They sat squashed together in silence. The canopy of leaves shifted in the breeze, dappling the ground and their bodies with light and shade. Corazame laid her head down on her arms. Efheny checked her chronometer. Three and a half skyturns before her pickup. What was she going to do? It wouldn’t be long, surely, before Hertome realized that she had lied about the portable transporter. There was no such device. The ship that was collecting her would follow the signal coming from the data-recording implant embedded above her left eye. She’d led Hertome into the middle of nowhere, with enforcers on his case and no means of escape. How long before he guessed?
“Mayazan,” he said quietly, “where’s the transporter?”
“I’ve got the coordinates,” she said. “I’ll go and find it as soon as it gets dark.”
He nodded slowly. “But you’re sure this is the place—”
She lifted her hand to silence him. “Listen!”
Corazame too had heard the noise. Craning her neck back, she stared up through the thin cover of leaves. “Enforcers,” she whispered, once the chik of an air car could be clearly heard. She put her head back down on her arms. “Oh, somebody help me! My beloved Autarch, forgive me!”
Hertome put his hand on her shoulder, but that made her trembling worse. “Don’t worry, Corazame,” he said. “I’m sure the Ret Mayazan knows what she’s doing.”
Efheny didn’t respond. She twisted her neck to follow the sound of the air car, relaxing only when she was sure it had passed them by and was heading out toward the lagoon.
They sat in silence for a while. How did I get here? Efheny wondered. How did I find myself here, in this wilderness, with a dangerous human and a terrified girl? All I wanted to do was observe. All I wanted to do was live among the Tzenkethi, and serve Cardassia as I did . . .
“Do you have any water?” Hertome asked. “We’ve walked a long way today.”
Efheny gestured toward the bag she’d brought from the ship. “Don’t drink it all at once. We’ve three skyturns to get through. We might not be able to find more.”
He nodded and took one sip, rolling it around his mouth before swallowing. He tapped Corazame on the arm and handed her the water bottle.
“Drink,” he ordered her. “Only a little, mind. I don’t think Mayazan planned for us all to come along on her little field trip.”
Fearfully, Corazame followed his example, taking one small sip and rolling it around her mouth. When she handed the bottle to Efheny, she gave her friend a gentle, pleading look. Tell me what is happening? Efheny turned away from that unintended but unbearable accusation. She huddled back against the wall of the hollow, closing her eyes. What in the name of the Blind Moon was she going to do about Corazame?
Hertome was his own problem. He’d taken his chances when he’d chosen to come along with Efheny. It was his own tough luck that he was going to be disappointed. But Corazame . . . Once Efheny was gone, she’d be on her own. It was only a matter of time before the enforcers searching the area caught up with her, and when that happened, Cory would find herself facing her worst nightmare.
Efheny shifted uneasily. You picked up bits and pieces here and there about reconditioning, mostly the whispers and gossip of the utterly uninformed. Pelenten in the unit said that he’d heard it didn’t hurt, not unless you tried to resist. So the secret was not to resist. Corazame . . . Corazame. The real secret was not to require Re-Co in the first place. But poor Corazame wasn’t going to have that option. They’d find her and they’d take her away—this poor, gentle, loyal girl—and it would be Efheny’s fault. If Neta Efheny had never come into Corazame Ret Ata-E’s life, she would have lived in peace as the model Tzenkethi, hardworking and humble and happy with her station, with the memory of a fleeting love to carry her through when the days seemed too dreary, too tiring. Efheny could pretend to herself as much as she liked that Corazame wouldn’t get hurt. But it wasn’t true. Corazame was going to be destroyed.
The sun passed overhead. The afternoon dwindled and night came. Corazame fell asleep. Hertome fought sleep but eventually succumbed. But Efheny didn’t sleep. She watched her friend, and a great anger washed over her: not with Cory but with Hertome for putting her in this position. As quickly as the anger descended on her, it passed and weariness overcame her. In a few more hours, she would be on her way back to Cardassia. But Neta Efheny was so very tired. She wanted to lie back and sleep forever. Not in a few hours. Now.
• • •
As the air car swept over Velentur Island once more, Inzegil glanced at Artamer and frowned. The blinds on the air car’s side windows were shut, but he looked as glum as an EE server at the start of its shift. She should take him home.
Frustrated, she gripped the car’s controls. How long could it take for two Mak enforcers to find three Atas? Earlier, Inzegil was sure they’d found them. They’d picked up the trail of one of them, but then it suddenly disappeared, as if that person had acquired knowledge of how to move around unseen. But how would Atas have learned to do that? What else did Hertome Ter Ata-C know? How much of a danger was he to those two girls? With a sigh, Inzegil turned the air car around for one last sweep. Artamer groaned.
“Last one for tonight, Arty,” she promised. “We’ll start again in the morning.”
• • •
Watching Alden and Nekelen standing before a holodisplay in the observation lounge, making their plans to steal into Tzenkethi space, Dax understood why Alden had been restored to active duty. The knowledge of how to get them across the border, through to Ab-Tzenketh, and out again. How often must he have done this? When he’d gone undercover himself, or else collecting agents that he’d placed there . . .
“I assume we’ll be modifying the warp field to present the Aventine as a Tzenkethi vessel?” Alden said to Nekelen.
“I suggest we appear as a Venetan freighter, Commander, if it’s all the same to you,” Nekelen countered.
Alden pondered the suggestion and nodded. “I can see the sense in that.”
Dax asked, “Why Venetan? Why not Tzenkethi?”
Alden put his hands up on the table. “Under normal circumstances, I’d say Tzenkethi, but their border patrols will be on high alert. All shipping will be under close scrutiny, and they know their ships too well. But if we appear Venetan, any inconsistencies in their sensor readings can be put down to us being a ship type that they’re not entirely familiar with.”
“Besides,” said Nekelen, “it’s remarkably easy to lay one’s hands on information about Venetan spacecraft.” He pointed to one end of the holodisplay, where ship specifications were scrolling past, and sighed overdramatically. “One hardly knows what to do with such an embarrassment of information. What a strange little culture they are. One barely needs to spy on them at all.”
“Perhaps if we all did the same as the Venetans,” Dax said mischievously, “all this subterfuge would become unnecessary. Imagine it, Nekelen! No secrets, everything out in the open—”
Nekelen looked appalled. Alden merely smiled. “It’s a pleasant fantasy, Ezri, but there’ll always be someone with something to hide.”
“And long may that continue!” said Nekelen. “I’m far too old to think about embarking upon a new career.”
Alden laughed. It was fascinating to watch the two men together, Dax thought. How easily they’d fallen into conversation, gotten onto the same wavelength. It was almost as if Alden’s profession gave him more in common with this sly, dry little operative than with the people who wore the same uniform as he did. And if Hogue Nekelen played the part of a CIB agent to perfection, surely Peter Alden’s performance was no less accomplished. Less crowd-pleasing, perhaps (Garak always did play to the balcony), but still polished. The intelligent, self-contained, solitary man on the verge of middle age, with a quiet charm that had certainly worked on Dax when he’d arrived on the Aventine—was it all presentation? Was it all a matter of self-control?
Where was the real Peter Alden? Dax wondered. Did he ever ge
t the chance to exist? Or had he been left behind at the academy, when a ready-made role presented itself, like Ezri Tigan had almost disappeared under the influence of Dax? But Ezri’s here, Dax thought. The fast talking, the curiosity about the world and others, the eye for the big picture rather than the detail . . . That was all Ezri. Dax had just provided the foundation for her to thrive. Perhaps that had happened to Peter Alden too. Dax hoped so.
They crossed the border into the Tzenkethi system within the hour, on Red Alert and with the engine modifications in place. Alden came over to Dax, sitting in her bridge chair, and leaned over to speak to her. He kept his voice low so that nobody else could hear.
“I know you don’t trust my word any longer, Ezri, but I want to say that I understand why. I didn’t for a while. But I do now.”
“Really?” she gently rebuked him.
“And I want you to know that you can trust my experience, and you can trust my expertise.”
“Peter,” she gestured around the bridge, “I’m trusting you with my ship and my crew.”
“Most of all,” he said, “you can trust me when I say that I want to stop the Tzenkethi more than I want anything in this life.”
Yes, thought Dax sadly, as he turned away. That’s what I’m most afraid of.
• • •
Crusher watched on the viewscreen in her office as six Venetan ships inched toward the border, testing the waters and whether the Federation really would make good their outrageous, unbelievable threat. They look so tiny. Like little pieces of handicraft, or children’s toys.
Whereas, in comparison, even the smallest of the ships sent to support the Enterprise looked huge: mass-machined and heavily weaponized. We must seem monstrous, Crusher thought. Giants swatting at flies, using a sledgehammer to drive in a nail. There was little to feel proud about in all this. There’s nothing the Venetans can do to stop us. But there was the problem: this wasn’t about the Venetans. This was about the Tzenkethi and, behind them, the powers that comprised the Typhon Pact.
The pilots of the six Venetan ships seemed to be coming to the same conclusion as Crusher about their chances. They halted at a safe distance from the border. She listened to Picard reminding them that, for the moment, no ships could be permitted to pass in or out of Venetan space. The six ships lingered awhile and then turned back.
For now, Crusher thought sourly, watching the already tiny ships grow smaller. It had been the same all day and, from the reports they’d received, the same along the part of the border being policed by the Cardassians: a few ships would turn up to take the lay of the land, would see the gunships on their borders, and would slink away. If the Venetans had been lukewarm toward the Federation before, they were now set on the path of permanent enmity.
And all this was simply the warm-up. Once the Tzenkethi ships arrived, there would be a pitched battle. Perhaps a couple would get away, fleeing into Venetan space. They would of course be pursued; their cargo could not be allowed anywhere near Outpost V-4. The Tzenkethi would express outrage at the violation of Venetan borders, and more Tzenkethi ships would be sent. That would bring out more ships from the Khitomer Accords in response, and more from the Tzenkethi in response to that . . . and when Crusher followed her line of thought through to the inevitable conclusion, she found she could not bear the horrors that her head was holding.
Her comm channel chimed. “Bridge to Crusher,” said Picard. “I have a message for you from Alizome Vik Tov-A.”
Crusher nearly fell off her chair. “Excuse me?”
“She asked for you by name. ‘I’ll speak to Doctor Crusher, and Doctor Crusher alone,’ she said. ‘I will only speak to the ship’s doctor.’ ”
“The doctor? Is she sick? No, don’t answer that.”
“It might simply be that speaking to either me or Jeyn would be too humiliating. Especially given the trouble I’ve caused their ships in the past.”
“But to use that word. Doctor . . .” Beverly shrugged. “I guess there’s only one thing for it. I’ll have to talk to her. Isn’t that what we’ve been trying to do all along?”
“My ready room is at your disposal, of course.”
“No,” Crusher said, after a moment’s thought. “I’ll speak to her here. On my own turf.”
“Very good. I’ll be with you shortly.”
So Crusher spruced up her uniform, brushed her hair, and sat before the companel trying to think statesmanlike thoughts. She thought of Bacco, razor sharp, ready for anything, and of Ilka, who said little and heard a great deal, and of Rusht, dignified and responsible. But her thoughts inevitably settled on Alizome, the mastermind behind all this, perfectly indecipherable and brilliantly controlled—and who had outmaneuvered her twice already.
You can do this, she told herself. You have the advantage here. She has come to you. So stay calm. Let her do the talking. Tell her nothing. Stay silent if you have to. Don’t let her make you feel you have to fill in the gaps.
Simple.
Picard entered her office and positioned himself out of sight.
The comm chimed. Picard gave a brisk nod. “Put her through,” Crusher said, and the UFP logo dissolved to show the beautiful, impassive face of Alizome Vik Tov-A.
Even at range, and through a screen, Alizome’s physical presence was remarkable. A shimmering haze of golden light seemed to surround her, like the halo in the icon of a Byzantine saint, accentuating her superiority and authority. Crusher found herself wondering what the effect must be on other Tzenkethi. Did they become used to these glittering displays? Or could they never forget the powers in their lives? Were they dazzled each and every time, like peasants in the fields looking up to see the lord of the manor on his fine horse in his fine clothes riding by on his way to his fine house?
“Doctor Crusher,” Alizome said in her melodious voice, “thank you for agreeing to speak to me.”
“You’re welcome.”
There was a pause. Looking past Alizome’s glow, Crusher could see the distinctive curves and natural colors with which the Venetans decorated their rooms. It was to Alizome’s credit that she had chosen to remain on Venette throughout the crisis, Crusher thought, although, of course, fleeing the planet at the first sign of danger was hardly the best way to signify support to your allies. She waited for the other woman to speak.
Alizome licked her lips. How the hell do I interpret that? Crusher wondered. Did Alizome know that to human eyes that would make her seem predatory? Or was it involuntary? Was she nervous? Crusher knew so little about the complexities of Tzenkethi body language. She might be missing all kinds of signals that she was supposed to see. How was the Federation—how was she—meant to find common ground with the Tzenkethi when so little was understood about something so basic?
I can’t tell. So there’s no point in trying to guess. But she can still speak first.
“How much do you know about my people, Doctor?”
First hurdle passed. “Very little,” Crusher admitted. “You’re the first representative of your people that I’ve met at any length.” She risked a smile. “I’d like to know more.”
“Yes, I’m sure you would.”
Crusher didn’t rise to the bait. From the corner of her eye, she saw Picard give her an approving nod.
“Matters have come to an unfortunate pass here,” Alizome said eventually.
I’ll say, thought Crusher, and then some!
“It’s unfortunate that your government has proved so untrusting and intractable.”
“I agree that lack of trust is unfortunate.”
“And I’m glad that we agree. I am also glad, therefore, to be in a position to make a gesture of friendship toward you. I hope you’ll accept it in the spirit in which it is offered.”
“What gesture, Alizome?”
“I have just been honored to speak to our Autarch, our most exalted and beneficent Rej, Korzenten Rej Tov-AA—”
For a brief moment, Crusher teetered on the verge of bursting out laughing
at the string of honorifics. She imagined she was supposed to be impressed by them, but it seemed the Venetans’ influence was rubbing off on her. The Autarch’s titles struck her as overblown. Korzenten may be the Autarch, but I wonder who’s Lord High Everything Else. She was struck, too, at how the long list couldn’t help but undermine Alizome’s authority, reminding Crusher that Alizome was ultimately answerable to someone else, in the way that Crusher was answerable to Starfleet Command. I wonder how pleased the Autarch is at this unfortunate pass in which we find ourselves. I wonder how pleased he is right now with Alizome. Hope rose cautiously in her heart. I think we may just have her on the run at last . . .
“Our Autarch has most generously offered to send a deputation to Starbase 261 to inspect the medical supplies that your government has offered.”
Suppressing her delight, Crusher said, “That’s a most interesting and generous offer, Alizome.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Alizome said. She too knew that she was backing down. “However, I do wonder if you understand the full nature of its generosity.”
That put Crusher back on the alert. This wasn’t simply the ritualized language that all diplomats used to talk up the case they were making. This, she sensed, was an invitation to understand something important about the Tzenkethi. If she could only work out what it was.
Think, Beverly. Think about everything you’ve read. Think why she asked for you, for the doctor . . .
If the Tzenkethi came to Starbase 261 to talk about medical supplies, she reasoned, they would not be able to leave without giving away some information about their physiology. Yet all the specialists’ reports that Crusher had read emphasized again and again their psychological fears about bodily integrity.
Now the significance of this gesture made sense. Inviting Federation doctors to discover more about Tzenkethi biology was offering the Federation access to something sacred, something very protected. It might also avert a war . . .
A war that nobody wanted, and which, Crusher was increasingly coming to believe, the Tzenkethi were not particularly keen to have either. This might be the first truly nonhostile gesture we’ve ever received from them. I’d even go so far as to say that they’re signaling that they’re willing to trust us.
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Brinkmanship Page 20