Star Trek: Typhon Pact 01: Zero Sum Game

by David Mack

  Intrigued, Bashir leaned forward. “How do unsanctioned couplings occur if Breen citizens never see one another’s faces outside the family unit?”

  “I did not say that we never see one another’s faces,” Nar said. “Only that we are not supposed to. The fact that I invited you both to unmask should serve as proof of that.” She took a deep breath and continued. “There is a small but vibrant dissident culture that lurks in the hidden spaces of Breen cities. Agitators who yearn to live openly, to pursue relationships of choice. To be free.”

  Sarina asked, “Why are you telling us this?”

  “Because I am one of them. I use my job within the BID to warn my friends of danger. With your help, I could provide them with something better.”

  Bashir arched one eyebrow. “What would that be?”

  “Political asylum in the Federation.”

  18

  Thot Keer stood in front of his superior’s shuttle and was grateful that his mask concealed his growing sensation of dread. A subspace comm from one’s superior usually meant bad news; a personal visit always did.

  The spacecraft’s ramp lowered and touched down on the hangar’s deck with a clang and a scrape. Keer straightened his posture as he heard Thot Naaz’s heavy footsteps from inside the shuttle. The steps grew louder. Naaz emerged, descended the ramp, and loomed over Keer. “I have bad news,” he said.

  “I presumed as much, sir.” Keer gestured toward the exit to the corridor. “Shall we continue this discussion in my office?”

  Naaz turned his head from side to side and belatedly appeared to take note of the several members of the shipyard’s hangar deck crew who were working near his vessel. “Yes,” he said, “that would be sensible.”

  Keer led his guest to the corridor and then into a lift, followed by another corridor that terminated at his office. He entered first and stepped aside to let Naaz pass and, if the supervisor wished, position himself behind Keer’s desk. He did. Naaz stood at the broad window that ran the length of the back wall and looked out upon the mostly dismantled prototype slipstream vessel.

  “The Typhon Pact’s governing board has convened a special session to discuss our reluctance to share the slipstream drive schematics,” Naaz said. “The Romulan delegate insisted, and his motion was seconded by the Gorn and Tholian delegates.” Turning to face Keer, he added, “This complicates matters, I fear.”

  “On what basis have the Romulans objected to our position?”

  “Kalavak says that because they shared their cloaking device technology with all Typhon Pact member states, they deserve access to the slipstream data—in the spirit of reciprocity, you see.” Naaz turned back toward the husk of the prototype suspended in the microgravity hangar below. “Most inconvenient.”

  Shaking with anger, Keer replied, “Absurd is more like it, sir. The Romulans’ gift of cloaking technology is all but worthless in the short term. Their system generates chronitons that would destabilize our engine cores. If we install Romulan cloaks on our vessels, we will have to rebuild our energy distribution networks. In essence, they gave us a technology that works only on their ships.”

  Naaz replied over his shoulder, “From what you have told me about the slipstream drive, it has much the same shortcoming. So why not return the Romulans’ empty gesture in kind and put this matter behind us?”

  “It is not that simple, sir. Many of the Romulans’ hull designs possess far more fluid lines than do any of ours. If they acquire these plans before I finish the prototype, they might be able to equip entire squadrons of their fleet in months.”

  “Just a moment, Keer.” Naaz cocked his head at an angle that implied he was both amused and making a joke at his subordinate’s expense. “Are you telling me that the real reason you are refusing to share this technology is that it would be of more use to the Romulans than it is to us?”

  Keer denied the accusation with outward sweeping movements of his hands with the palms toward the floor. “Not at all, sir. I am resisting their demands for access to prevent the Confederacy from being relegated to second-class status among the nations of the Typhon Pact. Once we have integrated this technology into our own fleet, I will have no objection to sharing it with our allies.”

  Naaz circled around the desk and walked back to confront Keer, snout to snout. “Your patriotism is commendable, Keer. However, it might soon become irrelevant. The domo and Delegate Gren are stating our case for exemption from the Pact’s information-exchange requirements, but reports that have leaked from the meeting suggest the argument is failing to sway the Tzenkethi, Tholian, or Kinshaya delegates. Unless the domo can persuade at least two of our allies to back our position, it seems likely that the vote will come soon—and go against us.”

  “Where does that leave us, then?”

  “Facing a short deadline,” Naaz said. “If you can power up a prototype as proof of concept before the board casts a binding vote, we might be able to lay claim to the technology as an exclusive state asset.”

  “I am close to resolving my difficulties with the equations,” Keer said. “However, I am ill equipped to act upon them with any haste. If the domo wishes to negotiate from a position of strength, I need more matériel and more personnel on-site in a matter of hours.”

  “I told you before, Keer, our resources—”

  “Are overextended. Yes, I know. But this is the price of victory, sir. If the domo wishes to claim it, it is time to pay the cost.”

  19

  Sam Bowers stood behind Kedair at the tactical console, anxious for any sign that the Aventine’s high-warp detour had not been made in vain. He looked back and forth between the console and the main viewscreen. “Anything?”

  “No sign of the Tullahoma,” Kedair reported.

  Moving across the bridge toward the science station, Bowers asked Helkara, “What about debris? Are we picking up energy signatures from weapons fire?”

  The wiry Zakdorn shook his head. “No, sir. Sensors are clear.”

  “I knew it,” Bowers muttered. The Tullahoma had ceased transmitting its distress signal when the Aventine was still roughly ninety minutes away from the freighter’s last reported coordinates. It was a classic ploy for luring starships away from their designated routes and patrol sectors.

  He walked over to stand next to Dax’s chair. The captain sat with her right leg crossed over her left at the knee and her arms folded across her chest. She looked remarkably sanguine, given the circumstances. “Captain,” Bowers said in a muted voice, “there’s no sign of the Tullahoma within sensor range. I respectfully submit that we appear to be the victims of a hoax.”

  “If we’re lucky,” Dax said. “Mister Tharp, plot a return course to the Breen border. Bring us about on the new heading and hold at full impulse.”

  “Aye, sir.” Tharp began keying commands into the helm.

  An enigmatic smile tugged at Dax’s mouth. “If I’m right, this is all about to get a lot more interesting,” she said.

  Worried that he might be asking a question to which he didn’t really want the answer, Bowers replied, “Right about what, Captain?”

  The Red Alert klaxon wailed, and the bridge lights dimmed as crimson panels flashed on the bulkheads. Kedair announced, “Three Mogai-class Romulan warbirds decloaking in an attack formation—we’re surrounded, Captain!”

  Dax looked up at Bowers and pointed at the overhead. “About that.” She looked at Kedair. “Shields to full. Who’s here to greet us, Lieutenant?”

  “Energy profiles match those on file for the Terrinex, the Dekkona, and the Kytonis,” Kedair said. She looked up and added, “Also known as the wing leaders of the Romulan Star Empire’s Fifth Fleet.”

  “I’m guessing they aren’t here to answer the Tullahoma’s distress call.” Dax uncrossed her legs and pushed herself to her feet. Striding toward the forward consoles, she said, “Charge phasers. Hail the warbirds.”

  “Channel open, sir,” Kedair replied.

  “Attention, Romula
n vessels. This is Captain Ezri Dax of the Starship Aventine. You have ten seconds to respond and explain yourselves.”

  Surprised expressions were volleyed from one bridge officer to another. Stepping up behind Dax’s shoulder, Bowers leaned in close and asked in a tense whisper, “What are you doing, sir?”

  “Trust me.”

  The main viewscreen changed to show the angular cheekbones and prominent brow ridges of a Romulan man in the prime of his life. His gaze was fierce and unblinking, and there was a hint of smugness in his expression. “Hello, Captain Dax,” he said. “I am Commander Marius of the warbird Dekkona . Your vessel is outnumbered, outgunned, and surrounded.”

  “I’ll give you two out of three,” Dax said, flashing a cold smile at the Romulan. “You definitely outnumber us, and I can’t deny we’re surrounded.”

  Her cockiness seemed to throw Marius off. He frowned. “You will lower your shields, surrender your vessel, and prepare to be boarded.”

  “The hell I will.”

  Marius seethed. “Let me be blunt, Captain. Surrender your vessel and the secrets of its slipstream drive, or we will take them from you by force.”

  Dax replied with mocking sweetness, “Oh, I have a choice? How gracious of you, Commander.” She hardened her gaze and her tone. “My answer is still no.”

  “As you wish, Captain. Your crew’s blood will be on your hands.” He turned away and said to someone offscreen, “All ships, lock weapons and—”

  One of Marius’s crew members interjected, “Ships decloaking, sir!”

  The transmission from the warbird cut off, and the Aventine’s main viewer reverted to an image of one of the Romulan ships—with two new shapes rippling into view behind it.

  Kedair furrowed her brow as she reacted to alerts on her console. “Captain, five Klingon ships decloaking: three Qang-class heavy cruisers and two Negh’Var-class battleships. They’re locking weapons on the Romulan ships.”

  Amused, Bowers glanced at Dax. “You knew that would happen.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Captain,” Kedair said, “Commander Marius is hailing us.”

  Dax walked back to her chair, sat down, crossed her legs, and set her hands palms-down on the armrests. She collected herself, mustered a wry smile, and faced the main viewscreen with her chin up. “Put him on, Lieutenant.”

  Marius looked annoyed. “Well played, Captain. I salute you.”

  “Give yourselves some credit,” Dax said. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Specifically, without your predictable nature and total gullibility. I mean, seriously—this isn’t even the first time you guys have fallen for this.” She waved her hand as if that would dismiss the matter. “Anyway, this has been a hoot and a half, but my crew and I have places to be and things to do, so we’ll be going now.”

  “This is far from over, Captain,” Marius said through clenched teeth.

  “Tell it to the Klingons. They’ll be sticking around awhile, just in case this lesson hasn’t sunk in yet.” She smiled. “Don’t be a stranger, Marius. Aventine out.” The screen switched to a view of the multivessel showdown transpiring around the Aventine, and Dax added with sharp urgency, “Mister Tharp, get us out of here, best possible speed.”

  “Aye, sir.” Tharp engaged the impulse engines to navigate clear of the standoff and set a course back to the Breen border.

  Bowers struggled not to sound angry as he said sotto voce to Dax, “You might have told me in advance that we had a Klingon escort fleet, Captain.”

  “I might have. But I didn’t.” She narrowed her eyes in a playful glare. “Admit it, this wouldn’t have been as much fun if you’d known in advance.”

  “If by ‘fun’ you mean ‘traumatic,’ then yes.”

  Stars on the main viewer stretched into twisting ribbons of light as the ship hurtled away into warp. Dax got up from her chair and patted Bowers’s arm as she passed him on her way to her ready room. “Lighten up, Sam. What’s the point of this job if we can’t enjoy a good ambush now and then?”

  20

  After waiting for what had seemed like a preposterously long time for her friend to arrive, Nar’s attention deteriorated into idle thoughts, which is why the sharp buzz of her doorbell startled her even though she had been expecting it all night.

  She hurried to the door, stepped behind the privacy screen, and activated the security monitor. It powered up and showed one person standing outside her door. Erring on the side of caution, Nar asked through the intercom, “Who is it?”

  Her visitor replied over the translated channel, “Chon Min.”

  “Enter the pass code,” Nar said. She watched her screen as Min used the keypad beside the door to key in a string of symbols they had chosen for the purpose of identifying each other and verifying that they were not being observed or coerced. The code checked out. Nar responded with an all-clear string and then unlocked the door of her apartment. It slid open, Min entered, and as soon as it closed Nar locked it behind him.

  Min was pulling off his helmet as Nar came out from behind the privacy screen. The golden fur on his lupine face and neck was matted from being inside the snug, full-head mask. He lifted his snout at Nar. “Sorry I took so long getting here,” he said. “I came as quickly as I was able. What seems to be—” Turning his head toward the bedroom, he sniffed twice in quick succession. “Strange scents. Not like any I know.” Suspicious, he snarled at Nar and asked, “Who is here?”

  “Calm down,” Nar said. “My guests are outsiders, but they have come in peace. Treat them as friends, Min.” Stepping between her Fenrisal compatriot and the door of her bedroom, she called out to Sarina and Bashir, “You can come out.”

  The two humans emerged from the darkened bedroom. Bashir went first, placing himself between Sarina and Min. There was a protective quality to his bearing that made Nar suspect the two humans might be mates as well as partners. “Min,” she said, “allow me to introduce Julian Bashir and Sarina Douglas of the United Federation of Planets.”

  Min let slip a low growl of alarm. “Nar, have you lost your mind? Why did you bring them here? More to the point, why did you let them see me?”

  “They are here as cultural observers,” Nar said, “to learn about us, about our culture.” She reached out and gently gripped Min’s arm. “They can help us.”

  He yanked his arm from Nar’s grasp. “They can get us all killed.”

  “I did not ask you here to debate this,” Nar said, taking a defensive tack. “I need you to modify their identichips with better profiles. Right now they show up in the system as zeros.” Adding some challenge to her tone, she asked, “Can you help them, or do I need to find someone else who can?”

  The gruff engineer gave a derisive snort. “Telling more people about these two is the last thing you need.” Relenting somewhat, he added, “I can do the job.” He pulled off his gloves, revealing his thick but dexterous digits. Extending one paw to the humans, he said to them, “Give me your chips. I can upgrade them here.”

  Bashir handed over his chip and Sarina’s to Min, who set them on Nar’s low table and started fishing tools from under his clothes.

  Sarina watched with a keen stare as Min accessed the restricted portions of the chips by means of some fine-grade tools. She said, “Thank you for your help.”

  “I am not doing this for you,” Min said. “I owe favors to Nar.”

  “All the same, we’re grateful,” Sarina said. “Part of the reason we risked coming here was that we hoped to find people like you.”

  Min glowered at the humans and then focused on his work. “I will link these chips to existing cover identities prepared and active on the BID’s server,” he said. “Each has its own commerce history and comm log record—both above reproach.”

  “We’ll need security clearances high enough to get us inside government buildings,” Bashir said, drawing a bitter stare from Min.

  Nar handed a small data tablet to Min. “The necessary protocols are on there,�
� she said. “That should be enough to gain them one-time access.”

  Nostrils flaring in a subtle display of irritation, Min said, “Very well.” It took him only a few more minutes to complete his modifications to the two ID chips. He passed them back to Bashir. “Install those in your helmets now.”

  Sarina and Bashir did as Min said. While they busied themselves with that task, Min turned his attention to the rest of their disguises. “We will need to make some adjustments to your clothing,” he said. “Nothing major. Cosmetic changes, for the most part.” He opened a small folding pouch made of synthetic material. Inside it were more precision tools. “I am going to add some insignia to your shoulder pads and the backs of your helmets. This will help you fit in better.”

  He worked quickly, stenciling new permanent marks onto the humans’ suits. Reviewing his handiwork, he said to Nar, “They will need some pieces from your wardrobe to cover the more paramilitary elements of their disguises. These suits offer good protection but make them look conspicuous in a civilian environment.”

  “Agreed,” Nar said. She repaired to her bedroom and searched her walk-in wardrobe for dark material that Min could fashion into coverings for Bashir’s and Sarina’s garments. By the time she returned, Min had finished his modifications to the humans’ suits. Nar handed Min what she had found. “Will this do?”

  “Yes.” He crafted Nar’s assortment of worn-out pieces into dark, torso-concealing serapes. “Much better.”

  Nar asked, “Will it be safe now for them to move around in public?”

  “I think so,” Min said. “At the least, their presence should stop setting off null errors and triggering pattern-recognition systems.”

  Bashir quipped under his breath, “Well, that’s a relief.”

  Taking Min aside a few paces, Nar whispered, “They need a place to stay. Somewhere safe. I want you to take them down to the warren.”