Star Trek: Typhon Pact: The Struggle Within

by Christopher L. Bennett

  “These women are already part of my culture.”

  “Are they? You live on the same planet, but you inhabit very different worlds. But you have a unique capability to bridge that gap as well, Jono. You’re a Talarian man by culture, but you’ve lived in the Federation, you’ve learned to deal with women as equals. You can negotiate with these women in a way that no other Talarian man could. And that may be the only way to undermine the Tzenkethi’s hold over them.” She reached out and clasped his arm. “It’s what Captain Picard would do. And Captain Picard wasn’t the one who tried to take you from Endar. He was the one who had the insight to recognize that you should be returned. So don’t lose faith in his judgment, his methods, because of my mistake.”

  Jono studied her for a long moment. “I think, Doctor Crusher,” he finally said, “that you are a better diplomat than you believe.”

  • • •

  Worf stepped into the captain’s ready room. “You asked to see me, sir?”

  “Come in, come in.”

  Worf came forward and stood at attention before his desk. The captain had rarely insisted on such formality from his junior officers, and certainly not from his first officer, whom he never failed to treat as an equal. But it was Worf’s habit and his preference to show proper respect to his commander and his friend. At this time in particular, it was important to do so.

  Picard knew Worf well enough by now not to ask him to sit down—or maybe he was simply too preoccupied. “Mister Worf,” Picard said after a moment, “I need you to check my judgment.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I’ve been in contact with Starfleet Command. Admiral Nechayev has recommended that we cooperate with Endar’s request and help the Talarians locate and overcome the rebels.”

  “That is good, sir.” Worf tilted his head, studying his captain. “Isn’t it?”

  Picard sighed and rubbed his scalp. “I wish I knew. The ramifications of this are very disquieting, Worf. You know as well as I that this will not simply be a rescue of two people. The Talarians are asking for our help in putting down this dissident movement altogether. And it may well be necessary to mount a swift, decisive strike to incapacitate the entire organization if we wish to retrieve the captives unharmed.”

  “They have committed acts of violence against the state and against a Starfleet officer. They are terrorists.”

  “But they are protesting a government that denies rights and representation to half its populace. What kind of precedent does it set if Starfleet helps prop up an oppressive regime?”

  “The Tzenkethi are the real enemy here. The Prime Directive does allow assisting an ally against an external threat.”

  Picard nodded. “Yes, and the admiral made a good point about that. More Talarians will surely suffer if the Tzenkethi are allowed to retain a foothold here. And many more beyond Talar will suffer if the Typhon Pact continues to undermine the Federation and the Khitomer Alliance.”

  “That is true,” Worf said. “It is also true that once we find the rebels, our superior technology should enable us to subdue them with a minimum of violence.”

  “There is that. In every respect, this seems like a justified course of action. The lesser of two evils, at the least.”

  Worf held his gaze for a moment before speaking. “But you did not call me here to discuss the strategic benefits of the plan.”

  “No.” Picard rose from the desk and moved to look out the port at the stars. “How many times have I resisted when the Federation has attempted to put political expediency over the good of another culture, over our own principles? At Dorvan Five, at the Ba’ku planet, at Tezwa. I’ve never been ready to accept the argument that the ends justify the means. And yet here I am, ready to set all that aside and charge in with phasers blazing.”

  Worf moved to stand behind him, meeting his eyes reflected in the port. “You wish to ask me whether I think your judgment is compromised by your personal stake here. Whether you are judging the situation as a Starfleet officer evaluating the variables . . . or as a husband and father looking for an excuse to act.” Picard simply nodded.

  Worf took his time before responding. “I do have . . . some experience with tossing duty and judgment aside to save my mate, sir. During the Dominion War . . .”

  “Yes, I remember.” Worf had scrapped a mission to retrieve a contact with important military information in order to save the life of his par’machkai, Jadzia Dax. It was one of the few black marks on his record, and Jadzia had been killed only a few months later. Yet Worf would still make the same choice if he had to do it again.

  “So I would not judge you,” the Klingon went on, “if you were to do the same.”

  After another moment, he stepped forward and put a hand on his captain’s shoulder. “But you are not me,” he said. “And you do not need me to tell you the right thing to do. Whether as a captain or as a man, you will know.”

  • • •

  Jono began his work when Velet came in to feed them, accompanied by several guards. “Don’t think you can force your way past us,” she warned Crusher. “You may be big, but we can still overpower you.” The mere presence of several females blocking the door was sufficient to keep Jono from trying to reach it. Velet scoffed. “You can’t bring yourself to try anything because there’s no honor in attacking the helpless. But who’s really helpless here?”

  “It’s clear that you are not,” Jono told her. “Your matron has taught you well.”

  Velet bristled. “Watch what you say about Matron Dirin!”

  “I was only going to say that she reminds me of my grandmother.” The women stared, speechless. Beverly remembered that Talarian males only considered themselves to have fathers; their female progenitors were regarded merely as gene donors and nursemaids. “Mother” was a term used only by females.

  Jono smiled and continued. “Yes—I have a grandmother. She is human, and her sons fought bravely in the border wars. Her name is Connaught Rossa. She is an admiral in Starfleet.”

  He went on to tell the startled women about his grandmother the admiral: how he had seen her for the first time when the Enterprise first found him sixteen years ago, how she had spoken to him of the heroic deeds of his progenitors, how his curiosity about his birth family had remained even after his return to Endar, and how he had pursued a career in diplomacy in order to have a chance to connect with his human heritage.

  “Why take such interest in a female forebear?” Velet challenged.

  “She was my only connection to my human father, and his forefathers,” Jono admitted. “But the more I spoke with her, the more I interacted with humans, the more I came to understand that foremothers can matter as much to a man as forefathers. I saw how strong a mother’s love for her family can be, a strength and commitment rivaling that of any warrior. Admiral Rossa has been a warrior herself, from a long line of warriors. But she fought not for challenge or for glory, but to protect those she loved. I learned she would go to any lengths to keep them safe.”

  “Yes!” Velet said. “Yes, that’s exactly why we do all this.”

  And with that, the ice was broken. The women were beginning to realize that Jono was exactly what they had been yearning for: a male within the Talarian establishment who would actually listen to them. And that was what Jono did. Deftly, by saying the right words at the right times but otherwise staying silent and listening, he drew the women into dialogue, hearing out their complaints, their reasons for engaging in the struggle. Crusher was reminded of the writings of the great negotiator Riva, who had often spoken of the importance—and difficulty—of getting the sides in a negotiation to truly listen to one another, without which there could be no understanding. Beverly wondered why so many people thought that attacking and hurting others would make them more willing to listen, when it usually had the opposite effect.

  But Velet and the women with her seemed eager to consider alternatives to using force. “All we wanted was to get your attention,” she
said. “To get you to take us seriously.”

  “You did that with the strikes,” Jono said. Throwing a sheepish look at Beverly, he added, “You certainly proved how vital you are to the running of our everyday lives.”

  “But Ronzel would not have budged. We had to go further.”

  Jono studied her. “You seem less than convinced.”

  Velet schooled her features to hardness. “I have faith in the Matron’s judgment. She understands what’s at stake here. Our right to have a say in our children’s future. To be paid adequately to support our families, with enough time free to spend with them. To improve medical care for female children, so they can grow up healthy and strong.”

  “How will you have time for your families if you overthrow the patriarchy? Running a planet is a great deal of work.”

  The women exchanged looks of surprise and amusement. “We have no wish to overthrow them,” Velet said.

  “Certainly not,” said a bronze-haired woman, Gezel. “Ronzel, yes, but not the patriarchy. Let the males play their silly games of politics and war. We’re too busy with what really matters. With family. Home. Community.”

  “We take care of the world,” Velet said. “Keep it clean, keep it orderly, keep it livable. We take care of our males like the children they so often are—making sure they have a safe and healthy home to return to when they come back from their games.”

  “All we want,” Gezel went on, “is for Ronzel’s regime to stop interfering with our efforts to do that. He’s got this idea in his head that the government should dictate all economic decisions, even the ones that affect home and family, things that are our responsibility.”

  “He’s taxing us dry in order to fund space fleets and offworld alliances,” a third woman added.

  “Wait a minute,” Crusher said. “You’ve got an offworld ally of your own, this Dezinor. If you’re not interested in overthrowing the government, in replacing it with one friendly to the Typhon Pact, then why are the Tzenkethi backing you? What do they get out of it?”

  “Dezinor is . . . a philanthropist,” Velet said, sounding unconvinced. “She saw our plight and wished to help us achieve our goals.”

  “By becoming more militant? Poisoning the heads of state, taking hostages? Does that seem philanthropic to you?” Crusher shook her head. “As a rule, Tzenkethi don’t take much interest in anything beyond their own territory. They’re driven by a deep-rooted fear and hostility toward outsiders.”

  “No,” Gezel cried. “Dezinor is beautiful and gentle!”

  “It’s that very beauty and fragility that made the Tzenkethi victims for a long time, exploited as novelties and slaves by other races. It was how they became aware of alien life, and it shaped their view of the universe. Eventually they learned to fight back, and became ruthless about defending their interests.” At least, that was the best theory that Federation anthropologists had been able to construct about the insular race. “And part of that is regulating their own genes and behavior to cull what they see as weaknesses. Any philanthropic leanings toward aliens would most likely be edited out of their genomes. They only help others if it helps themselves somehow. So what do the Tzenkethi get out of helping you fight the government, take us prisoner?”

  “And why target Doctor Crusher?” Jono asked. “Dirin ordered you to take her specifically. Why?”

  “To show the Starfleet captain we were serious. Make him listen.”

  Beverly remembered her thoughts from minutes ago. “Don’t you understand? I’m the captain’s wife. The mother of his son. He was perfectly willing to listen before, but now . . . Oh, my God.”

  Jono met her gaze, his own eyes widening. “Endar and Ronzel will demand that Starfleet help him rescue us and put down the rebels. My father will want to do whatever it takes to rescue me.”

  “And Jean-Luc would move heaven and earth to find me,” Beverly said, remembering the lengths to which he’d gone to find her on Kevratas even after being told she was dead. “He might actually agree to send in Starfleet forces.”

  “Don’t you understand?” Jono told Velet and the others. “The Tzenkethi is setting you up as sacrifices!”

  Crusher strode forward and clutched Velet’s arm. “You’ve got to let me contact the Enterprise. It’s the only hope for all of us.”

  5

  JANALWA

  STARDATE 59909.0

  The Breen attack had taken a serious toll on the protesters. Yeffir had been wounded and taken prisoner, and though the proclamations from the Episcopate alleged that she was alive and well, many feared the elderly Kinshaya had been killed, or would soon die under torture. The Devotionalists had suffered eight fatalities, and the Unificationists had lost two, including Senis, the young Romulan who had teased T’Ryssa about Lorrav. Many more had been seriously injured by the Breen disruptor fire. Choudhury had lent her aid to the treatment of the wounded where she could, but she had little knowledge of Kinshaya anatomy.

  But the cost to the Devotionalists was greater than that. The government had seized control of the Holy Order’s public information network, ensuring that only the state’s spin on events in Rashtag would be known, and their version of the protest footage was edited to make it appear that the Devotionalists had mounted a violent, terroristic uprising and that the Breen, the Kinshaya’s brave cohorts in the Typhon Pact, had lent their aid in restoring order. The Breen were patrolling the streets and catacombs now, enforcing a curfew, searching the homes of anyone suspected of Devotionalist sympathies, and driving the protesters to retreat to the outskirts of Rashtag, where the group now hid out in an unfinished creche complex, abandoned years ago when Pontifex Ykredna had redirected infrastructure funding to renewed warfare against the Kreel and Klingons—or as Ykredna had explained it, “securing a buffer against demonic encroachment upon the realm of the Devout.”

  “These Breen are the true demons,” Nagrom now snarled as he paced before the protest leaders and their Romulan advisors (and two who only looked Romulan). “We must rally the people to fight back—drive them from our homeland, and their puppets in the Episcopate along with them!”

  “And what would that gain?” Vranien countered.

  “Victory!” the Kinshaya crowed, flourishing his wings for emphasis.

  “What would be won? If we make their violence a part of ourselves, does it not then defeat us? And is that not what they wish? If we make ourselves as cruel and hateful as they say we are, it lets them claim to be the ones in the right.”

  Off to the side, apart from the rest, Choudhury turned to T’Ryssa. “He’s right, you know,” she said, filled with anger and frustration and hating herself for it. “By fighting back, we gave them an excuse.”

  “They would’ve found some excuse anyway.”

  “But not with our complicity. This is what I meant about standing one’s ground. By letting myself—ourselves—be moved away from our place of nonviolence, we allowed the state to push us into the position they wanted. We lost control of the situation because we lost control of ourselves.” She struggled to control her tone. She knew it all intellectually, but if she couldn’t feel it in her heart, it would mean nothing. She spoke to convince herself as much as Trys.

  “We lost control because they were shooting at us!”

  “‘Nobody can hurt me without my permission.’ So said Gandhi—a human,” she added, aware that there were Romulans within earshot. “We only lose what we allow others to take from us.”

  “Tell that to Senis. Did she let them take her life?”

  Lorrav came up beside T’Ryssa, taking her hand. “She chose to offer it in service of peace, Janil. She gave it freely. But she did not let them take her conscience or her beliefs.”

  “You think that’s what I did by fighting? I was acting on my conscience! I was trying to protect her, to protect other people!”

  He stroked her shoulder comfortingly. “Then no one can fault the purity of your actions.”

  “But did it work?” Choudhury co
untered. “Did we really help the Devotionalists, or did we make things worse for them?”

  T’Ryssa stared at her. “How can you, of all people, advocate standing by and doing nothing when people are in danger?”

  Jasminder chose her words carefully, mindful of Lorrav’s attention. “Imagine you’re the security officer aboard a starship. Yes, it’s your duty to protect your crewmates. But when they choose to go into combat, you respect their right to put their lives on the line for the mission. You don’t try to stop them. Because you understand, as they do, that there are causes more important than individual safety. So how can I do any less for the Devotionalists?”

  She took a slow, deep breath, gathering herself. “Another human, Cesar Chavez, said, ‘Nonviolence is not inaction. It is not discussion. It is not for the timid or weak.’ There’s nothing passive about it, Janil. It takes great strength, great . . . aggression, in a way, to stand up against someone who hates you and refuse to hate them back. To reject the validity of their choice to employ violence and assail them with understanding and compassion instead. Nonviolence is a way of fighting—but instead of fighting the people, attacking their bodies, it’s fighting the very ideas and assumptions that drive them to violence, trying to free them from those assumptions. By the same token, what we fight to defend is not our individual lives, but the ideas of justice and conscience.

  “That’s how we need to wage this battle. By using the courage of our conscience as our weapon, knocking down the lies that blind their own consciences. By refusing to back down from our principles, no matter the provocation.”

  “She is right,” came Vranien’s voice, and Choudhury was startled to realize that the whole group had been listening to her. “We truly win by making our foes better people, not making ourselves worse. The Episcopate gains its legitimacy by claiming to serve that which is right. We must have the commitment to show them what that truly means . . . so that they may see for themselves that they need to change their ways.”