Star Trek®: Typhon Pact: Zero Sum Game

by David Mack

  They stepped out into another nook set back from an alley and closed the door behind them. Bashir peeked around the corner and saw a narrow, dark street lined with windowless buildings. Deep vibrations coursed through the ground beneath his feet and made his teeth buzz. “What next?”

  Sarina pointed at a nearby public-information kiosk. “I think we and our suits have learned enough to keep up with one of those—halfway, at least.” The duo walked quickly but not as if they were in a hurry. Bashir wanted to swivel his head and scout the rooftops and corners for anyone who might be watching, but he knew that doing so would only attract attention. He stayed by Sarina’s side and trusted in his hearing to warn him of danger.

  The kiosk flashed to life at Sarina’s first touch, its screen rolling with symbols and its speakers jabbering away with random commercial prattle until she silenced it with a quick poke at an icon along the screen’s left edge. Echoes of the machine’s synthetic blathering resounded down the deserted street, stoking Bashir’s paranoia. Sarina tapped at the kiosk’s interface and seemed to control it with a fair degree of skill.

  “Can you actually read all that?” asked Bashir.

  “Not all of it, but enough to ask the right questions.” She punched in new instructions. “I’m asking it for a guide to military and government offices on Salavat.” While the machine processed her request, she added, “In case you’re curious, the name of this city is Rasiuk.”

  “Good to know. How many cities are on Salavat?”

  “Judging from the results of my last query, at least a few dozen, maybe more. Not sure how many smaller settlements there might be.” New information appeared on the kiosk’s display. “Here we go. There’s a military comm center here in Rasiuk. It’s part of a government complex on Level Fifty-six, Elbis Sector.”

  Reading over Sarina’s shoulder, Bashir asked, “What else is down there?”

  “Not much. It’s practically the bottom of the pit. Everything on that level is either military or a government black site.” She blanked the kiosk’s search screen and powered down the terminal. “If there is a secret shipyard on Salavat, the comm center’s our best chance of finding it. That site should be tied into every other Breen military outpost on the planet, plus it’ll have the decryption codes we need.”

  Sarina walked away from the kiosk and headed back the way they had come, to the maintenance passages. Walking beside her, Bashir said, “I hope you aren’t planning on trying to walk in the front door of a Breen military base.”

  “Of course not. It must have a back door somewhere …”

  • • •

  Chot Nar entered her task pod, closed the door, and hoped that her supervisor and coworkers at the Breen Intelligence Directorate hadn’t noticed her lethargic manner as she returned from her meal break. She was still adapting to working the second shift, to which she had been transferred only a few days earlier. For her the hardest part was transitioning to a new sleep schedule; despite the ease with which her peers seemed to move between shifts, Nar found it exhausting and disorienting.

  She settled into her chair and keyed her authorization into her workstation to release the security lockout she had engaged before leaving for her break. Her computer powered up, and an alert appeared on her holographic display. She opened the message with a swooping gesture inside the holomatrix, expecting another of her supervisor’s time-wasting manufactured emergencies.

  It was an automated error notice from the urban surveillance network. As one of the BID’s midlevel intelligence analysts, Nar performed troubleshooting and maintenance when something went wrong with its software or its firmware. Most glitches in the system were minor and easily repaired.

  Best just to get it done and move on to something worthwhile, she told herself as she opened the alert’s full log of the error. As soon as she saw the complete report, she froze. This was no simple malfunction, no inconsequential dropped bit of data. Nar had never seen anything like it, though she had heard of similar incidents happening in the years before she had been assigned to the BID.

  She calmed herself. Nothing would be accomplished by getting emotional. The best response would be to obey established protocols. Just follow procedure, she admonished herself while launching an incident-report template. Start with documentation. Nothing but the facts. Save the analysis for later.

  There were null values roaming the surveillance grid. They had appeared in random locations throughout Rasiuk over the past day. Interactive advertising panels, which were linked to the city’s central database, contained sensors that detected the identichips of persons passing by on the street. The city’s AI used the identichip codes to look up each citizen’s purchasing history and economic profile, and it used that data to deliver targeted advertising tailored for maximum enticement. Similar advertising modules were built into the city’s public-information kiosks, two of which had also registered null errors.

  In addition to being used for crass commercial profit, the system was a key tool of the BID, which used the network to monitor the movements and habits of Breen civilians and construct virtual models to suss out suspect behavior.

  Roaming errors were almost definitely not hardware or firmware related, Nar knew from experience. If the null values were in fact errors, the most likely cause would be a bug in the software of the central AI.

  Nar launched a series of diagnostic programs. One scanned for viruses while another checked the main computer for physical damage or faulty connections. While the diagnostic applications compiled their findings, she pinpointed the null errors on a three-dimensional virtual map of the city and then linked them with a visible timeline to see whether they occurred in random locations.

  The graph took shape in her holomatrix. She saw right away that there was nothing random about the errors. They moved in steady progressions down city blocks, lingered in the middle of major thoroughfares, and appeared and disappeared near maintenance access points. That is not good, she realized.

  She created a secure channel using an encryption protocol to which, by law, she should not have had access. In minutes she had tapped into 249 remote surveillance cameras that had views of the streets where the null values had occurred, and she began downloading their memory logs from the relevant time periods. While the vid files compiled in her holomatrix, her diagnostic programs completed their analysis of the central AI.

  The conclusion: no errors, no viruses, no malfunctions.

  Whatever was causing the error, it was outside the system.

  A majority of the vid files had finished downloading. Nar opened them in a pattern-recognition application. “Computer,” she said, “initiate a search for visual commonalities among persons near terminals that reported null errors at each site during the referenced time frames.”

  Almost as soon as the program started working, Nar’s holomatrix began to fill with side-by-side freeze-frames taken from different cameras. In each pair of images, two figures had been highlighted. Always the duo moved in close proximity to each other, and, in what Nar knew could not be a coincidence, they had been the targets of a security action that had ended in a public firefight and the hijacking of a civil rapid-transit train that was subsequently destroyed by high-power demolitions believed to be of Tholian manufacture—no doubt a deliberate act of misdirection intended to conceal the criminals’ true affiliation.

  Staring at the two paramilitary-style masks pictured in her matrix, Nar was stunned at the implications of her discovery. There were two ghosts in the machine, and it would be only a matter of hours before some other more senior analyst in the BID would make the same discovery in the course of searching the network’s logs for clues to the two fugitives’ identities.

  She looked up the last reported error. It had occurred at an information kiosk in the industrial zone on Level Thirty-five. On a hunch, Nar accessed the search activity log for that kiosk and noted what the fugitives had been looking for.

  It came as little surprise to Nar that
they were seeking government and military facilities. She knew that going after the fugitives on her own was a dangerous proposition, but the alternative was to watch them be apprehended by some other BID operative who would in turn be richly rewarded with a promotion and maybe even a better residence assignment on one of the upper levels.

  No, she decided. I will not accept that.

  She uploaded an image of the fugitives to her personal comm unit, programmed her computer to send her real-time updates of any new null-value errors in the network, and locked down her terminal. Her hands trembled as she opened the door of her task pod and slipped out. Getting out of the building would not be a challenge. Getting away with what she planned to do next would be.

  15

  The Mayday that crackled from the overhead speakers of the Aventine’s bridge was garbled and interrupted by bursts of white cosmic background noise: “… have struck … lost main power and life support … any ship, please respond … peat, this is the S.S. Tullahoma out of Nashira. We …”

  “Analysis,” Dax said, swiveling her chair first toward Kedair.

  The security chief looked up from her console. “The Tullahoma is a civilian freighter designed for the transport of perishable goods. She shipped out of Nashira five days ago with a mixed cargo of food and medicines bound for the Cardassian Union. Crew complement, approximately forty personnel.”

  Mirren chimed in from ops, “Based on the Tullahoma’s rated cruising speed of warp six, the coordinates of her last transmission are within her flight range from Nashira.” Looking back at Dax, she added, “Her comm signal’s weak, though. I doubt anyone but us picked it up.”

  “How convenient,” Dax said under her breath. “Mister Helkara, are there any known navigational hazards in the vicinity of the Tullahoma’s transmission?”

  “Several. That region is on the edge of the Black Cluster. She might have encountered a gravitational anomaly, a cosmic string …”

  “Noted,” Dax said. “Lieutenant Mirren, can we confirm the Tullahoma’s position and status?”

  “Not at this range, Captain.”

  Dax threw a look at Bowers. “Your thoughts, Sam?”

  “Sounds like a trap, sir. It’s just far enough away that we can’t verify the message without moving off station from the Breen border, and it’s in a region where we’d be out of contact with Starfleet.” Bowers frowned. “The perfect location for an ambush.”

  “Agreed,” Dax said. “Mister Tharp, plot a course for the Tullahoma’s last known coordinates, warp nine.”

  “Aye, Captain,” said the Bolian flight officer.

  “Lieutenant Kedair, transmit a response to the Tullahoma and let them know we’re en route. Notify me if and when they acknowledge.”

  Bowers and Kedair exchanged concerned glances, and Bowers sidled up to Dax’s chair. “Captain, why are we taking the bait if we know it’s a trap?”

  “First,” Dax said, “we don’t know it’s a trap, we only suspect it’s a trap. It’s possible the Tullahoma really is in trouble, and we’re required by law to investigate and render aid. Second, even if this is a ruse by the Typhon Pact to move us out of position, we have to play along.”

  Cocking an eyebrow, Bowers said, “May I ask why?”

  “Because if we don’t respond to the Tullahoma’s Mayday, we’ll be telling the Breen and their allies that we have a more urgent mission that compels us to remain on their border—in which case we might as well confess that we’re supporting a covert operation inside their territory.”

  From the helm, Tharp said, “Course laid in, Captain.”

  “Engage, Mister Tharp.”

  With a single tap on his console, the Bolian pilot propelled the Aventine to warp speed on its new heading.

  Lowering his voice, Bowers said, “What if Bashir and Douglas call for extraction while we’re out of position?”

  “Julian’s clever, and Sarina makes him look slow,” Dax said. “They’ll think of something. Right now, the need for operational secrecy trumps the tactical risk.”

  Bowers grimaced. “If the Typhon Pact set this trap, that means they already suspect what we’re up to. So what does it matter if we play along?”

  “It’s called ‘plausible deniability,’ Sam. We’re not doing this for our benefit. We’re doing it so some politician can have the upper hand when the Typhon Pact’s ambassador comes looking to complain about us lurking on the Breen’s border.”

  “And what if this isn’t just about moving us out of position? What if we’re being set up for an ambush by the Romulans?”

  Dax smiled. “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

  Commander Marius simmered with anger as he read General Valnor’s latest report of being stonewalled by the Breen starship designer in charge of the slipstream project. Damn the Breen and their useless paranoia, Marius fumed. They’re wasting valuable time. If they’d shared the Starfleet designs, we might have a working prototype by now.

  It had been months since Marius and his crew on the Dekkona had helped extract the Breen’s saboteur-spy from the Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards in the Sol system. Marius had been sorely tempted while ferrying the spy to Salavat to seize the slipstream plans on behalf of Romulus, risking imprisonment and even execution—the treaty with the Typhon Pact be damned. He still didn’t understand why Praetor Tal’Aura had debased the Empire by making it acknowledge the Gorn, the Tholians, and the Kinshaya as its equals. Gorn were little better than animals, as far as Marius was concerned, the Tholians were glorified bugs with delusions of grandeur, and the Kinshaya were superstitious fools, slaves to religion and blind to reason. As for the Tzenkethi, they were the most vexing race Marius had ever encountered. He cursed whoever had invited them into the Pact.

  But the Breen? Mercenaries and opportunists. Paranoid and treacherous. They didn’t deserve to be called allies of the Empire, in Marius’s opinion, so much as betrayers waiting for an opportunity to seize an advantage. Even more baffling to him was why the praetor and the Tal Shiar would deign to let the Breen take the lead in adapting and developing the Federation’s slipstream technology when they had yet to master the incorporation of Romulan cloaking devices into their ships. Nothing he knew of the Breen so far gave Marius any confidence in their abilities.

  The sound of a sensor alert gave Marius a reason to switch off the data slate in his hand and set it aside. He leaned forward in his command chair. “Report.”

  Centurion Kozik, the second in command of the warbird, looked up from the tactical console and faced Marius. “The Starfleet vessel is changing course, Commander. They are heading at warp nine toward the source coordinates of the distress signal and transmitting a reply to the Tullahoma.”

  “Interesting,” Marius said. “Are they taking the bait, or just playing their part?” Dismissing his rhetorical queries, he added, “Helm, set a pursuit course. Centurion, alert our battle group in the Inasa system to stand ready.”

  Kozik carried out the order, verified that the Dekkona was under way on its pursuit course, and then approached Marius’s chair with a wary mien. “Commander,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, “why have we alerted our Inasa fleet? What have you set in motion?”

  “My plans will be revealed when the time is right,” Marius said. “All that I require from you and from this crew is obedience.”

  In a sterner voice, Kozik said, “Has the Senate overturned its proclamation forbidding open combat with the Khitomer Accords powers? If so, I must have missed the announcement, Commander.”

  “You have missed no declarations,” Marius said.

  “Perhaps the Tal Shiar rescinded its order directing us to refrain from assault on the Aventine? If so, I should have been summoned to authenticate—”

  “No new orders have been received, Kozik.”

  “Then what, precisely, are we doing, Commander?”

  Marius steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “Showing initiative, Kozik. The Senate and the Tal Shiar
seem content to be patient and wait upon the largesse of the Breen.” An evil smirk tugged at his mouth as he eyed the image of the Aventine on the forward viewscreen. “I am not.”

  16

  Bashir swallowed hard and pushed back against a swirl of vertigo as he looked out the open maintenance hatch at a hundred-meter drop to a dark street patrolled by armed Breen soldiers. He and Sarina were inside the secured perimeter of the military and government sector on Rasiuk’s lowest level, though hardly in a position of easy access. “You’re certain this is the only exit on this level?”

  “Yes,” Sarina said. “I checked three times. This is the only hatchway that opens on the correct side of the checkpoint.”

  Peeking over the edge, Bashir said, “Not that it does us much good. This ladder ends next to the gatehouse, and there are half a dozen troops who’d see us before we reached the ground.” He shook his head. “Maybe we should lay low until the city’s not on such high alert anymore.”

  “That’s not an option.” Sarina backed away from the open portal and started retrieving various small components from pockets on her suit. Assembling them, she continued. “Our ride home won’t wait for us forever, Julian. We can’t afford to bide our time and take the easy way out. We have to be bold.”

  “Sarina, there’s bold and then there’s suicidal. If we try to climb down this ladder, those soldiers will shoot us full of holes long before we reach the ground.”

  Snapping her device’s last component into place, she smiled. “Who said we’d be using the ladder?” The item in her hand resembled a tiny harpoon gun. “We’ll anchor the wire up here and fire the bolt at that building with the ledge that runs most of the way to the comm center.”

  “You must be joking. You don’t really expect me to—”

  “Stand clear.”

  He went silent as she embedded the anchor bolt into the stone ceiling behind her, turned, and took aim at the distant ledge. There was a soft hiss of displaced air as Sarina fired the bolt out into the perpetual night of the underground city. A few seconds later the barely visible strand of monofilament wire rushing from the anchor mount went taut. Sarina plucked the wire like a string on an instrument, clamped a miniature pulley over it, and nodded at Bashir.