Star Trek®: Typhon Pact: Zero Sum Game

by David Mack

  “No,” Dax said as Bashir loomed over her. “I think you’re here to impress Sarina. But just because you’re genetically enhanced, that doesn’t make you qualified to do intelligence work.”

  “Funny, that’s what some people have said about your status as a joined Trill and your readiness for starship command. According to our critics, neither of us is qualified for our current duties.” He walked to the door, stopped as it slid open in front of him, then turned back toward Dax. “You were offered a chance to expand your horizons, and you took it. I plan to do the same.” As he made his exit, he added, “With or without your approval.”

  7

  The first twelve blasts that rocked the escape pod left Bashir feeling ready to vomit. The second dozen slammed him and Sarina against each other and pinned them to the bulkheads. One salvo after another rumbled through the hull of the Guernik and shook the sealed, claustrophobic pod. “So much for Leishman’s promise we wouldn’t feel a thing,” Bashir said between bouts of violent shaking and thunderous noise. “I’m starting to hate this plan.”

  Sarina seemed to be enjoying the rough ride. “It’ll hurt less if you don’t tense up. Just relax and pretend you’re a spring.” She lifted her arms and spread her legs in a fair impression of Leonardo da Vinci’s famous “Vitruvian Man.” Floating in the pod’s zero-gravity environment, she used her fingertips and toes to keep herself bouncing lightly around the middle of the pod. Bashir emulated her pose and focused on staying limber.

  A hull-rattling explosion quaked the ship, and Bashir followed Sarina’s lead, bending at the knees to absorb the pod’s momentum, springing back, and then bending at the elbows once he made contact with his hands. As the effects of the latest barrage faded, he and Sarina hovered once more in the pod’s center, tenuously maintaining their equilibrium. He exhaled with relief.

  “Nice trick,” Bashir said.

  “It makes for a lot fewer bruises, anyway.” Looking around, Sarina seemed concerned. “I still wish Leishman had let me check her demolitions plan.”

  “Relax. Just because she’s not genetically enhanced, that doesn’t mean she’s incompetent. I served with her on the Defiant. She’s a great engineer.”

  Cacophonous noise roared around them. “For your sake and mine,” Sarina said, “I hope she’s as good as you say she is.” She peeked inside her helmet and checked its built-in HUD. “Two more minutes of this before we eject.”

  “That’s not so bad,” Bashir said, even though he knew full well that under the right circumstances, two minutes could feel like—or even be—a lifetime.

  A sudden jolt launched them upward, and Bashir heard a hollow clang as Sarina’s head made impact against the pod’s sealed airlock hatch. She winced, then squeezed her eyes shut as she pressed a hand to the top of her head.

  Bashir reached out with one hand and steadied her. “Are you all right?”

  She opened one eye and glared at him. “I’m starting to hate this plan.”

  Dax sat with her legs crossed in the Aventine’s command chair, presiding over the tense but generally quiet labors of her bridge crew. Commander Bowers was directing the mock battle that the crew was waging by remote control and monitoring on the main viewscreen. “Stand by for final salvos,” he said.

  At the helm, Lieutenant Tharp guided the movements of the Breen privateer Guernik with his left hand and controlled the Orion corsair with his right. “Both ships are in position,” he said. “Initiating final attack patterns in ten seconds.” Watching him pilot both sides of a dogfight, Dax mused that this was the first time she had realized the youthful Bolian flight controller was ambidextrous.

  Leishman sat at the engineering console, where she monitored and triggered the demolitions packages that were slowly tearing the remote-guided vessels to pieces. Her actions were being coordinated with those of Kedair, who was in charge of firing the two ships’ weapons in a series of painstakingly choreographed near misses that would, they all hoped, deceive the sensors of a distant Breen patrol ship, which had already been detected en route at maximum warp.

  “Charges twenty-one through thirty armed and ready,” Leishman said.

  “Weapons locked,” Kedair replied.

  Lieutenant Oliana Mirren, the Aventine’s senior operations officer, was generating a series of sensor shadows intended to create the illusion of full crews inside the two battling ships. It wasn’t clear whether Breen sensors were accurate enough at long range to pick up such details, but Dax had insisted her crew not err by underestimating the intelligence or capabilities of the Breen military. Helping the lithe brunette calibrate her sensor illusions was the ship’s senior science specialist and second officer, Lieutenant Commander Gruhn Helkara. “Reduce crew complement on the corsair by nine percent,” the slim Zakdorn man said. “We need to simulate casualties in real time.”

  “Already on it,” Mirren said. “Just waiting for the plasma fire Leishman triggered to spread past frame ten.” She silenced a chirping alert on her console. “Fire confirmed in forward sections, reducing crew signatures.”

  Tharp declared, “Final attack runs are under way at full impulse.”

  “Look sharp,” Bowers said. “Leishman, send the Guernik’s SOS now, and stand by to eject our agents’ pod.”

  Kedair said, “Weapons firing in five seconds.”

  “Eject pod,” Bowers said. “Launch the decoys.”

  “Pod’s away,” Leishman replied. “Decoys released.”

  “Firing,” Kedair said.

  “Detonate all charges,” Bowers said.

  A brilliant flash of light turned the main viewscreen white for a moment, and then the radiance faded into the dark curtain of stars.

  Mirren worked at her console as she reported, “Both ships destroyed, sensor ghosts terminated. The pod is undamaged and clear of the blast radius.”

  “Good work, everyone,” Dax said. “Secure from Yellow Alert and begin radio silence. Mister Tharp, set course for the edge of the Black Cluster. Mirren, keep our sensors on the escape pod. I want to know the moment the Breen pick it up.” Swiveling her chair toward her chief of security, she continued, “Lonnoc, monitor all transmissions from the Breen patrol ship. If they don’t buy our ruse, we’ll need to extract our people on the fly.”

  “Aye, sir,” Kedair said, “standing by for Plan B.”

  Bowers made a quick circuit of the bridge and passed out compliments to each member of the crew as he went. When he finished, he stepped into place beside Dax’s chair and asked in a confidential tone of voice, “And now … ?”

  “Now we wait,” Dax said, “and pray this doesn’t go hideously wrong.”

  Bashir and Sarina spent the first few minutes after being ejected from the Guernik treating their various bruises and abrasions with the portable medkits included with their modified Breen armor. Then they passed the remainder of the first few hours savoring the blissful silence of being adrift in deep space.

  For once resisting his urge to fill the quiet with idle chatter, Bashir was surprised when, apropos of nothing, Sarina asked him, “What did you and Dax fight about?” He considered lying but then decided there was no point denying the facts. Sarina possessed an uncanny ability to interpret others’ body language and microexpressions, probably thanks in part to all the years she had spent in the company of the Jack Pack.

  “She doesn’t think I’m qualified to be here,” he said.

  “Do you agree with her?” Noting the pointed reaction her question provoked from Bashir, Sarina continued, “I ask only because it seems to be bothering you.”

  He sighed. “I don’t care if she doubts my abilities. I know full well what I’m capable of. What upset me was that she questioned my motives.”

  “Because of me?” She read the answer in his glum expression. “Well, at least she’s consistent. But I have to be honest with you, Julian. She might not be entirely wrong.” Before he could protest, she continued, “What I mean is, I know that if anyone but me had asked you to d
o this mission, you probably would’ve said no. And that makes Dax think I’m taking advantage of you.”

  More worried than he had been before, he asked, “Are you?”

  “Maybe a bit. But the part of this that she—and you—seem to be forgetting is that if I hadn’t been the one chosen for this mission, SI probably wouldn’t have asked you to be part of it. I had to insist on meeting with you.” She shuffled around until they sat side by side, and she nestled herself under his arm. “I don’t care if Dax thinks you’re the wrong man for the job, because I know you’re the right one. And whether you’re here just for me or—”

  “I’m not. In my life I have done many stupid things for many stupid reasons, but I’ve never risked my life just to impress a woman.”

  That drew an amused smile from Sarina. “That’s good to know. Now I feel like I can count on you to do really stupid things for all the right reasons.”

  “Precisely.” They laughed softly for a moment, and then the mirth tapered to an uneasy silence. A somber mood settled over Bashir. “I know this is the wrong time to be thinking about this, but this mission could very well be a one-way ticket for us. There’s no telling how much or how little room for error we’ll have once we’re among the Breen. And if they find us—”

  “Don’t dwell on that,” Sarina said. “The best thing you can do is relax your mind and pay attention to your senses and your instincts. Feel the rhythm of their culture and try to stay aware of who other people seem to be listening to, or pushing around, or ignoring.” She grinned. “Treat it like a game of Simon Says.”

  He responded with a grim chortle and looked at Sarina. “In Simon Says, the losers don’t get shot in the head.”

  “They do in the original Klingon version.”

  That time he laughed, even though he knew it was just gallows humor. “I’m glad you’re able to keep a sense of humor about all this.”

  “Well, someone has to. Otherwise, this mission won’t be any fun at all.”

  Bashir leaned his head back against the pod’s bulkhead. “No fun? We’ll be surrounded by some of the most notoriously paranoid aliens the Federation has ever met, while trying to locate and break into a hidden military base so we can destroy a prototype starship and sabotage the stolen data. And we get to do all that with no backup and no defined exit strategy. How could this not be fun?”

  “Now you’re getting into the spirit,” Sarina said. “If you get depressed again, just remember that we have no idea if we’ll be able to eat Breen food or use their waste-removal technologies, and that’ll put a smile back on your face.”

  “I’m feeling better already.” A comm unit built into the side of the pod screeched with metallic-sounding noise, turning Bashir’s and Sarina’s heads. Bashir said, “So soon? It’s been less than four hours.”

  “Captain Dax warned us the patrol ship was closer than we’d expected. Apparently, they’re also faster than we expected.” She picked up her helmet and lowered it into place. “Time to suit up.”

  Bashir donned his helmet, and immediately the metallic noise from the comm speaker was rendered into a masculine voice speaking in uninflected English: “… is the Confederate frigate Torzat . We have received your distress signal. Respond and confirm your status.”

  Sarina nudged Bashir. “Go ahead. They’re waiting, but not for long.” The secure comm inside his helmet rendered her voice as normal, but only because his and Sarina’s suits had been programmed to let them communicate privately without fear of being overheard by the Breen.

  He reached up and opened a reply channel. “Torzat, this is Pod Nineteen of the privateer Sitkoskir. There are two of us aboard.” Checking the pod’s status display, he added, “All systems stable, homing beacon coordinates verified.”

  “Acknowledged, Sitkoskir Nineteen. Stand by for our tractor beam. We’ll have you aboard in a few minutes. Torzat out.”

  The channel went quiet. The pod lurched, and then a deep vibration resounded through its hull. Moments later, from outside, came the sounds of mechanical grapples seizing hold of the pod, and the dull scrape of the tiny emergency vehicle touching down on a hangar deck.

  Bashir drew a deep breath and mentally prepared himself for the worst.

  Sarina grabbed his knee and gave it a playful squeeze. “Here’s where the fun begins,” she said, just before the pod’s main hatch was opened from the outside.

  8

  Bashir stayed clear of the pod’s hatchway as a Breen military officer helped Sarina out of the escape craft. She clambered over the side and into the helping hands of several other Breen personnel. As soon as the way was clear, Bashir followed her. The ship’s crew assisted him as well, and he found himself standing beside Sarina in the hangar of a Breen warship, surrounded by half a dozen of its crew.

  “I am Chot Jin, executive officer,” said the one standing apart from the others and closest to Bashir and Sarina. Recalling the mission briefing, Bashir recognized chot as a senior military rank roughly equivalent to a commander. “You two are lucky to be alive. Identify yourselves.”

  Sarina replied, “Minh Sann, comm technician.”

  “Ket Rhun,” Bashir said, “biologist.”

  He and Sarina had selected cover occupations that played to their strengths. Bashir didn’t know enough about Breen physiologies to pose as a medical doctor, but he knew enough about xenobiology to pass himself off as a junior scientist.

  Jin beckoned one of his men, who stepped forward and scanned Bashir and Sarina with a small handheld device. “IDs confirmed,” the crewman said to Jin. “No signs of injuries or radiation exposure. Cleared for boarding.”

  “Very well,” Jin said. He looked at Sarina and Bashir. “We are near the end of our patrol cruise. If we drop you off at Salavat, will you be able to continue on your own from there?”

  Sarina and Bashir glanced at each other—a futile gesture, since they were unable to exchange glances through their snout-shaped helmets. “Yes,” Bashir said as he looked back at Jin.

  “Do you have any objection to sharing quarters?”

  “No,” Bashir said.

  “Good. We will notify you when it is time to debark. I estimate we will reach Salavat in just over ten hours.” Jin nodded at another crewman. “Venz, put them in the spare quarters on deck six.”

  “Yes, sir.” Venz stepped away from his shipmates and motioned for Bashir and Sarina to follow him. The pair walked behind the Breen crewman. As they crossed the hangar deck, Bashir clandestinely scouted his surroundings. As his eyes focused on various bulkheads and portals marked with Breen symbols, his helmet’s HUD translated them into English words and Arabic numerals, providing him with a real-time tutorial in the Breen’s written language.

  Venz led Bashir and Sarina through a few turns in the ship’s corridors and then into a turbolift that took them up two decks. The ship’s passageways and conveyances were dimly lit and bereft of obvious design touches. Everything about the ship felt generic, as if it had been created with the intention of not expressing any kind of cultural identity. That would mesh with the Jack Pack’s hypothesis, Bashir ruminated as he followed Venz. If the Breen are trying to hide the fact that they’re a multispecies society, their starships would have to be as free of cultural design artifacts as possible. It seemed to Bashir like a sensible response to a peculiar cultural need, but in his opinion it also made for a boring aesthetic.

  They stopped at a door. Venz unlocked it. “Stay inside unless you are summoned,” he said as the door slid open. “Do not wander the ship without permission and an official escort.”

  “We understand,” Bashir said. He entered the narrow, spartan quarters, and Sarina followed him.

  “If you need anything, use the comm next to the door controls.” Venz shut the door without waiting for Bashir or Sarina to reply.

  The duo pivoted and surveyed their close quarters. It contained two bunks, one stacked above the other; a nook that seemed designed for waste removal and processing; a food sl
ot; and a tiny cloister with a single seat and a short table. Bashir activated his private comm channel to Sarina. “Cozy,” he quipped. “I’d hate to see the accommodations in steerage.” He lifted his chin toward the cloister. “A mess hall for one?”

  “I think it’s a dining alcove,” she said. “Apparently, the old saying that ‘a Breen always eats alone’ wasn’t so much a proverb as an observation.”

  Bashir bent down to remove his boots. Sarina’s hands snapped out and grabbed Bashir’s arms. “Don’t,” she said as she let go. “Your suit is the only thing masking your true biosigns. If you take off any part of it, the ship’s internal sensors might flag you as an intruder. We have to stay fully covered and use the secure comms until we’re concealed somewhere on Salavat.”

  “We can’t even take off our boots?”

  “Not unless you feel like going from this two-bunk sardine can to a Breen prison camp.” She sat down on the lower bunk. “On the bright side, our cover identities seemed to work, and so did our disguises. Once we reach Salavat, we should be in good shape for the next phase of the mission.”

  “Assuming the next phase of the mission is a nap, I’d heartily agree.”

  She stretched out on her claimed bunk. “Why not grab some shut-eye here? We do have ten hours to kill.”

  “I can’t sleep while wearing this,” Bashir said. “My own breathing sounds downright asthmatic inside this helmet.”

  Sarina chuckled. “Ah, the curse of genetically enhanced neural pathways. Having some sensory-integration issues?”

  “Very funny,” Bashir said. “I just can’t get comfortable wearing all this.”

  Folding her gloved hands behind her head, Sarina said, “But you did take vacuum-survival training, right? You learned to sleep in an environment suit.”

  “It’s different when you’re weightless,” Bashir said.

  “If you say so.” Sarina stared at the underside of the bunk above hers while Bashir continued to tug at his armored disguise in an unsuccessful effort to make it less uncomfortable. He was experimenting with loosening the waistband when Sarina said, “Hang on. I know why you can’t relax and fall asleep, and it has nothing to do with that suit being too snug.”