Star Trek: Typhon Pact - 13 - The Fall: Peaceable Kingdoms

by Dayton Ward

  Surprised by her abrupt appearance, La Forge smiled. “What are you doing down here?” Noting again her somewhat disheveled appearance, he asked, “Did you pull an all-nighter or something?”

  Harstad shrugged. “Yep. I was conducting some tests in the lab and needed peace and quiet, so I opted to work overnight to get it all done. I’m taking a break before alpha shift starts and was going to get some breakfast.” She reached out to put a hand on his arm. “Then I started thinking of you and went by your quarters, but imagine my surprise when I saw you weren’t there.” She pursed her lips and made a mocking “tsk-tsk” sound. “Just my luck, though, that the computer knew exactly where you were hiding.”

  Trying not to react too much to the “hiding” remark, La Forge smiled. “Yeah. We’ve got a runabout scheduled for early departure in the morning, and I wanted to make sure it was ready to go.”

  “Don’t you have other people to do that sort of thing for you?” Harstad asked, stepping closer. “Underlings, minions, serfs, or whatever the official designation is?”

  La Forge chuckled. “The preferred Starfleet term is ‘toadies,’ but I couldn’t sleep, and I’ve already got the rest of the gamma shift crew running diagnostics and doing other maintenance projects we’ve been putting off for a while, none of which should be confused with anything a normal person might call fun.” While the gamma shift team in engineering was ensconced in just such an array of tasks, all of which were necessary if not glamorous, his main goal with assigning those duties was to keep his team occupied and away from the shuttlebay long enough for the covert launch preparations to be completed without an audience.

  “Couldn’t sleep, huh?” Now standing directly before him, Harstad lifted her chin and stretched to kiss him. He returned the kiss, catching the scent of whatever product she used in her hair. Vanilla. He always liked that smell. “What time are you back on duty?”

  Gazing into her wide, brown eyes, La Forge replied, “I’m due back here at zero nine hundred.” Like Worf, he wanted to be on hand when the Dordogne departed on its odd, classified mission. “I thought I might try to catch a nap before that, but I doubt I’ll have much luck.”

  “Come on,” Harstad said, taking his hand in hers and guiding him to follow her from the shuttlebay. Offering him an impish grin, she squeezed his hand. “I may be able to help with that.”

  Five

  City of Lor’Vela, Andor

  Kellessar zh’Tarash had long ago come to believe that there was nothing quite so relaxing as a hot bath in the open air after the end of a long workday.

  It was for this reason that she had seen to the construction of an outdoor bathing area situated in the midst of the high-walled garden connected to her home. The garden itself, designed and crafted by one of the capital city’s leading horticulturists, was an overflowing collection of flora from different regions across Andor, accented by a waterfall flowing from a rock formation dominating the corner farthest from the house. Soft lighting, recessed so as not to be obtrusive, highlighted the entire scene after sunset. All of the water used in the decorative display, as well as that used to care for the garden’s array of plants and other foliage, was drawn from a recycling system that ensured limited waste.

  Aside from an admiration for the craftsmanship that had willed into reality her tranquil refuge, zh’Tarash concerned herself with little of the garden’s mechanics, choosing instead to focus on the peace and serenity it brought to her. The bathing area consisted of a large curved tub set into the ground and encircled with stone tiles leading to a walkway that connected the garden to the house. Lavatory and shower facilities sat to one side, inconspicuously nestled within a circle of overgrown shrubbery. The tub was uncovered, warmed by an internal heating unit and the unfettered rays of the Andorian sun, which at this hour was beginning to slip behind the Lor’Vela skyline.

  Resting at one end of the tub and with her neck supported by a neck rest, zh’Tarash closed her eyes and relished the feel of the setting sun on her bare skin as she allowed the water—accented as it was with a special blend of fragranced, therapeutic bath salts—to soothe her muscles. Not for the first time, she considered the possibility of having a similar sanctuary installed in her office.

  You should simply move your office here.

  “Leader zh’Tarash?”

  She opened her eyes and turned toward the sound of the familiar voice, her quizzical gaze coming to rest upon Rasanis th’Priil, her trusted aide and confidant. As was his habit, the thaan was dressed in a robe of muted colors, an ensemble he preferred when not working in his office, and carried a padd tucked beneath his left arm. The robe’s highlights provided a pleasing contrast to his rich blue skin and stark white hair, which he chose to keep cropped close to his skull. Despite his being several years older than zh’Tarash, his fitness and dietary regimen saw to it that he looked and indeed was far more vital than Andorian males half his age. Though he never discussed the matter, zh’Tarash suspected that th’Priil’s dedication to his healthy lifestyle was a holdover from his earlier career as a member of Andor’s Homeworld Security forces.

  “Good evening, Rasanis,” she said, smiling in greeting. “What brings you out into the sun and fresh air?” She often teased her friend about his preference for indoor pursuits and had made more than one facetious promise that she would remove the roof and at least two walls from his office.

  “I am able to tolerate it for brief periods, Leader,” replied th’Priil without hesitation, having long ago learned to play his part in their spirited banter. He made a show of examining the tub. “I see I’ve arrived before you started playing with your bath toys. Were you able to get your replica submersible repaired after its disastrous encounter with the dreadful sea monster?”

  Zh’Tarash laughed. “It’s still in drydock, but thank you for your concern.”

  Holding up the padd, he tapped its screen for a moment. “I have just received updated polling information. You’ll be happy to know that your popularity numbers rose again after your speech yesterday. Not just here on Andor, but across the Federation. A new projection shows you trailing President Ishan by nine percent, down from twelve before the speech. The other candidates’ numbers are declining; some of their supporters look to be turning to you.”

  “Well, that’s a nice development,” zh’Tarash said, propping her head once more on the tub’s neck rest. “Of course, it’s easy to say the right thing when you have smart people feeding you the correct words. Please thank Leressi again for her exceptional work on the speech.”

  Leressi sh’Daran was a newcomer to zh’Tarash’s staff, but she had wasted no time making substantive contributions to the campaign as its lead speechwriter. The passionate, unwavering message she had crafted as the cornerstone of zh’Tarash’s platform in her bid for the Federation presidency already had attracted the attention of media outlets across the planet and throughout the quadrant. Sh’Daran’s ability to shape articulate, energetic prose was matched only by her unbridled enthusiasm, and zh’Tarash and th’Priil had been required more than once to restrain her zeal in order to keep the young writer from losing her focus. This was becoming less of a problem with each passing day, as the election now was just weeks away and both zh’Tarash and President Ishan were narrowing their attention to the key issues that likely would have the greatest influence on voters readying to make their final decision. Now faced with these precious few targets, sh’Daran’s energy was peaking as she honed every syllable zh’Tarash uttered for public consumption.

  Th’Priil nodded. “I’ll tell her when I see her later this evening. She wants to show me her draft of the remarks you’ll be giving at your press conference tomorrow.”

  “Remember what we discussed, Rasanis,” zh’Tarash said, shifting herself to a sitting position before moving to stand in the tub. “No grandstanding with respect to our poll improvements or closing the gap on Ishan. We remain focused on our message and the key issues, and let the media worry about the
other things.” She stepped up and out of the tub, relishing the sensation of the slight breeze cooling her wet, bare skin. Reaching for a robe, she wrapped it around her body and knotted the sash at her waist. “If there’s one thing for which I have no tolerance, it’s the constant dangling before us of ephemera in desperate attempts to distract us from the important questions.”

  Tapping controls on his padd, th’Priil replied, “You can expect at least a few questions tomorrow about Doctor Bashir. You will want to be prepared for that.”

  “Of course,” zh’Tarash said, moving to the small table and chairs positioned near one edge of the tiled deck; a pot of tea set atop the table. Still warm thanks to the embedded heating unit, the tea smelled divine as she poured it into a waiting cup. “That’s the very sort of distraction to which I refer. Treishya and True Heirs loyalists in the conservative media have not stopped talking about the egregious sin Doctor Bashir committed by saving us from extinction. I simply cannot imagine how any dialogue with them on that topic will end up being anything but constructive.”

  Looking up from his padd, th’Priil cocked an eyebrow as he regarded her, his left antenna twisting in her direction. A small smile graced his lips. “Why, Leader zh’Tarash, I do believe your facility for sarcasm is improving with each passing day.”

  “Call it a defense mechanism,” zh’Tarash replied, settling into one of the deck chairs and sliding the teacup and its saucer toward her. “I have grown weary of those rigid, close-minded, would-be tyrants.” Following Andor’s secession from the Federation three years earlier, the Visionist party, spurred on by extremist sects like the Treishya and the True Heirs of Andor, had managed to take control within the halls of government, pushing aside their moderate and liberalist counterparts from the Progressive party. Since then, the Visionists had done their level best to resist all efforts at reconciliation with the Federation as well as utilizing the Shedai Meta-Genome data to resolve the ongoing fertility issues plaguing the Andorian people.

  “They stand in the way of science that can save our species while clinging to outdated fallacies that have done more harm than good throughout our existence.” Zh’Tarash sipped her tea. “It’s madness to think that a deity as wise as Uzaveh would imbue us with intellect, free will, and the drive to learn and survive, yet judge and punish us for doing exactly what he created us to do. How petty must a god be to do something like that?”

  Th’Priil released a small grunt. “My advice would be to refrain from making such comments at the press conference. You do recall what happened the last time this topic was broached? A melee broadcast Federation-wide is not what you want heading into the election.” He paused, shrugging. “On the other hand, it might end up boosting your numbers. However, my concern about Doctor Bashir has less to do with his role in providing the cure for reproductive ills as it does the matter of his return to Starfleet authorities. According to my sources, the transfer may occur very soon; perhaps before the election. The details are still being finalized, but you will be asked your opinion on this, Leader.”

  “It’s a Starfleet matter, Rasanis,” zh’Tarash said. “Despite everything the good doctor did for us, and even though I consider him a hero to our people, there is no denying that he defied Starfleet regulations. He did so of his own free will, and he will have to answer to the charges against him.” She shook her head. “I don’t agree with it, of course, but to insert myself into that discussion at this point would be a mistake, as it would serve only to reopen wounds that we and the Federation are working to heal. Like it or not, Bashir’s disposition is a part of that process.” The doctor’s actions still were being celebrated across the planet, and even the most tenacious detractors of utilizing Bashir’s genetic therapy breakthroughs to resolve the fertility crisis were beginning to soften their stance on the issue. Being saved from eventual extinction as a species tended to alter one’s views, it seemed.

  Tucking his padd once more beneath his left arm, th’Priil said, “It’s worth noting that should you win the election, you would have it in your power to pardon him.”

  Setting her teacup back on its saucer, zh’Tarash waved away the suggestion. “Don’t mention that to anyone. Don’t say it aloud, or even think it, until after the election. Even the idea that I might do something like that would undermine the discussions currently taking place. For now, we stay out of this. We have enough to worry about between now and the election, and if we win?” She sighed. “Imagine how much work we’ll have to do then.”

  “But it will be good work.”

  “That it will. Whichever one of us ends up occupying that office will have a formidable standard by which we’ll be measured.” An unabashed admirer of Nanietta Bacco, zh’Tarash had collapsed into the arms of her lover, Rane, and wept upon hearing the news of the Federation president’s assassination. Despite all the challenges she had faced during her savagely curtailed term of office, Bacco had acquired a deserved reputation as a confident, compassionate leader whose sole concern was seeing to the welfare of every Federation citizen. It was zh’Tarash’s considered opinion that Ishan Anjar was not the proper choice for continuing the work Bacco had begun. In truth, zh’Tarash was not even certain she was up to such a daunting task, but she was committed to pick up the standard that had been ripped from Nanietta Bacco’s hands and carry it forward. Could Ishan say the same?

  Zh’Tarash thought that unlikely.

  “I am due at Leressi’s office in short order, Leader,” th’Priil said. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I take my leave?”

  Shaking her head, zh’Tarash smiled. “No, Rasanis. Try not to work too hard, my friend. We still have a long journey ahead of us, and if the people of the Federation are willing, that journey will be longer still.”

  “I believe I am up to the challenge, Leader.” Bowing his head, th’Priil said, “Good evening.”

  Once her aide was gone and she was alone in the comforting haven of her garden, zh’Tarash allowed herself a small sigh. Little time remained to her for curative respites such as this. There indeed was much work to do, now and in the future, should voters see fit to place her in that position, but th’Priil was right; it would be good work, worthy of Nanietta Bacco and the legacy she left behind. In truth, zh’Tarash relished the opportunity—and the challenge—that came with holding the Federation’s highest elected office.

  She was eager to begin.

  Six

  U.S.S. Enterprise

  Looking at the table, Picard’s first thought as he regarded the carnage before him was that something—or someone—had exploded.

  “What in the world happened?” he asked, stepping closer to the table and eyeing its lone denizen. Seated in his customary place between the two chairs normally occupied during meals by his parents, was René Jacques Robert François Picard. The boy’s face, hands, clothing, and the area of table before him was coated in what the captain recognized as the chocolate pudding he had given René as a dessert following his evening meal. The epicenter of the devastation was the bowl positioned before René, which appeared to have been the victim of some kind of subspace rupture. No eating utensils of any kind were visible.

  “Sorry, Papa,” said René, though the smile gracing his smeared face and his wide eyes seemed to indicate that he was rather pleased with himself. How much pudding had been in that bowl, anyway?

  Despite his initial shock and disapproval at the mess before him, Picard could not resist the small chuckle that escaped his lips. “I may have to call a decontamination team,” he said in the exaggerated, melodramatic manner he often used to elicit a laugh from the child. His words had the desired effect, and René released a cackle of delight.

  As Picard set to the task of washing the table before turning his attention to the boy, René watched him work, giggling from time to time as his father moved pudding back to the bowl from whence it had erupted. With the table now cleaned, Picard returned the bowl and the cloth he had used to the replicator set
into the room’s rear bulkhead, and it was while his back was turned to René that his son spoke again.

  “Papa? Where’s Mama?”

  “She’s gone off on a trip,” Picard replied, turning from the replicator and moving to take a seat next to the boy’s chair. “Sometimes, the work your mother and I do calls for us to leave home for a short while.” He always felt as though he might be talking in such a way that he only served to confuse René. Despite this uncertainty, the child had been demonstrating for some time a remarkable aptitude with respect to understanding and correctly employing words and phrases Picard at first thought might be beyond his comprehension. It often was difficult to remember that René had only recently celebrated his fourth birthday.

  “Will she be coming back?”

  Picard smiled. “Of course she’s coming back. Do you really think she’d leave you here, all alone, with just me to take care of you?” Of course he was concerned by the risky nature of the mission undertaken by Beverly and Lieutenants Konya and Cruzen, but he forced away those troubling thoughts for the sake of his son. Children of such a young age, he believed, were to be spared the burden of seeing their parents worry over matters beyond their ability to understand. But what if the unthinkable happened and Picard found himself facing the prospect of explaining to René that his mother would not be returning to him?

  She will return. He made himself repeat the statement in his mind as he reached across the table to sweep back a lock of René’s auburn hair.

  “I think she won’t like that I spilled my pudding.”

  Leaning close so that he stared into the boy’s eyes, Picard lowered his voice. “Well, we’ll just have to keep that our little secret, won’t we?”

  “Okay,” René said, offering a small shrug as he gripped his father’s hand and began trying to bend his fingers. “Do you think she misses us?”

  “I have no doubt she misses us and that she loves you very much. In fact, she made me promise to give you a present from her.” Picard rose from his seat and kissed the boy’s forehead.