Efheny sat in the back, the part of the craft designated for Atas. The shuttle set off at a gentle pace, creeping along the shore and stopping regularly to drop off passengers. Efheny watched them as they scuttled down the narrow coral lanes that ran through most Tzenkethi cities. They were heading for their homes, tucked behind the blank walls of tenements turned inward around central courts. Even relatively superior echelons such as the ones Efheny was watching preferred to crowd together. Open spaces, being alone—these things caused Tzenkethi considerable discomfort.
The evening sky was purple, and a gentle breeze ruffled the water. The shuttle, after its last stop on this side of the lagoon, accelerated out into open water, heading toward the distant district where Atas such as Efheny had their billets. The canopies began to rise automatically, shielding the passengers from the great outdoors. Before the sky was completely hidden, Efheny caught a glimpse of the Royal Moon, a pale pink pearl above. All the passengers, Efheny included, raised their hands to touch their chests and then signal up to the moon, acknowledging the blessing of their Autarch, looking down from his palace upon his loyal servants. The canopy reached its full height, and the moon could no longer be seen, although its presence remained.
Efheny leaned back tiredly on the low bench and subvocalized instructions to begin transmitting the day’s data to her superiors at the embassy. Once the task was under way, she pondered her current predicament.
Much as she would have preferred to ignore what had happened, Efheny knew she had to speak to Hertome. She was terribly afraid that someone else had noticed their exchange, the sudden slip of their masks. Perhaps Hertome, with the advantage of his higher designation, would be able to alleviate her fears. But she would have to be careful. Hertome might be the representative of an ally, but Efheny was wary of humans. They were unpredictable. Take the meeting this evening. To arrange it, Hertome had simply walked past her and told her when and where to come as casually as if he had been instructing her on her next task. She’d had to hurry to switch on the audio-disruption devices that were part of her bioengineering, and even then she wasn’t sure that Karenzen Ter Ata-D, Hertome’s assistant, hadn’t noticed their unusual exchange.
Efheny disembarked two stops before her usual place, at a busy interchange that served as a covered market. Here Gar traders of the lower sort plied their wares to those Ata with a little more standing and a little more credit to their names. Slipping between stalls bearing ilva fish and pana stones and the sweet-smelling dyes with which many of the Ata grades liked to pattern their skins below their work wear, Efheny came at last to a tiny eatery. She came here once every other skyturn chiefly because the food was bland enough for her tastes, being largely free of the saltiness that all Tzenkethi, regardless of grade, seemed to believe was a necessary flavor to any meal.
Hertome (or whatever his name was in Standard) was already there, head down, reading the evening bulletin tickertaping across the tabletop. Efheny clicked her tongue. This was a risky meeting, out in public, but perhaps, given his slightly higher grading, it was less noteworthy than if he had come to her billet, or she had gone to his. Quietly, unobtrusively, she went to the table behind his, arranging herself on the low seat so that they had their backs to each other. The retinal scanner on the table, identifying her grade and function, changed the tickertape over to the E-bulletin. Efheny switched on her audio-disruption devices and waited.
After a moment, Hertome leaned back. “Not quite what you seem, are you, Mayazan?”
A frank opening move, too frank for her taste. These humans, thought Efheny (conveniently forgetting her own people’s recent history)—their proclivity for gambling would surely plunge the whole quadrant into chaos one of these days. Doggedly, she continued playing her part.
“This one can only offer her services to you, Ap-Rej.”
“All right, stay in role if you want to.”
Hertome twisted his neck slightly, so that from the corner of her eye Efheny could see the side of his face. The bioengineering was flawless. There was no sign now in his eyes of that unnerving alien humanness that had been so visible before. Now there was just an expression of patient, limpid sedateness that all the Ata seemed to bear.
Before Hertome could say anything else, a server approached their tables. His dull flesh and arm markings designated him EE. This made speech between them inappropriate, so Hertome signaled his order and Efheny did the same when he came to her.
When the server had left, Hertome spoke again. “I acknowledge your willingness to serve,” he said, “and commend you on your readiness. But what I really want to know is if you’re going to blow my damn cover.”
“This one acknowledges with gratitude your commendation,” Efheny said quickly. “She assures you of her dutifulness.” He could take that, she thought, whichever damn way he wanted.
Their cups of steaming leti arrived together, with two savory biscuits for Hertome and one for her. Hertome drank the shot of leti in one go but left the biscuits. He tapped his fingers against the cup, then stood up abruptly, knocking the biscuits to the ground as he did so. Efheny, as her status required, bent to pick them up for him—and, shockingly, he did the same. Their heads almost touched below the level of the tabletops. Efheny almost shuddered to think of the number of taboos that were being violated.
“It’s not so bad, you know.” His eyes were alien—human—once again. “We’re in this together. Perhaps we should think about working as a team.”
He stood up, keyed his credit code into the table, and left. Perhaps we should, Efheny thought. But we still have to be careful. She didn’t watch him leave and sat holding her mug in both hands, keeping her lowered eyes on a Ter Ata-B workman sitting at a far table. Had he been watching them throughout their meeting? Or was she simply being paranoid?
• • •
Glinn Ravel Dygan spruced up his uniform and headed toward the transporter room to meet the Cardassian delegation to the Venette Convention. This was a significant day for Dygan, who was looking forward to welcoming his compatriots on board. He felt welcome on the Enterprise, but nothing compared with having your own people around you, sharing jokes about the same childhood holovids, complaining about the same politicians, understanding the Cardassian way. Moreover, Dygan was quietly proud of the work that he had done on the officer exchange program to build bridges between Cardassia and the Federation. He wanted to introduce more of his people to this remarkable ship and its exceptional crew. Like many before him, Dygan was honored to be serving on the Enterprise. Unfortunately for the young glinn, his day was about to take a turn for the worse.
When Dygan reached the transporter room, Commander Worf was already there. He acknowledged Dygan’s arrival with a curt nod and his customary frown. “The cruiser Ghemor docked at Starbase 66 half an hour ago,” Worf said. “Your people are on their way.”
A quick communication between the transporter chief and his counterpart on the starbase established that the Cardassian contingent was ready to come aboard. The transporter chief operated the controls and the Cardassians materialized.
Four Cardassians. One too few. Worf’s frown shifted down a level from “situation normal” to “potential problem.” Dygan’s day began to go off the rails.
One of the insufficiency of Cardassians stepped forward and offered his palm in greeting to Worf. “I am Sub-Negotiator Gerety of Cardassian External Affairs,” he said. “On behalf of my government, I would like to thank you for accommodating us on this mission.”
“You are one fewer than we were expecting,” Worf said brusquely, pressing his palm against Gerety’s as quickly as he could. Dygan squirmed, guessing the commander’s thoughts. Cardassians. Always a complication.
Gerety gestured apologetically. “Our head of mission, Negotiator Detrek, has been called to take an urgent message.” Gerety jerked his thumb upward. “From the powers above.”
Worf glanced up at the overhead.
“I think he means the castella
n,” Dygan murmured.
A low growl, barely audible except to the trained ear, escaped Worf’s throat. His frown-level plunged to “irritated.” Dygan quickly said, “I imagine Negotiator Detrek will inform us as soon as she’s ready to come aboard?”
“Naturally,” Gerety replied.
“Then, Commander, perhaps we should simply proceed as planned and escort our guests to the reception?” Dygan said. “I’ll be happy to return here as soon as Negotiator Detrek arrives.”
“That, ah, may be a while,” said Gerety.
“I’ll be available,” Dygan said, avoiding Worf’s eyes, and starting to shepherd his four compatriots toward the corridor. In the turbolift, Worf loomed over them all like clouds over the Andak Mountains, but the new arrivals were impervious to his disapproval and made cheerful small talk. Reaching the reception, Dygan let them loose among their Ferengi counterparts and glanced worriedly around the room.
Captain Picard, seeing him, beckoned to Dygan to join him.
“I don’t see your head of mission, Dygan. Has Negotiator Detrek lost her way?”
“I’m afraid she’s not yet come on board, sir. I understand she’s taking a message from the castellan.”
Picard’s lips pursed. Dygan frowned. The captain liked things to be orderly. Dygan shared this attitude, as he’d found over the months that he shared many of the captain’s ideas. Dygan’s respect for Picard bordered on the devotional. He most certainly did not like to contribute even in a small way to making Picard’s life more disorganized.
“Well,” Picard said, with a slight sigh, “I’m sure she—or perhaps your castellan—has a very good reason for the delay.”
“I’m sure that must be the case, sir.”
Picard looked around the room and gave a brisk nod at what he saw. “The rest of the delegation seems very much at ease,” he said, watching two junior negotiators in lively conversation with their Ferengi opposites and some distance away from Commander Worf. “Good work, Dygan.”
With that praise ringing in his ears, Dygan was at last prepared to relax. The reception passed smoothly. Dygan had an entertaining conversation with a junior Ferengi negotiator called Rekkt, who pressed him unsuccessfully for information about the Federation team and tried to sell him a tasting holiday at a kanar distillery. He introduced some of his colleagues from the Enterprise to the members of the Cardassian team, and a more informal gathering in The Riding Club was arranged for later. This gathering, when it occurred, transformed rapidly into a good-naturedly competitive and synthol-fueled six-handed kotra tournament that Sub-Negotiator Entrek lost only narrowly to the Enterprise’s senior counselor, Doctor Hegol. (Hegol, a Bajoran, even managed not to make the Cardassians feel as if they’d lost the Dominion War all over again.) All in all, Dygan thought, as he rolled into his quarters some hours later than usual, it had been a good start to the mission, fully in the spirit of interspecies friendship and cooperation. He could sleep happy.
But even the just, dedicated, and hardworking are not always rewarded with their beauty sleep. Dygan’s day was not over yet. Thirty-six minutes after his head touched his pillow, he was pulling his uniform straight and sprinting down the corridor toward the turbolift. Negotiator Detrek was finally putting in an appearance.
Dygan sped into the transporter room and came to a halt at Captain Picard’s left shoulder. Picard glanced at him, up and down (Dygan now looked immaculate), and grunted approval.
“Perfect timing,” Picard murmured—presciently, since Detrek immediately materialized.
She was a tall, stern woman—iron haired and flint eyed—exactly the kind of strong-minded individual that had come to populate the upper ranks of the Cardassian civil service since the end of the Dominion War. Cardassia was currently in the hands of resolute and principled public servants who fully understood the nature of the calamity that had befallen their beloved home and were determined never to let it happen again. Dygan wholeheartedly approved of her and her kind. This was why he had applied for the officer exchange program. Cardassians had to be serious about their desire for change, serious about their desire to participate in the affairs of the quadrant as reliable allies. It was the responsibility of all Cardassian citizens to show that they could be trusted.
Picard stepped forward and raised his palm in a formal but friendly greeting.
“Negotiator Detrek. I’m Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Welcome aboard the Enterprise. May I introduce Glinn Ravel Dygan, who has been serving with us recently? He is a credit to your military, and I’m delighted to be able to attach him to you for the duration of our mission as an aide-de-camp.”
Detrek gave Dygan a brisk brief nod. She shifted the pile of padds that she was carrying to her left arm and pressed her free palm quickly against Picard’s.
“Captain Picard, I owe you a double apology,” she said. “First, I hope you will forgive my last-minute inclusion in this mission. I must surely have thrown your preparations into disarray—”
“Not at all, Negotiator,” Picard said smoothly, although everyone on the Enterprise guessed how frustrated the captain had been by this sudden change to their well-made plans.
Detrek smiled. “That is very kind of you. But I must apologize for my subsequent delay in coming aboard. All will become clear very soon.” She looked around. Her voice went low. “Where can we speak? Privately, of course.”
Picard showed no outward sign of being disconcerted by the speed at which Detrek was moving and gestured toward the door. “The observation lounge is of course at your disposal,” he said.
“Thank you.” Detrek began to move in the direction Picard had indicated. “May I impose upon you with one further request?”
“By all means,” said Picard. Dygan, attuned to him by now, caught the merest hint of dryness in the captain’s tone.
“I must speak to the other chief negotiators.”
“We have a briefing session scheduled for the morning—”
“Immediately, Captain. Please.”
Picard turned to Dygan. “Perhaps,” he said softly, “you could convey my apologies to Madame Ilka and Ambassador Jeyn for waking them, and ask them to join me in the observation lounge as soon as they are able.”
“Of course, Captain. Right away.”
Picard, pausing in his pursuit of Detrek, added, “I’d like you at this meeting too, Dygan.” His eyes flicked sideways imperceptibly, toward the newly arrived negotiator. “I’d like your perspective on what’s happening.”
Dygan nodded his understanding. He contacted both Ilka and Jeyn, and then hurried to join the captain and Detrek.
Detrek seemed to have made herself at home in double-quick time. Her padds and data rods were spread out across the table, and she was standing, hands clasped before her, studying a large holodisplay of the border between Cardassian space and the Venette Convention that was projected on the nearest bulkhead. When the other two negotiators arrived—Jeyn in slight disarray, Ilka meticulous—Detrek turned to speak to them.
“Forgive me for waking you,” she said to her colleagues. “Forgive me also for moving past the formalities of introduction. We have all familiarized ourselves with each other’s names, careers, histories, strengths, and weaknesses. We all know our business here. But we have very little time and we must move forward quickly.”
Through the displayed star chart, Dygan and Picard shared a surprised look. Cardassians loved protocol: it was a game, a delight, the warp and weft of their social interactions. To forgo protocol completely implied that something was badly wrong.
“Our mission to the Venette Convention has become more critical than any of us were prepared for,” Detrek went on. “This is no longer a matter of making overtures to the Venetans and offering them an alternative to friendship with the Tzenkethi. Events have overtaken us, and we find ourselves already long past that point.” She sighed. “The castellan regrets to inform you that today our intelligence sources within the Venette Convention learned that the convention has
agreed to lease three of its starbases to the Tzenkethi Coalition. When I show you the location of these bases, you will understand our concerns—and the urgent need to wake you.”
Detrek moved her hand across the display. As she did so, the border between Cardassian and Venetan space lit up, a thin golden sheet between the two domains. Jabbing at a point close to the frontier, Detrek made one red light come up.
“The Venetan trading station Outpost V-15,” she said, “forty hours from Cardassian space. Here”—she moved her hand again and another glowing surface appeared, cutting through the void—“the border between Ferengi and Venetan space. Look.” She tapped a fingertip to make a second red light appear. “This is the second of the bases to be leased to the Tzenkethi. And here”—a third red spot appeared—“the third base. Captain Picard, I’m sure I don’t need to point out to you its proximity to—”
“—to Starbase 261,” Picard said, moving around the display to join her. Dygan drew in a quiet breath.
“Quite, Captain.” Shifting her hand again, Detrek made the three red dots connect. To Dygan’s eye, they looked uncomfortably like a net.
“Three bases,” said Detrek, “at the disposal of the Tzenkethi Coalition, each one of them”—she drew her finger around the red lines—“on the border of a Khitomer power.” She looked around at the assembled team. “I can see that you understand the importance of this. If the Venetans lease these bases to the Tzenkethi Coalition, then a Typhon Pact power will have established a significant presence on the borders of each one of the governments represented here today.”
“Not only that, surely,” said Picard. “They will have also established a direct supply line between those borders and their military bases.”
Ilka’s hand went up to cover her mouth. Jeyn drew in a sharp breath.
“That, to my mind, and to the mind of my castellan,” said Detrek, “is enough to constitute a significant military threat.” She gave a slight smile. “I hope now that you understand my presence here. The Venetans are no longer simply offering friendship to the Tzenkethi—”
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Brinkmanship Page 3
