“No,” said Picard, coming to stand beside her, gravely studying the golden net. “They are handing them the means—the infrastructure—to militarize the whole Venetan border against us.”
And even a Cardassian, Dygan thought, would forgo the pleasures of protocol when delivering news like that.
3
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: 34 skyturns
Estimated time to destination: 39 skyturns
Fleet course correction calculated to compensate for ion winds. Executing at next waypoint.
Over dinner in her quarters, Dax pressed Alden for details of his career. He proved slippery as gagh.
“So,” she said, as they picked over the remains of dessert and sipped their raktajinos, “Tell me more about what’s brought you here, Peter.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “Orders have brought me here. What else?”
She frowned at him through the steam of her coffee. “You don’t get off that lightly. A specialist in Tzenkethi affairs? Some pretty interesting material must cross your desk.”
“Just the usual paperwork. But what about you, Ezri?” He gestured around her quarters. “This ship—I wonder where it’s taken you.”
Dodged again, Dax thought. The lid was screwed on tightly. The habit of years, she guessed—although she had been hoping that their long friendship and the privacy of her quarters might have made him open up. “You know how it is, Peter. Excitement. Adventure. Really wild things.”
“Not what you signed up for when you entered the Academy.”
“No—but then neither was Dax.”
“No,” he said. “Life throws up some strange twists.” He swirled his coffee around in his cup.
“What are the Tzenkethi like, Peter?”
He started at her question; no, he jumped. “What on earth makes you ask me that?”
“Mission specialist? Come on, we all know what that means. How long were you there?”
He smiled. “What makes you think I was there?”
She tilted her head. Come on. Give a little.
He put down his cup and propped his head on his hand. He looked very tired and Dax suddenly regretted pressing him so hard.
“They’re beautiful, Ezri. Impenetrable. Terrifying.” He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Do you mind if we don’t talk about this tonight? Let’s talk about something else. Do you ever hear from Netara?”
She let him take her back again to reminiscence, although quietly a part of her wondered whether his weariness was genuine, or a feint to stop discussion. But by the time Bowers, coming off-shift, joined them, they were relaxed, well back into the past, and they entertained him with stories that were old to them but made fresh again by telling him. As they talked and laughed (and drank), Dax easily remembered why Peter Alden had been so admired as a young man. His wit was sharp, his intelligence undoubted, but he never turned these talents on anyone, not in a way that would do harm. And then there was his self-containment, his slight reserve, which only added to the appeal.
“It’s good to see you, Peter,” Dax said, at the door to her quarters, when at last he went off to bed. They hugged, for a moment or two longer than one might usually hold on, as if to make up for lost years.
“Good to see you too, Ezri. Good to see you soaring.”
The door closed after him. Dax remained standing there, tapping her fingers against the bulkhead.
“Now there’s a man with secrets,” Bowers said. “What do you think? Is he hiding anything?”
“Oh, I should think so.”
“Anything we should be worried about, Ezri?”
Dax looked around at the ruins of dinner, spread across the table. “I don’t know yet, Sam. Sure, he was closed, but that’s what spies are like.”
“Even the foxes?”
Dax smiled and opened the door again. Dismissed, Commander. As Bowers passed her on his way out, she said, “Especially the foxes.”
She didn’t waste more time that night worrying, but went straight to bed—only to be woken three hours later by the persistent chime of the shipboard computer.
“Message from Commander Alden,” the sleek voice told her.
She rolled onto her back. “What’s up, Peter? You can’t be in need of another nightcap.”
The beat before Alden replied put her immediately on alert. She levered herself up onto her elbow. “Computer, lights. What is it, Commander?”
“Change of plan, Captain. We should meet in your ready room. Now, please, Ezri.”
Eight minutes later—washed, uniformed, and partially caffeinated—Dax strode into her ready room, Bowers as ever at her back. Alden was already there, studying a holoprojection of a star chart that displayed a sizable portion of the border between the Venette Convention and the Federation. Starbase 261 gleamed in one corner of the display. Alden’s shirtsleeves were rolled up and there was a mug of cooling coffee by his right hand, forgotten and forlorn. Padds were scattered across the table. Alden looked sober and unrested, and had evidently not yet been to bed. Dax sympathized.
At the sound of the door easing shut, Alden’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Bowers.
“What are you doing here?” Alden said sharply.
For a moment, Dax wasn’t sure how to reply. “Peter,” she said, baffled, “Bowers is my XO . . .”
Alden gave a quick shake of the head, as if to bring himself into focus. “Of course. Yes. Well, I’m sure you have clearance, or we can get you clearance.”
Dax and Bowers exchanged puzzled looks. “I certainly hope so,” Bowers said, taking his usual seat. Dax went to her chair, forcing Alden to move around the desk and take the remaining seat next to Bowers. She relaxed deliberately back in her chair and folded her hands in front of her. The dim lighting was giving the small room an unusually stifling atmosphere.
“When shall we three meet again . . . ,” she murmured, then, crisply and louder, “Computer, lights!”
The room brightened. Alden rubbed his eyes against the sudden glare.
“That’s better,” Dax said firmly. “Go ahead, Peter. What’s happening?”
Alden gestured toward the display. “Things have moved on. The Venetan government is about to announce that it intends to lease three of its starbases to the Tzenkethi for . . .” He gave a sharp, bitter laugh that surprised Dax in the level of its cynicism. “Well, they say that they’ll be used for refitting and refueling purposes only, but let me show you their location and perhaps you’ll see why our government—and not only ours—is unconvinced by this claim.”
Across the star chart, three bright red points lit up.
“This one on the left is Outpost V-27,” Alden said. “You’ll note its proximity to the border with the Ferengi Alliance, as you’ll note the proximity of this base to the border with Cardassian space. And this one . . .” He gestured toward Starbase 261.
“Certainly doesn’t look good,” said Dax. “But is there any evidence that the Tzenkethi intend to use these bases other than, well, ‘as advertised’?”
Alden gave a thin smile. “Why these bases, Ezri? Why not, for example, these?” The first three red lights disappeared and another three lit up. “Three more Venetan bases. Each as conveniently close to regular Tzenkethi trade routes but not a single one near the border with any power within the Khitomer Accords.”
“It’s circumstantial,” Bowers said, perhaps still piqued at Alden’s earlier dismissal. “And it strikes me that accusing the Tzenkethi of planning to militarize these bases when there might not be sufficient reason could start that militarization.”
“That could even be the intent,” Dax said. “Get us to fling around an accusation or two, take umbrage, and there’s your excuse to weaponize.” She shook her head. “Listen to me
! If we start on that line of thinking, we’ll keep going back and forth until everyone is blaming everyone else for the slightest move.”
“Yes, indeed,” Alden said seriously, “these are complicated times. There’s not much in the way of trust going around.” He picked up his cup of coffee, studied it closely, and put it down again. “Which is why my mission has changed, and I’ve been ordered to find out exactly what is going on at Outpost V-4.” He raised his hand to his face and rubbed at his eyes once again. “Tired, tired, tired . . . ,” he muttered. He shook his head and seemed once again to try to pull himself back into focus. “It’s been pretty busy since you went off to bed.”
So why the hell didn’t you wake me? Dax thought. A glance at Bowers, eyebrows raised, confirmed that he was wondering the same thing.
“Communications have been flying around between my superiors and the Venetans,” Alden went on. “They say they’ve nothing to hide, and they’ve agreed to allow Federation observers to visit Outpost V-4.” He gestured at the scattered padds. “I’ve been trying to get up to speed with Venetan politics and culture . . .”
“But the immediate upshot of this is?” Dax cut in. “For the Aventine, I mean. That being my primary responsibility.”
“My instructions are now not to join the Enterprise on its diplomatic mission to the convention but to go to Outpost V-4, meet the Venetan representatives, and learn as much as possible about the Tzenkethi presence there. You’re to take me to Outpost V-4 and give me whatever assistance is needed.”
There was a brief pause while Dax drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Yet I haven’t received any direct instructions from Starfleet—”
As if on cue, the comm by her seat chimed. “Priority message from Admiral Akaar. Security code alpha-2.”
“I guess,” said Bowers, “this will be our summons.”
It was. A brief conversation with Akaar confirmed everything that Alden had said and directed the Aventine away from the Venetan homeworld and instead toward Outpost V-4. Still, Dax thought, as she relayed instructions for the new course to the bridge and made her way down, there were ways of doing things—and receiving her orders from a junior officer (no matter that they’d known each other as students) wasn’t one of them. Sitting in her chair on the bridge, she watched Alden from the corner of her eye: the hard-achieved focus, the barely hidden fatigue. I’ve certainly changed, she thought. Why wouldn’t he?
• • •
Crusher refreshed her memory of her brief, long-ago visit to the Venette Convention from Chen’s briefing documents and her own logs, virtually dusty and half-forgotten. As she read, she was struck by how unlikely the three systems that comprised the convention were as candidates for finding themselves at the center of a diplomatic storm. Tucked away in a quiet part of the quadrant (but adjacent to several powers), and peaceable (but not particularly isolationist), they were home to several long-lived humanoid species that shared a distinctive ancient and venerable culture that valued moderation and tolerance and placed great emphasis on cooperation and mutual respect. But, as she’d said to Ilka, things changed.
In retrospect, Crusher thought, the clues to their current frostiness toward the Federation and their allies had been there. The Venetans—cautious and deeply proud of their enduring and successful way of life—clearly believed they had been snubbed by the Federation when their application to become a member state had been sidelined as a result of the traumas of the previous ten years. The longevity of the various Venetan species only complicated the matter. The discussion on Venette over closer ties with the Federation had lasted the best part of two centuries, and many of those who had promoted those links were still very much alive and active. No wonder they felt snubbed! But rather than turning inward, the Venetans were turning toward the Tzenkethi Coalition and, therefore, toward the Typhon Pact. And that surely merited this intervention, no matter how embarrassing it was for the Federation’s diplomatic corps. Perhaps Akaar was right and there was some deeper, more injurious Tzenkethi project under way. Crusher recalled hospitable and no-nonsense people. Not hostile and suspicious. Why had the Venetans been drawn to the Tzenkethi?
“In many ways,” Ilka said, as if guessing the direction of Crusher’s thoughts, “Venetan culture is a better fit with the Tzenkethi than with the Federation. Both civilizations are very stable and achieve that stability through a certain degree of conformism on the part of their members rather than through encouraging individualism.” Her clever eyes gleamed. “You Federation explorers and we Ferengi entrepreneurs are perhaps somewhat baffling to the Venetans. An enduring civilization of long-lived people, content with the habitable worlds of their systems—no wonder our outward-focused cultures seem at odds with their values. I’m surprised they ever wanted to join the Federation at all.” Her eyes crinkled with a smile. “Perhaps they thought they could teach you something, Beverly?”
Crusher laughed. “I’ve no doubt that they could. That they still can.”
“But breaking your promise to bring them into the Federation. Tsch!” Ilka made an odd clicking noise with her tongue that Crusher took to be a sign of disapproval, but the Ferengi woman’s eyes were still full of humor. “Most unwise! Your government has stored up a great deal of trouble for us.”
“So it seems,” Crusher replied. “But I’m not so sure the Venetans place as high a premium on conformity as you suggest. Certainly that’s true of the Tzenkethi—or what we know of them—but the Venetans? Cooperation is their key word, not compliance. Sure, they might try to channel individuality toward a greater good and away from excessive competition, but I don’t think they want to eradicate competitive urges entirely. It’s simply that they’ve found it less useful in maintaining a society with the kinds of values they most admire. Whereas the Tzenkethi—as far as I can tell—want to remove self-interest from the gene pool altogether. But if it came down to coercing someone into living her life against her own interests simply for some greater good . . .” Crusher shook her head. “My instinct is that the Venetans would find that unacceptable.”
And that, perhaps, might be the key to finding common ground again with the Venetans, Crusher thought. That must have been why the Federation had seemed an attractive option in the first place: a diverse community of many cultures, living (mostly) successfully together, much like the Venetans’ own arrangement. Perhaps the very liveliness of the Federation’s diversity had seemed attractive too: the fractious debates and heated quarrels that sometimes characterized the council. Perhaps it had reminded these ancient people of their own childhood.
We’ve been beaten back and battered for so long now, Crusher thought. War after war, the Andorian secession . . . We should try to remember what’s good about us, about our way of life, even when we’re at low ebb. Because if we don’t care any longer, why should anyone else?
Beside her, Ilka gave a little tilt of the head that set her long earrings jangling. “We’ll see,” she said. “I’ll have a better idea once I’ve heard Rusht speak.” She clicked her tongue again. “Tsch! I wish they would use titles as well as names! It feels so wrong simply calling her ‘Rusht.’ So ill-mannered! Titles make everything so much clearer.”
Crusher and Ilka were waiting with the rest of the diplomatic teams for the Venetan negotiators. Arriving by transporter in Guwine, the Venetan capital, the members of the mission found themselves in the atrium of a sunlit honey-stone building that their guide called the Hall of Assembly. Taken quickly via curving corridors to what Crusher guessed was the center of the building, they were brought up one level to a pleasant chamber that was clearly a meeting room of some kind, although the organization of the space had been causing some confusion to the members of the various delegations. Two large tables, each shaped like a huge letter C, were hooked around each other, and while there were many chairs in the room, none of them had been arranged at the tables, and no places had been designated for the diplomats and their aides.
Their guide seemed baffled wh
en Detrek asked where they should sit.
“Sit wherever you like,” she replied, which caused a great confusion of activity among the junior aides of the three parties, as they tried to organize places for their superiors and themselves. The situation was not helped by the fact that Venetans were constantly coming into the room in twos and threes, picking up chairs as they entered and putting them down again wherever it suited them.
“Are you not concerned with the seating arrangements, Ilka?” Crusher asked her colleague. She and Ilka, on walking into the room and observing the chaos, had immediately gone over to a large bay window where refreshments were laid out, helping themselves to drinks and watching rather than participating in the mêlée. They’d sort themselves out in the end, Crusher thought (although poor Jean-Luc, trying to impose some calm and order on the proceedings, was clearly hating every second of this undignified scrum).
“I’m sure my colleagues will determine an arrangement that suits them best,” Ilka said cheerfully. “I shall be happy to oblige them.”
Crusher nodded toward a junior Ferengi diplomat, who was engaged in a very lively dispute with one of the Cardassians over ownership of a chair. “Your associate doesn’t seem to share your indifference.”
“Sub-Dealer Prott,” Ilka said sharply, “needs to understand who exactly is in charge of this mission and to take direction accordingly. Nevertheless”—she demurely sipped her drink—“if he wants to wear himself out before discussions have even started, he is quite welcome to do so. And I am content to observe, thereby learning more about the dispositions of my allies and the Venetans than Prott will learn in a lifetime. Ah!” She smiled. “I believe the matter of the chair will shortly be resolved.”
Crusher laughed. Glinn Dygan—tall, solid, broad, and exactly not the kind of person one argued with—was, on Picard’s instruction, moving ominously toward Prott and the Cardassian. Soon the chair was placed behind Detrek, with the Cardassian junior sitting firmly upon it and Prott sent in search of another.
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Brinkmanship Page 4
