Star Trek: Typhon Pact 01: Zero Sum Game

by David Mack

“You’re quick, Madam President. I’ve always liked that about you.” He pushed aside his plate, sleeved bits of food from his mouth, and stood. “Please accept Chancellor Martok’s regrets and my apologies, Madam President.” Lowering his chin, he made a respectful half bow. “By your leave.”

  “Thank you for coming, Your Excellency.”

  He nodded, backed up five steps, then turned smartly and walked at a leisurely pace out of the dining room. As the great doors closed after him, Bacco heard the private executive entrance open. Piñiero emerged from behind the curtain and walked toward the president, who left the table and met Piñiero halfway.

  Grimacing at the sight of Bacco’s expression, Piñiero said, “I’m guessing the Klingons refused to help us extract Bashir and Douglas.”

  “What gave it away?” snapped Bacco. “Ambassador K’mtok just informed me that there’s a leak in our intelligence service. Get on the horn and tell Admiral Nechayev and Jas Abrik I want them both in my office five minutes ago.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She proffered a padd to Bacco. “There are some other emergent situations I’ll need to brief you on when you get—”

  “No time, Esperanza. Sum them up while we walk.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Starfleet reports there have been new attacks by Tzenkethi harriers along our shared border—looks like they’re itching for another fight.”

  Bacco shook her head. “The only true universal constant: the Tzenkethi are jerks.” She waved it off. “What else?”

  Piñiero tapped on the padd, switching to a new page of information. “We’re hearing rumbles of discontent from the planetary government on Andor, and they’re trying to play the secession card again.”

  “Tell them, ‘Nice try, but I’m not buying it.’ Next?”

  Another tap on the padd. “The Tholians are harassing interstellar shipping to and from the Cardassian Union. The best part? They’re saying it’s actually all our fault, because we forced them to do it.”

  “That’s not news, that’s just the Tholians being Tholians.”

  They passed through the executive entrance and strolled side by side down the corridor to the turbolift to Bacco’s fifteenth-floor office. As they entered the lift, the president let out a long, demoralized sigh. “How long until I stand for reelection?”

  “Two years, three months, and nine days, Madam President.”

  “Is there any way to rig it so I lose next time?”

  “I’ll try, but I regret to inform you that your approval ratings are excellent.”

  “Do what you can.”

  25

  In spite of Nar’s preparations and Sarina’s assurances, Bashir still felt queasy with anxiety as he and Sarina approached the checkpoint for the government complex on Level Fifty-six. He was certain the guards—or, to be more precise, their automated screening devices—would see through his and Sarina’s disguises. If that happened, it would be too late to flee; the checkpoint was situated in the midst of an entire platoon of heavily armed Breen soldiers.

  His fear of exposure persisted even after the guards ushered him and Sarina through the checkpoint with speed and deference. Once their credentials had been scanned and verified, no one dared ask them any questions. All that the soldiers seemed to care about was moving them along to their destination as quickly as possible. As the duo walked away from the soldiers, Sarina confided to Bashir over their private comm channel, “One down, one to go.”

  If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought she was having fun.

  They continued on until they arrived at the military comm center. Muttering over the encrypted channel, Bashir said, “Now for the real test of these identities.”

  He stepped ahead of Sarina and paused to let the comm center’s guards examine his identichip and access card. Bashir expected the soldier in charge to at least ask what business a member of the civilian government had inside a military facility—a query for which he and Sarina had rehearsed some hard-to-debunk replies—but instead the broad-shouldered guard handed back Bashir’s access card without a word and motioned for him to pass and enter. Sarina received the same perfunctory once-over before being permitted to pass.

  Neither of the two spies said anything until they were inside the building and away from the guards’ post. As they passed through the library-quiet, gray granite lobby of the comm center, Bashir asked, “Where do we go?”

  “Look for a directory,” Sarina said, still relying on the private channel between their helmets to keep their conversation safe from eavesdroppers.

  Bashir nodded at an interactive panel along a nearby wall. At a glance, he said, “It’s touch activated. Probably as a biometric security precaution, so it can scan our ID chips.”

  Sarina started tapping on different Breen symbols, and the panel responded with floor plans, directions, and supplemental information regarding which personnel were in command of which areas. It wasn’t until Bashir had finished skimming the high points of the intel that he realized he had done so without the need for his visor’s translation interface. While he was marveling at his new grasp of written Breen, Sarina pointed at an isolated section of one floor plan. “That’s what we’re looking for, on the twenty-third floor.”

  Following the line implied by her pointed finger, Bashir eyed the schematic. “Auxiliary systems control? Why make that our target?”

  “Because auxiliary systems tend to be less defended and less staffed than primary facilities, and they often have override capabilities, which can be useful if something goes wrong.” She blanked the information screen. “There’s a lift back there, in the corridor on the right. Let’s go.”

  A handful of Breen officers stared at Bashir and Sarina as they crossed the lobby to the bank of lifts, but no one spoke to them or impeded their passage. Although it was impossible to see any faces, Bashir had come to recognize certain tics of Breen body language; the postures of the military personnel who observed him and Sarina seemed to be reacting with equal parts fear and resentment. I guess there’s some friction between the government and the military, Bashir speculated as he and Sarina entered an elevator car, whose controls were laid out in a vertical, diamond-shaped configuration.

  “This is your show,” Bashir said. “Take it away.”

  She pressed one of the buttons. The doors slid shut, and the elevator ascended with a soft purr and a barely noticeable sensation of movement. Seconds later the doors opened, revealing a corridor whose walls, floor, and ceiling all were composed of polished black granite. Sparse lighting contributed to a gloomy ambience. Sarina led Bashir out of the elevator. “C’mon,” she said.

  They stole down the corridor, passing several doors marked only with Breen numerals. Even though they stepped lightly, their footfalls sounded loud and sharp and echoed off the hard surfaces. “I hope we don’t need to sneak up on anyone,” Bashir said to Sarina, only half joking. She let his halfhearted attempt at humor pass without comment and pressed on around a corner to the end of the corridor.

  Pointing at the door directly ahead of them, at the terminus of the dead-end passage, Sarina said, “That’s it.” Facing Bashir, she added, “I’ll try and fast-talk whoever’s inside into giving us access to the system, but I don’t know whether our cover personas give us the authority to get away with that.”

  “And if they don’t? What then?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll make something up.”

  “You’re not exactly filling me with confidence right now.”

  “Just stay close and watch our backs.” Sarina walked to the door of the auxiliary systems control room. She stared at the sensor pad beside the door. “Pretty simple interface. Doesn’t look like it uses an access code, just a biometric identification.” Looking back at Bashir, she asked rhetorically, “Feeling lucky?”

  “Ask me again in ten seconds.”

  Sarina pressed her hand against the door’s sensor pad.

  The door slid open, and she walked in without hesitation.

  A l
one technician sat with his back to the door, surrounded by towering banks of computers and a 270-degree wraparound holographic master-control interface. He dispelled the holomatrix with a sweep of his hand as he stood and turned to confront Sarina and Bashir. “Who are you? This is a restricted area!”

  “I am Hesh Rin.” Sarina gestured at Bashir. “This is Hesh Gron. We have been sent by the Confederate Information Bureau to demand your cooperation.”

  “I need to see confirmation of those orders before you access my task pod.”

  The technician’s demand was met by a moment of silence.

  Sarina’s hand shot forward and struck a knifing blow into the Breen’s throat. He made a gagging sound and staggered backward as Sarina launched a jumping snap kick. Her heel slammed into the soldier’s chin, which jerked back with a sickening wet snap. His body went limp and collapsed on the floor.

  Pointing at a long access panel along the bottom of the wall behind the task pod, Sarina said, “Open that up and put the body in there. Make sure you disable his identichip transponder. The longer it takes his people to find him, the better.”

  Bashir stood in mute shock, staring at the body while Sarina logged into the task pod’s interface and began searching through the Breen Militia’s information network. While switching between screens of data, she glanced at Bashir. Her tone was urgent and uncompromising. “Julian, you have to hide the body. For all we know, identichips might alert the system if their wearer dies.”

  “Right,” Bashir said, still struggling to accept his role as an accessory to murder. As he accessed the dead soldier’s identichip and neutralized its transceiver, he rationalized his actions to himself. I’m a Starfleet officer on a military operation. This man was a uniformed member of a hostile military, a valid combatant. None of his excuses felt convincing. He kept coming back to his Hippocratic oath, his sacred pledge as a physician: First, do no harm. Telling himself that Sarina had done the bloody deed did little to help Bashir distance himself from the taking of a sentient life.

  He was still looking for a lie that he could live with as he stuffed the corpse into a maintenance crawlspace and then closed the hatch, hiding it from view.

  From the task pod, Sarina said, “I have something.” She waited until Bashir joined her before she continued. “A lot of encrypted files and communiqués, all tagged for a special research division in the starship-design bureau here on Salavat. I’ll bet that’s the slipstream project.” Working the holographic interface, she explained, “I’m downloading the data to a portable unit that we can analyze once we’re safely out of here.”

  “And after we’ve warned the dissidents in the warren,” Bashir said.

  The insistent note in his voice made Sarina pause before she replied, “Yes, of course.” She disconnected a portable data device from the task pod’s console, stepped away from the holographic interface, and headed for the door. “Let’s go.”

  26

  Nar awoke to darkness and the rough kiss of coarse fabric on her face. She tried to reach up and pull away whatever had been draped over her head, only to find her hands restrained behind her. Struggling to move, she quickly took stock of her predicament. The last thing she remembered was a fleeting glimpse of black-armored enforcers from the BID closing in on her as she parted ways from the two humans. Then had come a jolt of electricity, a white flash of pain, and oblivion.

  It became clear to her that she was seated. Her feet were shackled into place. Inside the close confines of the hood, her breathing sounded loud, and each desperate gulp of air tasted hotter and more rank than the one before.

  Then she heard the mechanical scratch-speak of a vocoder, followed after a half-second delay by its common-tongue translation in a synthetic masculine voice from an overhead speaker: “Hello, Chot Nar.”

  The hood was yanked off her head. A single blinding light assaulted her vision. She squeezed her eyes shut, but when she tried to turn her head she found it restrained by panels on either side. Even with her eyelids closed, the searing light was painful in its intensity. “Please give me my mask.”

  “Traitors do not deserve to wear the face of the Breen.”

  “I am no traitor. Why have you brought me here?”

  “You are here to answer questions. And there is no point denying what we already know. You are a dissident and a malcontent.”

  Lurking behind the light, barely a penumbra at the edge of shadow, was her questioner: a BID senior inquisitor. Nar asked, “Who are you?”

  “My identity is not important,” said the inquisitor. “Yours is.”

  Nar tried to shut out the overpowering shame of having been forcibly unmasked by a stranger. To remove one’s mask before another was an intimate act reserved for family and friends. Even in a semipublic setting such as the warren, the unanimity of exposure served to put everyone mutually at ease. In front of an inquisitor doubly hidden—behind his mask and a curtain of darkness—Nar felt more vulnerable than she ever had before. “I am no one of consequence,” Nar said.

  She heard footsteps. The inquisitor was circling her.

  “You give yourself too little credit. You are a data analyst in the BID. This occupation gives you access to the urban surveillance network and a wide assortment of intelligence resources.” His footfalls grew louder as he drew closer behind her. “You consort regularly with Chon Min, a known agitator and suspected thief. He has made several visits to your home—including one last night, at your invitation. Why did you ask him to come to your residence?”

  “I do not remember,” Nar said.

  “You are lying. This behavior is expected, but it will soon be dealt with.” The inquisitor paced in front of Nar and stopped. Judging from his height and bulk, she guessed he was probably a Paclu under the all-black suit. Leaning over to thrust the snout of his mask into Nar’s face, he said, “You have covered your tracks well, Nar. Or should I call you by your native Silwaan appellation—Deshinar Tibbonel, is it?” Nar scowled, and the inquisitor cocked his head at a rakish angle, ostensibly amused by her reaction. “We might or might not be able to recover the data you deleted from your task pod’s local drive, Deshinar. But even if that proves impossible, I guarantee you will tell me all that I want to know—and much more. Because I know you so very well. I know what you like and dislike, what pleases you and what frightens you. . .”

  She spat at him. As the wad of her saliva dribbled down the snout of his obsidian mask, Nar said, “You know nothing about me.”

  “On the contrary. I know every detail of your life—including how, where, and when it is going to end.”

  27

  Most of the Breen enforcers wore brown uniforms; their supervisors wore gray. The seemingly endless line of prisoners they marched out of the building that concealed the entrance to the dissidents’ warren wore black hoods instead of helmets. Passersby on the street turned away and averted their gaze from the spectacle, as if the very thought of a citizen unmasked in public was too shocking to bear. No one looked down from the windows that faced the street as the prisoners were herded into a staggered procession of transport vehicles and carted away without fanfare or comment.

  Bashir and Sarina observed the mass arrest from a few intersections away, hidden behind a corner and a pyramid of empty metal canisters awaiting removal. Adjusting his visor’s holographic magnification, Bashir asked, “Do you see Min?”

  “No,” Sarina said. “I’m not sure how I could. There are so many people coming out of there, and they’re all in hoods. How would I recognize him?” She frowned. “I can’t believe they didn’t have alternative routes out of the warren.”

  “Maybe they did,” Bashir said. “But if Nar revealed all of them, it wouldn’t matter how many there were—the BID would’ve rushed all of them.”

  Up the street, a prisoner broke away from his captor and started running, despite being hooded and having his hands tied behind his back. He had taken all of five awkward strides before he stumbled over a curb. As he fell,
a barrage of disruptor fire converged upon him. He was dead by the time his smoldering body struck the ground. A pair of brown-suited guards retrieved the body and dragged it away to a transport set apart from the others for the purpose of carting corpses.

  “My God,” Bashir said, “it’s a damned pogrom.” Guilt twisted in his gut, filling him with a cold, nauseating sensation. “If only we’d warned them sooner—”

  “We’d have been caught up in it,” Sarina said. “Whom would we have warned, Julian? Nobody in there knew us or trusted us. And how would we have explained what we knew? If they’d found out who we are, do you think they’d have believed us?” She shook her head. “I hate this as much as you do, but you have to put aside your empathy for these people and accept that there was nothing you could have done to stop this.” She tugged on his arm. “We should go.”

  He resisted her pull. “Go? Go where?”

  “Away from here, for a start.” She gestured at the brown-suited soldiers. “They might be setting up a dragnet for people who visit the warren but weren’t there at the time of the raid. We can’t risk getting swept up in that.”

  It galled him to turn his back on tragedy and injustice, but he knew she was right. “Fine,” he said. “But we’ve lost our hideout, and we can’t go back to Nar’s apartment, so where do we go from here?”

  “We could head for the maintenance tunnels,” Sarina said. “I just need someplace private where I can study the data we took from the comm center.”

  Bashir backed away from the corner. “Good enough. I think I saw an access point one sector over. Let’s go.” He and Sarina retreated out the far end of the alleyway onto a busy street and let the crowd swallow them up.

  As they separated to weave around a slow-moving civilian, he heard Sarina’s voice over the secure transceiver channel inside his helmet. “I’m going to fall back a few paces in case anyone is looking for us walking together.”

  He switched off his vocoder and replied over the private channel, “Good thinking. If you lose sight of me, let me know and I’ll slow down.”