by Dayton Ward
That sudden and very welcome change in attitude had at first not been enough to spare Picard from the wrath of Admiral Leonard James Akaar, the head of Starfleet Command, but he could not argue with the results Picard had brought about. Indeed, Akaar offered him a promotion to admiral and a new assignment overseeing the Federation’s post-war rebuilding efforts. Picard, though, managed to convince Akaar that he was of greater service aboard the Enterprise, continuing the mission originally given to him by President Bacco.
“Did the orders offer any clue as to what the president wants with you?” Beverly asked, her attention divided between her husband and René, who had begun fiddling with her combadge.
Picard shook his head. “No, but the fact that she ordered us back to Earth rather than sending us somewhere directly tells me this will be different from the assignments we’ve had to this point.”
The Enterprise had been ordered to return to Earth with all due haste, the directive from President Nanietta Bacco rescinding or at least temporarily halting Picard’s current mission as a sort of freelance asset for Starfleet. For more than a year, the ship and its crew had traveled wherever Picard felt they were most needed and best utilized, responding to all manner of issues and crises of varying size and complexity as the Federation continued to rebuild and restabilize in the aftermath of the Borg invasion. President Bacco had granted Picard broad authority and latitude, his freedom to make rapid judgments and undertake decisive action empowering him to resolve such matters by any means he felt appropriate. Knowing it was a necessary assignment, one for which Picard and the Enterprise were well suited, had done little to alleviate his initial disappointment.
Beverly said, “I suppose it’s too much to ask that she might send us out to do some exploring.”
“Somehow,” Picard replied, “I think that might be wishful thinking.” After years of war and political turmoil—facing the Dominion, the Romulans, and the Borg, as well as several other comparatively minor threats—the idea of returning to deep-space exploration was one Picard welcomed. Indeed, dispatching starships on such missions seemed important and even vital now, given the Federation’s renewed need to find habitable planets with an eye toward colonization and resource replenishment. Millions of Federation citizens remained displaced from homeworlds severely damaged if not outright destroyed by the Borg attack. Supporting so many refugees had long since begun taking its toll on those planets that had agreed to provide aid to survivors, despite Starfleet’s best efforts to maintain a constant flow of support personnel, supplies, and other matériel to those in need. Tempers were growing short, morale was falling, and regardless of the progress that continued to be made, despair seemed to be the emotional state of choice.
“I saw the report on your desk last night,” Beverly said, pausing to adjust her hold on René. “The one about the latest round of talks with the Tholians. You don’t think the president might send us to deal with them, do you?”
Picard frowned, shaking his head. “Sooner or later, someone will have to go, and not just because of the Tholians.” Long renowned for its perpetual state of extreme xenophobia, the Tholian Assembly had taken the extraordinary step of aligning itself with a new interstellar consortium now known as the Typhon Pact. The group’s forming had placed civilian and Starfleet officials on edge since its emergence in the aftermath of the Borg invasion. Along with the Tholians, the Pact’s charter-member states included the Romulan Star Empire, the Gorn Hegemony, the Breen Confederacy, the Tzenkethi Coalition, and the Holy Order of the Kinshaya, each of which at one time or another and to varying degrees had been a figurative thorn in the Federation’s side.
“Diplomatic relations with the Tholians have always been strained,” Picard said, “and even more so with the other Typhon Pact members, particularly in recent years.” Even the alliance between the Federation and the Romulans—cultivated during the Dominion War—had dissolved as that conflict came to an end. Now, tensions once more were on the rise, given the Romulan Empire’s status as a driving force within the Typhon Pact.
As for the Pact itself, intelligence analysts were divided on the upstart political conglomerate’s potential or even its desire to present itself as a true threat, rather than a simple if inconvenient rival. Still, it had during its short existence already taken steps to undermine the Federation’s ongoing recovery efforts. What if the Pact committed an act so bold, so aggressive, that the Federation had no choice but to respond, and what form would such a response take? The notion of facing yet another conflict on any appreciable scale worried Picard. This was not the time to seek out new enemies. Instead, the Federation’s focus needed to be on rebuilding what it had lost as well as learning to cope with all that could never be replaced.
“I know that face,” said a voice, Marie’s. “You’re brooding again.”
Picard forced a smile as he regarded Marie along with Beverly and René. “I’m sorry. There’s just a lot to think about.”
“I’ve been hearing that for years,” Beverly countered as she shifted René to a position higher on her hip. “Come on, let’s get some lunch. Your son is starting to get cranky.”
As though the deities charged with tormenting starship captains were watching over his shoulder, his combadge beeped for attention, its lyrical electronic tones notably out of place in the peaceful vineyard.
“Enterprise to Captain Picard,” said the voice of Lieutenant Commander Havers, the ship’s beta-shift watch officer, sounding tiny and distant over the communications link.
Tapping his combadge, the captain replied, “Picard here.”
“We have received a message from the presidential office at the Palais de la Concorde,” Havers replied. “President Bacco is ready to meet with you, sir.”
Offering a knowing smile to Beverly and Marie, Picard nodded. “Thank you, Commander. Notify transporter control at the Palais that I’m standing by at their convenience.”
“Aye, Captain,” Havers said. “Enterprise out.”
As the connection was severed, Picard opened his mouth to apologize. “Perhaps we can make plans for dinner?”
Any reply Beverly or Marie might have offered was lost in the whine of the transporter beam, which chose that moment to wash over him.
3
Light reflected off the slashing blade as Lieutenant Jasminder Choudhury lurched to her left, avoiding the strike. She backpedaled, mindful of the uneven terrain as she worked to distance herself from her attacker. The creature kept coming, its oversized battle-ax a blur as it twirled the weapon in its hands. It smiled at her as it moved closer, and Choudhury saw rows of stained, jagged teeth. Her opponent was taller than she and easily outweighed her, by as much as a hundred kilos, if her guess was right. Despite its bulk, an assortment of heavy fur and leather clothing, along with straps and belts crisscrossing its chest, the alien warrior moved with startling speed and grace. Its skin was tight and waxy, and the lack of hair on its head made the creature resemble an animated, muscled skeleton. Dark eyes glared at her, studying her as a hunter might regard its prey before moving in for the kill.
You are one ugly son of a . . .
The rest of the wayward thought vanished as the creature lunged forward, its battle-ax leading the charge. Choudhury halted her retreat and instead stepped into the attack, bringing up the bat’leth she wielded and meeting her opponent’s blade with her own. Metal clanged against metal and her arms shook from the force of the blow. Howling with rage, the creature pulled back the ax and swung it laterally, aiming for her torso. As she had been taught, Choudhury brought the blade up and around, adjusting her grip as she moved until she held the bat’leth vertically to her left side. The tempered blade met the axe with another resounding clash, and this time Choudhury nearly stumbled in the face of her attacker’s strength. Once more the alien released an angered cry as it drew back its weapon, readying for another attack.
Oh, no you don’t.
Letting instinct and training take over, Choudhury dr
opped down, sweeping her right leg out ahead of her. She felt her foot catch the creature behind its left knee and sensed it buckle, the alien stumbling at the abrupt loss of balance. It staggered to its left before falling to one knee, removing its left hand from the battle-ax’s worn leather grip to steady itself. By then Choudhury was regaining her feet, rotating the bat’leth in her hands and stepping forward, angling to strike. Her opponent reacted faster than she had anticipated, already raising its battle-ax in defense. It was going to be close, Choudhury realized as she stepped forward, holding her bat’leth over her head as she started to swing.
The bat’leth met no resistance until its massive curved blade sank into the creature’s skull. There was no blood, no cry of agony. The alien’s body simply went limp, its battle-ax falling from its hands to drop to the dirt at their feet. Choudhury just stood there, still gripping her weapon, watching as the creature dissolved in a shower of golden energy.
They’re getting tougher each time, she noted as she paused to catch her breath. Worf, you’re going to pay for this. Choudhury smiled with no small amount of mischief as she pondered just how she might go about exacting vengeance on the Klingon.
Turning from where the latest of the five opponents she had faced had been reclaimed by the holodeck’s computer protocols, Choudhury made her way to the crumbling ruins of a low-rise wall from which her most recent adversary had appeared. The structure, obviously the product of a sentient species, was at odds with the trees and other vegetation around her. Choudhury reached up with her free hand to wipe sweat from her forehead, not for the first time wishing she had thought to bring a canteen. She already had unzipped the front of her uniform as well as her gold division shirt in a futile attempt to allow the slight breeze to cool her body. Perspiration ran down her skin beneath her clothes, and Choudhury winced as she noted the sting of a rash in at least one uncomfortable place.
Well and truly, Worf, shall you pay.
She adjusted her grip on the bat’leth. When Worf had introduced her to the weapon nearly a year ago, Choudhury had doubted his assurances that she could learn to effectively employ it in close-quarters combat. Designed for the larger, more robust physiology of the typical Klingon warrior, the oversized blade seemed far too heavy and cumbersome for her much slighter frame. Hours of lessons under Worf’s expert tutelage had shown her that the bat’leth’s size was deceptive, and wielding it was as much art as it was martial skill. Choudhury had actually come to enjoy working with the weapon, welcoming the challenge as Worf increased the level of difficulty he brought to her training.
And today is no damned exception, that’s for sure.
Keeping her position behind the wall, Choudhury studied the rectangular structure rising from the jungle floor twenty meters to her right. Partially concealed among the trees, it appeared to be no larger than an oversized cargo container, four or perhaps five meters in height. She surmised it was constructed from the same stones as the wall that now provided her cover. The side of the building closest to her contained an oval-shaped aperture, looking large enough for an average-sized humanoid to enter. Darkness lay behind the portal’s threshold, offering no clue as to what might be inside.
It can’t be this simple, Choudhury decided. In point of fact, her journey through the jungle to this point had been fraught with all manner of hazards, both natural and otherwise. In addition to the holographic enemies the simulation had sent after her, she also had encountered no less than seven booby traps as she made her way through the thick undergrowth. Not designed to injure, the traps instead were simple sound-concussion grenades of the type used by tactical assault teams as a means of overwhelming an opposing force’s attention and reaction time. Deployed as they had been—attached to trees or concealed beneath patches of leaves or other vegetation—they were intended to give away her position should she trip one or more of the devices. Attention to her surroundings and experience with her adversary had taught her what to watch for as she made her way toward her target. Choudhury concluded that these devices were not problems introduced by the holodeck program, but rather by her true opponent, who still lurked somewhere in the jungle.
Now, however, it was the notable lack of such obstacles that worried her. Turning her gaze from the structure, Choudhury focused her attention on the nearby trees and other underbrush. She searched for anything that did not belong, and saw nothing that might be a booby trap or any other sign that the area around the small building had been disturbed. Of course, her adversary knew she would be looking for such clues and would act accordingly.
No sense sitting here, Choudhury mused. Gazing upward, she examined the trees towering over her head, admiring how their branches formed a lush, near-impenetrable canopy. The sounds of indigenous life were all around her, calling out from the jungle’s depths. Feeble rays of fading sunlight filtered through the undergrowth, the oncoming dusk casting long shadows that would only serve to provide further concealment as the day gave way to night. Time to get this party started.
One last look around the area provided Choudhury with what she decided would be the best approach to the structure. Opting to keep the aperture out of her line of sight as she maneuvered closer, she rose from her crouch and moved to a point along the wall where some of the stones had fallen away, providing an opening through which she could pass. Minding thick vines and other vegetation, she stepped through the breach, scanning the ground in front of her before taking each step.
Halfway between the relative safety of the wall and the structure’s opening, Choudhury sensed a hot ache between her shoulder blades. Freezing in place, she tightened her hands around the bat’leth’s rough leather grips as her muscles tensed in anticipation.
She was being watched.
Despite all her caution, Choudhury realized her opponent had somehow managed to maneuver behind her and waited for her to move away from anything that might offer protection. Gauging her distance from the structure, she surmised there was no way she could reach it before she fell victim to attack.
Damn. Damn. Damn!
The curse was all she had time to think before Choudhury sensed movement behind her. Reacting more from instinct than anything else, she ducked and pivoted to her left, bringing herself around in time to see the dark form lunging at her. Fading sunlight glinted off curved metal, and she brought up her bat’leth just as something crashed into its heavy blade. Choudhury grunted in momentary shock and felt herself forced backward. Scrambling to her right, she rotated her weapon for defense as she caught her first clear look at her newest attacker.
Worf.
He had removed the heavy ceremonial Klingon baldric he normally wore over his Starfleet uniform, no doubt with the intention of moving with greater stealth through the jungle. Likewise, his combadge was missing, as was the rank insignia that should have adorned the collar of his maroon uniform tunic. The only thing to catch the weakening rays of the sun was his bat’leth, which he once again was drawing over his head in readiness for his next strike. Like her earlier, holographic adversary, Worf smiled at her, though his expression was not one of taunting. Instead, she sensed the approval a teacher might show upon realizing the accomplishments of a prized student.
Recognizing Worf’s stance and anticipating the direction from which his next attack would come, Choudhury pivoted to her right, lashing out with her left leg and kicking him in the stomach. It was not enough to disable the Klingon, but it did slow him enough for her to bring up her own bat’leth and swing it toward his head. Worf dodged the strike, sidestepping to his right while keeping his attention focused on her. Before he could launch another attack of his own, Choudhury darted at him again, closing the distance. He was able to bring up his weapon to parry her swing, and once more the harsh metallic notes of clashing blades echoed through the jungle. With the two bat’leths still pushed together, Choudhury twisted hers in abrupt fashion even as she pulled downward, interlocking the blades. Changing directions and yanking the bat’leth up and to her
right gave her what she wanted, with Worf’s arms crossing over each other to the point that the Klingon was forced to release his grip on his weapon.
“Ha-hah!” she cried, unable to contain her enthusiasm.
Worf growled in surprise at being so suddenly disarmed, but Choudhury gave him no quarter as she struck him in the chin with her left elbow. It was not a fatal strike, but it was enough to force him to step back as he raised his arms in what she recognized as a classic mok’bara defensive posture. He kept maneuvering backward even as she pressed her attack, swinging and rotating her bat’leth in front of his face. There was no fear in Worf’s eyes, of course; instead, Choudhury saw the calculation and planning as he gauged her moves, looking for an opening to exploit.
Then his left foot caught on one of the stones loosed from the dilapidated wall, and he stumbled and fell to one knee. He released a particularly colorful—and vile—Klingon oath as he fought to keep his balance and prepare for what he must have expected to be a devastating killing strike from Choudhury. She, however, had other ideas. Taking advantage of his vulnerable position, she kicked out again, this time catching Worf in the chest and sending him tumbling onto his back. Not bothering to wait for his reaction, she dropped her bat’leth before turning and sprinting for the structure.
