remember correctly?”
“That’s right. Ruinart, to be exact,” Crusher said. “You’re very well-informed.”
“I take an interest in the world around me,” Ilka said. “The bubbles make it rather noisy, of course, but I rather like the idea of a drink that is as fun to listen to as it is to taste. One of my sons has an import company that deals in superior quality alien goods—there’s a thriving market for them on Ferenginar these days. Our Bajoran first lady has set quite a fashion. I believe my son might be interested.” Her eyes sparkled at Crusher like the bubbles in the drink she was holding. Demurely, she said, “You sound like you know what you’re talking about. Do you happen to know anyone in the wine trade?”
Only my sister-in-law, Crusher thought. What a remarkable coincidence! Ilka certainly did take an interest in the world around her. She’d also done her research quite thoroughly.
Crusher lifted her glass and gave a traditional Ferengi response to such a question. “I may well have some information that could bring you profit.”
Ilka smiled broadly. And Crusher, looking around a room where the representatives of three powers were mixing freely and good-humoredly, was suddenly cheered—that in a climate of such mistrust, and amid such fear, there were great powers lining up against them, a friendship such as this could still be made.
• • •
When her shift ended, Neta Efheny did not linger, as she sometimes did, to chat with Corazame and the other deck workers. Instead she hurried down to the water shuttle that ran across the lagoon around which this city was built.
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Brinkmanship Page 2
