Star Trek: Typhon Pact 04 - Paths of Disharmony

by Dayton Ward

  Releasing a small laugh, ch’Lhren said, “An interesting observation, and one I wish others shared. Not that it matters. That part of my life is behind me. Now I serve Presider sh’Thalis and the people of Andor.” He paused, casting his gaze downward. “It seemed the appropriate thing to do after all that’s happened.”

  “I can certainly understand that sentiment,” Choudhury said, her tone somber. “Several friends of mine, both here aboard the Enterprise as well as on other ships and planets, feel the same way. One of my closest friends from the Academy just resigned her commission last month. Her planet was spared from the attacks, but she joined a group of missionaries who’ve volunteered to assist in reconstruction efforts on Pacifica and a few other worlds.” Then there was her former shipmate, Miranda Kadohata, who had requested a transfer from the Enterprise in order to take an extended assignment on Pacifica. It was a notion Choudhury also had considered. Though she could of course offer no help to her homeworld of Deneva, the once-vibrant planet now reduced to little more than a scorched, lifeless rock, there still were survivors in need of assistance. Denevan refugees had settled on several planets, including Andor, though until now Choudhury could not bring herself to visit any of the encampments that still were filled with displaced survivors. Despite herself, she had been able to run a thorough check of the camps’ population rolls, confirming that no members of her family were living anywhere on the planet.

  “And yet,” ch’Lhren said after a moment, “you remained in Starfleet.”

  Choudhury nodded. “At the time, it seemed the most sensible course of action—for me, anyway. I really didn’t have any other place to go, and staying in Starfleet felt like the way I could be most useful.” For a time, she also knew that remaining aboard the Enterprise offered one of the best ways to locate her family, whose final fate remained unknown to her a year after the Borg invasion. As the months passed and any lingering hope of finding her loved ones faded, the Enterprise—its crew and its familiar, comfortable environs—had come to be her home; the only home left to her.

  “There are many Andorians who feel the Federation failed us during the Borg attacks,” ch’Lhren said. “I imagine there are those from other worlds who feel the same way. With Andor, there is hope our planet and our people will one day regain at least some of what we have lost, but others are much less fortunate.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence, which was filled by the constant, omnipresent hum of the warp core at the center of the room. Despite her best efforts, Choudhury could not force away the images of Deneva’s devastated surface. She saw herself standing with Worf on the scarred, desiccated soil once occupied by her family home along with the entire province of Mallarashtra where she had lived as a child. So many warm, happy memories had, along with the town itself, been reduced to ash and scattered upon the winds.

  “Starfleet and the Federation did everything it could,” she said, the words little more than a whisper. “You know what the Borg were like, what they were capable of. We were outmatched. If not for the Caeliar, we all would have been wiped out.” As she spoke, Choudhury reminded herself to maintain her bearings, not to allow her emotions to get the best of her while in the company of the visiting dignitaries.

  Frowning, ch’Lhren replied, “I do not disagree with what you are saying, Lieutenant, but consider the point of view of someone living on one of the worlds affected by the disaster. There are those among my people who feel that the Federation gave up on certain planets because it believed they were beyond saving. I would think you of all people would at least be sympathetic to such views.”

  “Six starships were lost defending my planet,” Choudhury countered, now requiring effort to keep her poise. “Twice that many were lost here, along with half as many Klingon vessels. I’m not sure how someone could view that as giving up on Andor.”

  Ch’Lhren said, “Chaos breeds all manner of perspectives.”

  Does this guy want me to kick him in the throat?

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, but only after she was certain the words would come out with utmost control and offer no hint to the emotions roiling within her. “I need to check in with my deputy security chief prior to the first of our teams beaming down to the surface.”

  His expression one of worry, ch’Lhren said, “If I have given offense, please allow me to apologize.”

  Choudhury shook her head, scrambling to cover her awkward attempt to extricate herself from the troubling conversation. “No, sir. It’s nothing like that. I simply lost track of time, and I need to check in. If you’ll excuse me, I should only be a few moments.”

  If ch’Lhren sensed the real reasons for her wanting—or needing—to depart, he chose not to say anything. Instead, he replied, “Of course, Lieutenant. There is much here to hold my interest until you return, but I doubt the discussion will be as engaging.”

  Offering a demure nod, Choudhury said, “Thank you, sir,” before turning and heading for the exit. She forced herself to walk at a casual pace toward the door, all while her mind was screaming at her to run like hell.

  Threlas ch’Lhren entered his office, locking the door behind him after it finished cycling closed. The office was a small, windowless affair, lacking the lavish appointments and furnishings that were characteristic of the office space utilized by Presider sh’Thalis, her senior advisory staff, and the magistrates overseeing the various committees. Like the offices of his peers—secondary and tertiary department supervisors—ch’Lhren’s office occupied space on the complex’s first subterranean level. The only indicator of the passage of time was the small chronometer on the wall above the door. It was not uncommon for him to enter the office before dawn and work until well after dusk, during which time he rarely ventured outside to bask in the sun or even to take in a breath of fresh air.

  The arrangement suited ch’Lhren, offering him the privacy he needed from time to time, such as now.

  Moving to the small desk that was covered with reports, data-storage cards, and other bureaucratic nonsense about which ch’Lhren could not care less, he settled himself atop the backless chair he preferred to use while working and entered the combination to unlock the desk before reaching to open a drawer to his left. Inside the drawer was a box composed of duranium, the same material used in the construction of starship hulls. Set into the box’s top was another combination keypad as well as a biometric lock. After entering the proper combination, ch’Lhren bent over the box, positioning his right eye over the retina scanner. It took an extra moment for the scanner to recognize him and disengage the lock.

  Inside the box was a portable computer interface, a commercial model popular both in the government and private sectors. Accompanying the interface was a communications adapter, of a type most definitely not available to the public, the government, or even the military. While his workspace contained its own dedicated computer interface, his use of that device as well as his access to the complex’s information sharing network and any communications he logged beyond the confines of the Parliament Andoria would be recorded. That was something ch’Lhren could ill afford at the moment.

  It took only a moment for him to set up the interface and connect the communications adapter. Once the unit powered up and completed its self-diagnostic, he activated several software routines designed to mask his presence within the larger data network. The software responded in short order, informing him that his activities were not being monitored by the central computer or any of the security protocols currently active in the network.

  That was the easy task, he mused. For someone of ch’Lhren’s skill and experience, accessing the complex’s computer core and accompanying network—and doing so undetected—was a simple process. All it required was for him to know how the security measures worked, where the vulnerabilities were, and how to navigate through those gaps in the protection schemes without triggering any of the numerous alerts programmed into the system’s oversight software. He had discovered the complex net
work’s astounding number of weaknesses within the first weeks of assuming his position within the administration. That his role involved overseeing information security for the entire network was a point of no small amusement, not only for him but also his friends and compatriots. The same skills that ch’Lhren had employed to receive this assignment had aided him on numerous occasions, allowing him to perform all manner of data-manipulation tasks, such as altering his own personnel file to remove any mention of his interest in organizations such as the True Heirs of Andor as well as the group to which he now professed allegiance, the Treishya.

  Adjusting himself to a more comfortable position on the chair, ch’Lhren entered a series of commands to the computer. “Now we see if our efforts were worth it,” he said to no one. Talking to himself was a habit he had acquired as a youth, and later reinforced as a cadet at Starfleet Academy; a means of helping him retain the vast amounts of information he was required to absorb in short periods of time.

  The wait for the connection he had initiated from his computer to be completed seemed interminable, a sensation made only worse by his repeated looking to the chronometer above his office door. When the computer emitted a tone indicating success, ch’Lhren smiled in satisfaction as he read the status message on the interface’s display, rendered in Andorii text: ACCESS ACQUIRED.

  Excellent. Another string of commands resulted in the native Andorian glyphs and other graphics to be replaced with a Starfleet standard primary-interface menu bearing a logotype that read LCARS—Library Computer Access and Retrieval System—along with the platform on which the software was operating: U.S.S. ENTERPRISE, NCC – 1701 – E. MAIN ENABLED. Checking his session status once again, ch’Lhren was pleased to see that his own security software was unable to find any sign that his presence in the starship’s computer network had been detected.

  It had worked.

  Upon first hearing the idea as presented to him by his friend, Lynto sh’Vasath, ch’Lhren had been prepared to dismiss the engineer and her outlandish notions without any further thought. Then he had witnessed sh’Vasath’s practical demonstration of the device she had designed specifically for the covert infiltration of secure computer networks. Her first test had been on the systems belonging to the regional government offices in Lor’Vela, the transmissions between her computer and the device she had planted embedded within the normal flow of communications traffic throughout the network. The test had been an unmitigated success, after which sh’Vasath followed with another such experiment, this time on the Parliament Andoria network. As before, access had been obtained with almost no difficulty.

  Lynto, your deviousness is unmatched.

  Reaching into the box in his drawer, ch’Lhren retrieved a small octagonal device and held it on the palm of his hand, studying it appreciatively. Not even so big as one of the smaller coins still used by merchants in the town square, there was nothing to identify it or its purpose. The transceiver had been scratch-built using components obtained from a variety of sources, and designed with a single task in mind. With the knowledge that a transceiver in constant operation within a secure computer network would inevitably be detected, this model was intended to receive a one-time burst packet of instructions from a designated contact node, after which it would load software components into the targeted computer network. Once that operation was complete, the transceiver would go dormant.

  A twin to the transceiver in ch’Lhren’s hand currently resided beneath a workstation in the Enterprise’s engineering section. Having already completed its primary task of accessing the ship’s main computer system, the device had required only a short interval to finish loading its compressed software packets into the data directories of a low-priority subsystem, one unlikely to be the target of routine security checks. In this case, ch’Lhren had chosen the files and subroutines belonging to the system’s clothing replication processes. Once activated, the software kernels ch’Lhren had deposited would begin a covert infiltration of other systems, slowly inserting new subroutines and other protocols that he could trigger when the time was appropriate. As for the transceiver, its final act prior to deactivating itself would be to wipe its memory, leaving behind no clues as to its origin or purpose. By the time the device was detected by whatever security measures succeeded in finding it, the damage would have been done.

  Planting the device was easier than he had anticipated. After two days of conducting their tours, the crew in the engineering spaces had grown complacent with the frequent visitors. Ch’Lhren had observed as much simply from watching them interact with his own tour group. The only true obstacle had been the Enterprise’s security chief, Lieutenant Choudhury. Still, the series of questions he had asked her, playing upon the loss of her family at Deneva and designed to unsettle her to the point where she might leave the engineering section, had proved more than effective. It was then a simple matter for ch’Lhren to spend several moments following other members of the crew about the chamber as they answered questions posed to them by the delegates. While inspecting one of the status-and-control workstations, he had surreptitiously placed the transceiver on the underside of the console. Shielded so as not to interfere with any other interface, the device was all but undetectable, short of employing a tricorder with the intention of seeking out such things.

  Child’s play.

  On his interface, the display informed him that the transfer of software components into the Enterprise systems was complete. For now, they would continue to work autonomously, lying in wait until they were needed.

  When would that be?

  Soon, ch’Lhren hoped, and not soon enough.

  18

  “You’ll want to watch your step up here. Sometimes ice can give way due to the constant foot traffic. A slip here would be rather unfortunate.”

  Picard could not help but smile as he followed Reniel zh’Yemre, his Andorian guide, up the narrow path leading from the plateau that had been designated as a landing site for shuttle transports. It also was where Picard and the security detachment accompanying him had beamed down from the Enterprise, forsaking the starship’s comfortable environs for the unforgiving climate of this ice-covered mountain range. According to the sensor report he had been given prior to leaving the ship, the captain knew that they were only a short distance from Andor’s northern pole.

  “That’s a long way down,” said Lieutenant Rennan Konya from where he followed the trail behind Picard, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.

  A single glance to his left was enough for the captain to confirm that both zh’Yemre and Konya were employing the art of understatement to wonderful effect. Less than ten meters from the edge of the winding path, the ground fell away, and from his vantage point Picard could see that nothing but air beckoned to him. In the distance, the ghostly, gray-white silhouettes of distant mountains formed a backdrop for the clouds, which he noted were below his eye level.

  Leaning into the wind that drove down from the mountains, he felt a blast of cold air reach the exposed skin of his face and neck. He adjusted the hood of his Starfleet-issue parka, securing a protective flap across his throat. The wind was kicking up the fresh snow that had fallen earlier in the day, necessitating those working at this site to wear goggles. Some of the snow stuck to his parka as well as the matching padded trousers and boots he wore. Flexing his fingers inside his insulated gloves, Picard kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, tracing zh’Yemre’s footprints in the thin layer of snow.

  “I’m pretty sure this is as cold as I’ve been in my entire life,” said Lieutenant Rachel McClowan, one of the Enterprise’s archeology and anthropology officers, who had asked to accompany Picard on this excursion. She was walking behind Picard and to his right, carrying an equipment satchel over her left shoulder and all but entombed within her parka. “And that includes the month I spent on Delta Vega.”

  “This is actually quite mild for this time of the season,” replied Ensign Ereshtarri sh’Anbi, who had taken
up position next to McClowan on the captain’s right side. Though the young Andorian wore protective clothing like the rest of the away team, she of course showed no signs of being affected by the cold.

  Glancing over her shoulder, zh’Yemre added, “You should come back after the solstice. The sunsets are something truly beautiful.” Then she smiled. “Of course, that’s also the rainy season. You’d probably want to avoid the floods.”

  “I’m sure I would,” McClowan said.

  Glancing ahead of zh’Yemre, Picard saw that the trail curved to the right as it crested a small rise, and even with rock formations obstructing some of his view, he still noted some of the artificial structures comprising the encampment that had been established here. Not quite obscured by the wind was the low hum of what he guessed to be a power generator. They passed a pair of large boulders, and the path widened into a broad, reasonably flat expanse of snow-covered terrain, upon which sat a dozen temporary structures of varying sizes and shapes. The buildings reminded Picard of the Starfleet emergency shelters—uncounted thousands of them—that had been deployed on world after world across the Federation in the aftermath of the Borg invasion. Entire cities had been built using such shelters, with far too many survivors still calling them home as they struggled to rebuild something of what they had lost during the war.

  One day, Picard reminded himself. One day.

  Despite his best efforts to heed Beverly’s advice about allowing himself to relax, if only for a short time, the captain nevertheless had been unable to completely divorce himself from his numerous responsibilities. The day had begun with a review of the latest intelligence briefings dispatched to him from Starfleet Command. Concern about the movements of Breen, Tholian, and Tzenkethi vessels in and around the fringes of Federation space continued to stir up concern among Starfleet’s senior tactical minds. Attempts to engage Typhon Pact diplomatic representatives had met with resistance despite the ongoing presence on Earth of the one-time Tholian ambassador to the Federation, who now acted as an envoy not only for her own people but also for the Pact’s other charter members. According to the most recent communiqué Picard had received from Admiral DeSoto, the situation was growing more tense by the day.