Star Trek: Typhon Pact: The Struggle Within

by Christopher L. Bennett

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  STAR TREK®

  TYPHON PACT

  THE STRUGGLE WITHIN

  OTHER STAR TREK NOVELS BY

  CHRISTOPHER L. BENNETT

  Star Trek: Ex Machina

  Star Trek Titan: Orion’s Hounds

  Star Trek: The Next Generation—The Buried Age

  Places of Exile (from Star Trek: Myriad Universes—Infinity’s Prism)

  Star Trek: The Next Generation—Greater than the Sum

  Star Trek Titan: Over a Torrent Sea

  Star Trek: Department of Temporal Investigations—

  Watching the Clock

  SHORT FICTION

  “Aftermath” (from Star Trek Corps of Engineers: Aftermath)

  “. . . Loved I Not Honor More” (from Star Trek: Deep Space

  Nine—Prophecy and Change)

  “Brief Candle” (from Star Trek: Voyager—Distant Shore)

  “As Others See Us” (from Star Trek: Constellations)

  “The Darkness Drops Again” (from Star Trek: Mere Anarchy)

  “Friends with the Sparrows” (from Star Trek: The Next

  Generation—The Sky’s the Limit)

  “Empathy” (from Star Trek: Mirror Universe—

  Shards and Shadows)

  MORE NOVELS

  X-Men: Watchers on the Walls

  Spider-Man: Drowned in Thunder

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  eISBN 978-1-4516-5142-3

  “Conscience is the root of all true courage;

  if a man would be brave let him obey his conscience.”

  —James Freeman Clarke

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Acknowledgments

  1

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE

  STARDATE 59881.2

  Jean-Luc Picard stood before the empty platform in the main transporter room, trying not to fidget as he awaited the arrival of the Enterprise-E’s distinguished guests. Next to him, Commander Worf gave the captain a sidelong look. “You seem anxious, sir.”

  “Excited, Mister Worf,” he corrected. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  The Klingon nodded sagely. “Yes. With this treaty, the last piece of the expanded Khitomer Alliance will fall into place. It is an honor to be a part of it.”

  “Yes, certainly that,” Picard said. “Assuming, of course, that we can persuade them to sign. But my enthusiasm is more personal. I haven’t seen the lad in nearly sixteen years. Hardly a lad anymore, I suppose. He’s made quite a name for himself in diplomatic circles. But I suppose I can’t help feeling a certain . . . almost paternal pride in his accomplishments.”

  Worf gave a rumble that those who knew him well would recognize as amusement. “As I recall, that was a role you were reluctant to accept at the time.”

  “Oh, I fought it tooth and nail. But it was my first taste of a parental role, and in a way it helped prepare me for the real thing. I must admit, I’m a little nervous . . .”

  “Uh, Captain?” said the transporter operator. “Alrescha Control reports they’re ready to beam aboard.”

  Picard faced the platform again and straightened his tunic. “Energize.”

  Moments later, two figures materialized, and the older, larger man stepped down to face him. “Captain Picard!” Ambassador Endar of the Talarian Republic bowed in a ritual greeting, his gloved hands clasped before him. “An honor to meet you once again.”

  Picard returned the bow and said, “The honor is mine, Ambassador.”

  “And an auspicious meeting it is,” Endar replied in a deep, measured voice. “When last we met, your actions turned our peoples from the brink of war and laid the seeds for our current good relations. Now, with luck, together we can take those relations to the next level.”

  “You are too kind,” Picard said. “All I did was correct my own mistake which had brought us to that brink to begin with.”

  “But it takes a brave man to admit his mistakes,” said the younger man who stood at Endar’s side, a lanky, square-jawed fellow with blond hair and no sign of the knobby cranial ridges crowning Endar’s skull. “My father and I both honor that bravery.”

  “Jono. You’ve grown into a fine young man.” Picard clasped the ungloved hands Jono extended, appreciating what it meant. He had first met Jono as a fourteen-year-old human rescued from a wrecked Talarian observation craft. Starfleet records had identified him as Jeremiah Rossa, believed killed during the Talarian attack on Galen IV when he was less than four years of age. But the boy had seen himself as Talarian, refusing to shed his gloves and touch an alien, and had regarded Endar, then a warship captain, as his father. Doctor Crusher had found evidence of multiple injuries and feared the boy had been abducted and abused, and his grandmother, Admiral Connaught Rossa, had insisted that he be repatriated. But in time, Picard and Crusher had learned the truth: Endar had rescued the orphaned boy and adopted him according to Talarian tradition, lovingly raising him as a son. The injuries had simply been the wear and tear voluntarily endured by a competitive, somewhat reckless child in a rough-and-tumble society. And most of all, Jono had thought of himself as Talarian for as long as he could remember, and was willing to die rather than reject that heritage. Picard had belatedly realized that he had no right to deny Jono his Talarian identity simply because his genes were human, and that the Federation’s own condescension toward a society less peaceful than theirs had led him and Crusher to misjudge the situation. When Picard had returned the boy to his adoptive father, Jono had finally removed his gloves and taken Picard’s head in his hands, touching foreheads as he would with his own father. Even though he was returning to his life as a Talarian, Jono had acknowledged that Picard was no longer an alien to him.

  “And I’m pleased to see,” Picard went on, “that you’ve chosen a career in diplomacy like your father.”

  “In fact,” Endar told him, “it was I who became a diplomat because of Jono. He desired to learn more of his human heritage while stil
l serving Talar. I took the role of ambassador to the Federation so that he could be my apprentice and ultimately my successor.”

  Jono smirked. “Endar is truly a diplomat. In fact, my government is happy to use me to speak to aliens, so that they don’t have to deal with them directly, or face females as equals.”

  “Jono,” his father chided.

  “Don’t misunderstand, Captain. I have earned my status as a Talarian and my people recognize me as such. But they’re still glad that I’m willing to deal with humans—and women—on their behalf.”

  “I’m gratified that you’ve found a way to embrace both of your heritages,” Picard said. He gestured to the towering Klingon at his side. “Speaking of which, you remember Commander Worf, who is now my first officer.”

  Endar gave a shallow bow, eyeing Worf carefully. “A privilege, Commander. Your reputation is known both as a warrior and a diplomat.”

  “As is yours,” Worf replied. “Though I would be hard-pressed to say which calling I have found more perilous.” The two shared a rumbling chuckle.

  “Indeed, these are perilous times even without war,” Endar said. “The Typhon Pact has struck serious blows in recent months without firing a shot. Dissolving the Imperial Romulan State. Driving Andor to secede from the Federation. And now this exclusive trade deal with the Kobheerians, robbing both my people and the Cardassians of a vital trading partner. This . . . erosion of our foundations must be halted.”

  “Which is why the Federation has great hopes that the Talarian Republic will lend its strength to the new Khitomer Alliance,” Picard replied, “and draw new strength from it in turn.” To be honest, the Talarians’ military technology was generations behind the Federation’s or the Pact’s. But they were tenacious, disciplined, and resourceful enough to compensate for their shortfalls, and had held their own both as foes of the Federation in the border skirmishes of the 2350s and as allies during the Borg invasion of 2381. The latter alignment had prompted President Bacco to invite them, along with the Ferengi Alliance, the Cardassian Union, and the Imperial Romulan State, to explore the possibility of joining the Federation and the Klingon Empire in an expansion of the Khitomer Accords. Negotiations had been stalled for some time, but with the IRS rejoining the Romulan Star Empire in February, and given the Pact’s role in Andor’s secession in October, the talks had taken on new urgency. The Cardassians and Ferengi were now provisionally on board, leaving the Talarians as the last holdouts.

  “There are questions we must resolve before that can happen,” Jono told him. “The Federation has shown a certain . . . arrogance toward other cultures in the past. That fear of your domination is what drove the nations of the Typhon Pact to unite and rival you.” He gave a polite smile. “I have seen the Federation’s good intentions at first hand, on the Enterprise and on Earth. But many of my people have their doubts. They will need to be convinced that the Federation will heed and respect the Talarian point of view—rather than seeking to impose its own upon us.”

  Picard held Jono’s gaze, understanding the subtext. Jono’s very presence here was a reminder of one of Picard’s greatest mistakes, an incentive to exercise all due consideration toward the Talarians’ cultural values. And Jono clearly knew it and was willing to use it. Whatever personal bond existed between Jono and Picard, the younger man served his people first.

  Picard couldn’t have been more proud of the lad.

  • • •

  “A leave of absence on such short notice is . . . irregular,” Worf said, studying Jasminder Choudhury as she stood before him in his quarters. Her tall, strong frame bore a tautness he’d come to know well over the past year, but there was an additional anxiety within her as well.

  “I know, Worf,” she said in her soft Denevan lilt. “But this is something I need to do, and I can’t put it off any longer.”

  “You are needed for the Talarian mission.”

  “There’s always another mission.” From anyone else, it would have been a shout. “I’ve known for weeks that I needed this, but one thing after another keeps coming up. But it’s a poor excuse. Unless I can recover my balance, I’m no good to this ship.”

  Worf softened his tone. “You must not blame yourself for what happened at Andor.”

  “Yes, Worf, I must. My old self would never have allowed ch’Lhren to irritate me into leaving him unescorted. It was my failure of control that let him sabotage the ship.” Threlas ch’Lhren had toured the Enterprise during its stay at Andor, using his background as a former Starfleet engineer as cover for his true mission to sabotage the vessel’s computer systems on behalf of the Threishya, the Andorian secessionist movement behind the recent coup attempt. The armed uprising had failed, largely because Lieutenant T’Ryssa Chen had devised a way to work around the sabotage, but the event had crystallized the divisions that existed within Andorian society following years of futile struggle to cure the reproductive crisis that endangered the species’ future and the devastation inflicted on their world in the Borg invasion. Where armed force had failed, democracy had succeeded, as a global referendum led to Andor’s secession from the Federation.

  “Ch’Lhren’s sabotage made no critical difference in events,” Worf told her. “You have nothing to blame yourself for.”

  “Not this time, perhaps. But what about the next?” She sighed. “More fundamentally, this is about the consequences to myself. I cannot lead a life where anger masters me instead of the reverse. I’ve lost myself, Worf. I hardly recognize myself anymore.” She blinked away tears.

  Worf had to admit he understood what she was saying. When he had met Jasminder Choudhury, the lieutenant had been the most serene, self-assured human he had ever met, deriving great peace from a spiritual, philosophical outlook that drew from Hinduism, Buddhism, Vulcan cthia, and an eclectic range of other beliefs. In contrast to Worf’s own warrior approach, Choudhury had emphasized the role of security as protectors and peacekeepers, building a reputation for her ability to defuse dangerous situations before they became violent. Yet she had never judged him for his more Klingon approach to life, and indeed they had been drawn to each other, fascinated by the similarities they found amid their differences.

  But the Borg’s destruction of Deneva had changed things for her. Losing her family and her entire home had been a tragedy too great for her serenity to endure. In the twenty-one months since, she had struggled to find her center again, with little success. “It was always my home and my family that I looked to in my mind to remind me of who I was,” he remembered her telling him late last year. “Now, when I try to focus on the disciplines they taught me, it just reminds me of their loss.”

  “Jasminder,” he said now, “you know that I am here for you.”

  She winced. “Worf . . . that’s part of the problem. You have been good to me, I’m grateful for that . . . but what we share is . . . aggressive. For a time, I thought it was helping. I thought you could show me how to master my anger by embracing it, channeling it as a warrior does. But after Andor, I’ve realized that I don’t have the inner strength to achieve that. I can’t redirect the force of my anger when I’m not spiritually anchored to begin with.” She took a shuddering breath. “So I think . . . it would be best . . . if I spent some time away from you, Worf. I know you mean well, and I care for you deeply, but it’s not working for me.”

  It was like a physical blow to Worf’s heart. But he bore it, maintaining his own control. He cherished her too much to think of himself at a time like this. And he knew her well enough to see that arguing would not dissuade her. “I . . . see,” he said at length. He turned and stepped away. “I will grant your sabbatical. Lieutenant Konya will ably fill your position for the duration.” If anything, that would make things easier, given the Talarians’ distaste for women in authority. “But . . . when you return . . .”

  Silence, then finally: “I don’t know, Worf. I don’t know anything right now.”

  • • •

  T’Ryssa Chen stared
at Lieutenant Choudhury, her slanted brows rising beneath her long black bangs. “Let me get this straight, Jazz. You’re going on a sabbatical to find peace and tranquillity—and you think inviting me is a good idea?”

  It was surprising enough to discover that the graceful security chief considered herself overwhelmed by anger and frustration. True, now that T’Ryssa thought about it, she recognized that Choudhury had developed more of a sardonic attitude over the past year, a change from the Buddha-like serenity she’d projected when first they’d met. Trys had even seen her angry from time to time, particularly during the Andorian affair. But even so, Jasminder’s “angry” resembled most people’s “irked” or T’Ryssa’s “lightly sedated.” So it had been hard for the younger lieutenant to recognize what had been going on with her colleague this past year.

  “You never know, Trys,” Choudhury said with a wry smile as they walked together down the corridor. “It might do you some good.”

  “Well, maybe.” Truth be told, she’d sometimes been tempted to continue the meditation lessons that Choudhury had given her early in their respective tenures on the Enterprise, when she’d needed them to assist her in using her untrained telepathy, a legacy of her absentee Vulcan father, to achieve rapport with a powerful alien life-form. There had been times after the Borg invasion—after learning of her human mother’s death—when she’d felt she could have used some inner peace. But Jasminder had her own even greater losses to deal with, and T’Ryssa had been reluctant to intrude. Besides, it just wasn’t her general style—meditation, that is, not intrusion; she had a habit of being too curious for her own good. She didn’t have the kind of brain that took well to inactivity. When she tried to clear her mind, there was too much random junk and trivia that tumbled in to fill the void, like when she’d “cleaned” her room as a child and her mother had insisted on opening the closet door.