Star Trek: Typhon Pact: The Struggle Within

by Christopher L. Bennett

  “And sure, I wouldn’t mind skipping out on a visit to the Planet of the Male Chauvinists,” Trys went on. “Hell, if I did come, I’d probably cause a diplomatic incident.”

  Jasminder smiled. “You could hardly resist pulling some prank to put them in their place. In a way, I’d be sorry to deprive you of the opportunity.”

  “Yeah, but after Andor, if I screwed up this alliance, Admiral Akaar would transfer me to maintenance detail in the center of the nearest star, and then put my vaporized atoms on report for dereliction of duty. Still,” she went on as the two women entered T’Ryssa’s quarters, “a spiritual retreat doesn’t sound like my idea of a fun vacation.”

  She heard Jasminder tapping a code into her door pad, locking the door and doing something else Trys’s sensitive ears couldn’t recognize by sound. She spun. “What gives?”

  “I’m securing the room, Trys. So that I can offer you a more exciting vacation than a spiritual retreat.”

  Trys blinked, taking in Jasminder’s suddenly transformed manner. “Whoa. I’m listening. Are we talking secret mission here?”

  “Yes. May we sit down?”

  “After telling me that, you want me to sit?” She shook it off. “Okay, sure.” She led Jasminder to the desk chair, sat on the bed across from her, then almost immediately was back on her feet, pacing. “So all this stuff about finding your center again, that’s—”

  “That’s absolutely true, Trys. I couldn’t lie about something like that. But this mission is one that I hope can help me achieve my personal goals, while also making a positive difference for the Federation and maybe many others as well.”

  Suddenly T’Ryssa did need to sit down. She did so on a pile of clothes near Jasminder’s feet, crossing her legs and looking up at the taller woman. She couldn’t trust herself to say anything, so she listened silently.

  “I’ve been contacted by a friend in Starfleet Intelligence,” Choudhury said. “They’ve learned of a growing dissident movement among the Kinshaya, seeking to unseat the current regime.”

  “The Kinshaya?” T’Ryssa blurted. “Wow, I wondered what happened to those guys. We’ve hardly heard a peep out of them since they joined the Typhon Pact.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “Well, sure. They’re basically griffins. I’ve always wanted to meet a griffin. Okay, so they’re also xenophobic, isolationist religious fanatics, but still, griffins!”

  Jasminder smiled. “Well, that isolationism has helped maintain a tenuous balance in the Typhon Pact. On the one hand, Gell Kamemor is the most progressive, least belligerent praetor the Romulan Empire has had in generations, and with the recent setbacks to the Gorn warrior caste, their diplomatic caste has gained a stronger voice in their government, and has been reminding the Gorn leadership of the debt they owe the Federation for their continued hold on power.” T’Ryssa remembered that Picard and Commander Data had helped defeat a coup by a faction of the Gorn warrior caste several years back. After that, she imagined, the Gorn government was likely to have little sympathy with the warrior caste anyway. “Both those nations have shown themselves to be moderate and willing to engage in measured diplomacy with the Federation. But on the other hand, the Breen have undertaken . . . certain aggressive acts of espionage toward us that I’m not cleared to reveal, and the Tholians have waged a propaganda war that cost us Andor’s membership. They’re both determined to oppose and weaken us, and have been pushing the other Pact nations to take a more aggressive stance. The Tzenkethi could go either way; they’ve always mistrusted us deeply, but to all indications, they seek stability within the Pact, and have emerged as strong supporters of the Kamemor government. So with the Holy Order of the Kinshaya remaining largely isolated, uninterested in external affairs so long as they’re left alone, the moderate and militant forces within the Pact are evenly balanced.

  “But by opening up enough to join the Pact at all, by cooperating with ‘heretics,’ the Holy Order has admitted that its dogmas are adaptable. And that’s prompted their subjects to begin questioning those dogmas, to be curious about new ideas and possibilities. As often happens at such a time, the internal pressures that have long been held in check are being set loose, prompting cultural revolution.”

  T’Ryssa nodded. “I get it. So if the current Kinshaya muckamucks get overthrown, it could change the balance of power.” Her eyes widened. “Whoa, you’re not talking about some kind of black-ops thing to help overthrow the government? Or keep them in charge? What about—”

  “No, nothing like that. As I said, this is a peaceful mission. The protesters have been largely nonviolent so far, but there have been crackdowns, and other, more militant voices of resistance are jockeying for advantage. If that faction within the resistance becomes dominant and should succeed in an overthrow, it could tip the balance of the Pact in a more warlike direction.”

  “So we want the nonviolent side to succeed?”

  “Yes. According to our intelligence, they represent a strain of devotional mysticism within Kinshaya religion: the belief that knowledge of the divine is gained on a direct, personal level rather than mediated through the church—which in this case is also the state. They believe faith should be a matter of individual revelation rather than an imposed doctrine. So they’re more tolerant of other beliefs or even lack of belief. Were they to take over, they would likely make the Kinshaya state more secular and open, end its policies based on xenophobia and rejection of outside heresies.”

  “And that would put them in the moderate camp along with the Gorn and the Romulans. Tip the balance toward peace.”

  “That’s what we hope. Oh, it would hardly make the Typhon Pact our bosom friends, but it would leave the more bellicose voices in the minority, less likely to get Pact approval for further assaults on the Federation.”

  T’Ryssa thought it over. The contact specialist in her was ready to leap at the chance. The Kinshaya were the one Typhon Pact member with no significant history of interaction, hostile or otherwise, with the Federation, but they had been warring on and off with the Klingon Empire for over a century. The Klingons, however, had never taken much scientific interest in their culture or psychology, so a great deal about them was still unknown. It would be almost like a first-contact mission, the sort of thing she’d joined Starfleet for, but had gotten little opportunity to do since the Borg invasion, given that the Enterprise had been too busy with reconstruction and resettlement to do much science. Luckily Trys had picked up an eclectic range of skills during her misspent youth and had been able to keep busy assisting in engineering or flight control as needed. But her hunger for novelty and discovery had gone unsated. What Choudhury was offering her was a thrilling opportunity.

  Yet T’Ryssa was aware that the unknown could carry considerable risks. She liked an adventure as well as the next Starfleet brat, but she wasn’t the type for suicide missions. “It’s a nice idea, but I don’t know. How much good can a bunch of hippie-griffs really do against a dictatorship like the Holy Order?”

  Jasminder chuckled. “Never underestimate the power of nonviolent resistance, Trys. It’s proven its efficacy in India, Egypt, Vulcan, Argelius, and many other places. It’s gaining a growing foothold even now on Romulus, now that Ambassador Spock’s Unification movement has been decriminalized. Truth and conscience are powerful weapons, especially against a state that claims to be acting in the name of righteousness.”

  “Okay . . . so SI wants you to go in and help out the peaceniks?”

  “Officially, our role would be to observe and report back on the situation. Unofficially, yes, if we can help nurture and advise this peaceful movement without direct interference, then we will. But only if we can do so without calling attention to ourselves. If the Federation were seen to be interfering in the internal politics of a Pact nation, it would scuttle everything we hope to achieve.”

  “Hence the hush-hush.”

  “Yes. They offered me this assignment because I’m known for my subtle
touch, as well as my experience with spirituality.” She sighed. “I accepted because I hope it will help me relearn some of the subtlety and patience I’ve misplaced.”

  “And I repeat: you think it’s a good idea to have me along? Subtlety isn’t something I do well.”

  “In this case, you may find it easier to blend in than I will. The Unificationists are sending a delegation of their own to advise and support the Kinshaya dissidents. Members of the movement from all over the Romulan Empire are being invited to join. That’s our way in.”

  T’Ryssa winced. “I should’ve known. You only love me for my ears.” Her hand unconsciously brushed across the hair that she tended to wear over her ears to conceal their points.

  “Well, it’s true you wouldn’t need much cosmetic alteration to pass as Romulan. There are plenty of Romulans who are visually indistinguishable from Vulcans, which is how Spock was able to pass for so many years. And your temperament is already . . . reasonably close to Romulan.”

  “But aren’t Unificationists big on all that Surak stuff I never studied?”

  “They also welcome the Romulan side of their heritage. That’s what Unification means.” Jasminder leaned forward. “Trys, I need a contact specialist. Someone who can help me pass as Romulan, and more importantly, someone with the skill to help me understand a race we know very little about. The fact that you can easily pass as Romulan yourself is a bonus.”

  Jasminder clasped T’Ryssa’s hands in hers. “Please, Trys. This mission is important to me. If I can help these groups promote nonviolence, assist them to stand peacefully against the oppression of their state, my hope is that it will help me rediscover how to maintain serenity against the emotions that oppress me. I know, in my mind, how powerful peace and compassion can be against anger and despair. But these past two years, it’s been very hard to feel it. I need to experience it directly, to be a part of it. And I need you, my friend, to help me succeed. You doubt yourself, Trys, but you have a knack for finding paths to success.”

  “Aww, hell.” T’Ryssa blinked away tears and fell into a hug with Jasminder. “Okay, I’ll come along. I can hardly pass up the chance to walk among griffins.” She sighed. “Even if it does mean I have to put up with a Romulan haircut.”

  2

  TALAR SYSTEM

  STARDATE 59897.6

  The first day of meetings in M’leint, Talar’s capital city, was purely ceremonial, as the head of state, Commander-in-Chief Ronzel, and his staff offered formal greetings to their Federation guests with abundant pomp and circumstance. His four years in the Federation Diplomatic Corps had not cured Worf of impatience with such ceremony; after all, he had been the ambassador to the Klingon Empire, and Klingons preferred to get down to business. But he had learned to be stoic and endure his impatience, seeing it as a challenge to be overcome. The Talarians, themselves a warrior culture and perhaps even distant cousins to the Klingons, may have seen the rituals the same way, and deliberately drawn them out so long as a test of endurance.

  Well, if nothing else, it distracted Worf from his unease about that last conversation with Jasminder. There was no point in dwelling on it, he told himself, for there was no action he could take to alter the situation until she returned. He must simply be patient and allow the lieutenant to work things out for herself—and hope that, once she had regained her balance, she would be receptive to a relationship once again. And if not . . . well, he had survived worse endings to past relationships. So long as Jasminder was alive and content, he would be grateful either way. Still, her absence in the present—and the prospect of her absence from his life in the future—preoccupied him more than he felt it should.

  His thoughts gave him a certain sympathy for the patriarchal Talarians, who kept their females constrained and sheltered. Naturally, having been raised by humans, Worf had grown up taking the equality of the sexes for granted. But he could still feel a certain envy toward the males in a society like Talar, who must have it so much simpler. And he could understand the motivations behind it, even without agreeing with them. Talarian males were warriors, and a warrior’s duty was to protect one’s own. Females bore children, raised and educated them while the males in such a society tended to war and government, and so to protect females was to protect one’s home and the future of one’s civilization. It was not that females were deemed unimportant, but that they were deemed too precious to be allowed to risk themselves.

  Of course, that presupposed that females were unable to take care of themselves, and after knowing the likes of K’Ehleyr, Natasha Yar, Deanna Troi, Ro Laren, Kira Nerys, Jadzia and Ezri Dax, and Jasminder Choudhury, Worf would never think that. But the Talarian females he saw here in the conference hall, tending to the males as greeters and servitors, were distinctly smaller than their male counterparts, the difference in size even more pronounced than among humans. They wore colorful, close-fitting clothing that was often partly translucent, but which nonetheless covered them from neck to toe; they wore gloves at all times, as their males did among aliens. Their wide-brimmed hats resembled the traditional conical hats of Asian cultures on Earth, but were open at the crown, exposing subtle, underdeveloped cranial ridges even smaller than those of a juvenile male Talarian. “I’m reminded of the traditional veiling customs of Earth’s Middle East or the Nexanral Period on Betazed,” Picard whispered to him at one point, “except oriented toward discouraging touch rather than vision.”

  Worf nodded, recognizing that the wide brims of the hats would prevent males from drawing too close to the females’ exposed faces. “The Talarians do have strong tactile taboos,” Worf murmured in return. “But these women’s attire is quite . . . aesthetically appealing. One would think it would create a certain temptation among the men.”

  Beside them, Jono chuckled; the young man had very good hearing. “Merely one more test for us to surmount. Besides, the females like to look pretty. It’s for their own benefit, not ours. To touch a female who is not family or one’s betrothed would bring shame to both toucher and touched.”

  But as Jono looked around at the women in the conference hall, he furrowed his brow. “Odd,” he said. “There seem to be more females here than there should.”

  “What do you mean?” Worf asked. “Surely our presence has invited their curiosity.”

  “Females do not concern themselves with matters of state. But there are too many here to be servitors or custodial staff. And look—more are arriving.”

  Over the next several moments, the number of brightly attired, wide-hatted females increased at an accelerating pace. Soon they were practically pouring in from outside. As the males watched, nonplussed, a number of females filed into the conference rooms adjoining the main concourse, while others took up positions before those rooms’ entrances and the building exits. Then they simply stood there, unmoving, as the males murmured in consternation and annoyance. Commander-in-Chief Ronzel, a portly, gray-bearded man whose days in fighting trim were well behind him, stepped forward and raised his voice. “What is the meaning of this? Return to your tasks, your homes!”

  “Hear us!” came a new, strident female voice. Worf and Picard spun to see a relatively tall, golden-haired Talarian woman speaking through a handheld amplifier. “We stand in protest of the Ronzel regime! No more will the females of Talar stand for Ronzel’s impositions on our freedom! No more will the females of Talar stand for offworlders stealing our children’s resources with Ronzel’s complicity! Instead, we stand here, unmoving and together, until the dominion of males over females is ended!”

  An embarrassed Endar turned to Picard. “My apologies, Captain. These females are members of a fringe movement—I had no idea they had become so brazen as to disrupt a state function. It is unseemly.”

  Picard spoke with care. “No apology to us is necessary, Ambassador. These are turbulent times—the kind of times that prompt unrest and uncertainty on many worlds, as people seek new answers. We have not been free of such dissent ourselves, as you are well
aware. But we respect the right of all beings to express their beliefs, so this demonstration does not offend us. It is only through dialogue, after all, that we can come to an understanding with other points of view.”

  Ronzel had come over now, looking stern. “If it were only a matter of speech,” said the chief of state, “you might be right. But these . . . radicals are interfering with matters far above their station. I am grateful that you are not offended, Captain Picard, but I am not in a position to be so generous.” Worf saw through the front windows of the hall that security troops were now gathering outside, while those already within the hall were congregating here on the main concourse.

  “Commander Ronzel,” said Picard, “I’m sure there’s a way to resolve this peacefully.”

  Ronzel looked at once scandalized and annoyed. “If you imagine I intend to use force, you misunderstand us. I would never ask any of these fine men to shame themselves by using force on a female.” He shook his head. “Were they but male, we could deal with them properly. As it is . . .”

  Indeed, the security troops seemed flustered. Some tried asking the women to disperse, cajoling them to return home or resume working. Some argued with them, accusing them of neglecting their children or their societal duties, but were visibly restraining themselves from lashing out physically. Most just stood there nonplussed and indecisive.

  Beside Worf, Rennan Konya moved in and whispered to him. “It’s true, sir. I can feel it in them—almost a physical revulsion toward the idea of using any kind of force on these women.” Worf nodded. The Betazoid lieutenant had trained his atypically weak telepathy to home in on others’ somatic perception rather than their thoughts. It let him sense opponents’ moves before they struck or recognize deception through a person’s physical tension. If he could sense these troops’ resistance to using force on females, it must be an ingrained reflex, conditioned right into their muscles. Strong tactile taboos, indeed.