Don’t push it, she told herself. Just let things happen naturally.
Unbidden, the image of the wormhole rose in Kasidy’s mind. She pushed it away.
After Jake and Rena finished talking about their trip, Ben suggested that the time had come for birthday cake—to which Rebecca responded by clapping and hopping up and down. Chocolate cake is just about the only thing that’ll pull that girl away from her starship models, Kasidy thought. They all gathered around the table in the dining area and sang as Ben carried the cake in from the kitchen, its seven small candles alight. He set it down before Rebecca, who had climbed up on a chair. Hewing to an old Earth tradition, Ben told her to make a wish and then blow out the candles. Rebecca looked to the ceiling for a moment, evidently deep in thought. Then she inhaled deeply, leaned forward and, with her cheeks puffed out, extinguished the candles in a single breath.
As she watched, Kasidy made a wish of her own.
7
Denison Morad followed the two security officers out of the landing bay and through a tortuous corridor. The heels of his shoes clipped noisily along the wide metal tube as it twisted toward the functional section of the facility. Ahead of him, the two Tzenkethi moved with such effortless grace that if he closed his eyes on their softly glowing forms, their silent steps would not have betrayed their presence.
The large circular passage not only curved laterally along its course, but also rose and fell, sometimes even as it arced to one side or the other—conforming, Morad had always assumed, to the contours of the Vir-Akzelen asteroid. A series of artificial gravity envelopes, shifting at the crooks in the path, allowed individuals to maintain their footing—at least in theory. As many times as Morad had visited the experimental laboratory, he had not mastered the transitions from one gravitational field to another. He stumbled often, despite closely watching the security officers and attempting to precisely mimic their footsteps.
Of course, I’d stare at those two anyway, Morad thought. The members of alien species almost never attracted him, but something about the Tzenkethi—any Tzenkethi, really—always garnered his appreciation. Their flesh in no way resembled the scaled gray of Cardassians, but Morad found the delicate radiance they emitted beautiful. And while their long necks lacked tapering ridges along the sides, they still somehow gave the impression that they did—whether through a trick of color and shadow, or because of some underlying musculature, Morad had never been able to tell.
He trailed the Tzenkethi—one of them a midrange green with yellow eyes, the other of a lighter shade with orange eyes—through the winding corridor, tripping his way past the gravitational transitions, until at last they reached the final stretch. There, mercifully for Morad, the passage leveled and straightened, although that did not signal the end of the changing gravity fields. As the security officers approached the curled, patterned slats of the round door that marked their destination, they moved left, walking up the sides of the tube. Morad knew from past experience to simply close his eyes and do the same. Not looking as they entered the lab would prevent him from feeling disoriented by the change in attitude.
When Morad heard the door iris open ahead of him, he kept his eyes closed and counted out seven more steps. He navigated the final alteration from one gravity envelope to the next with only a small hitch in his stride. When he heard the door close behind him, he at last opened his eyes.
A wide, squat cylinder housed the lab. Equipment both large and small crowded the floor and also marched up the walls, thrumming as they operated. On previous visits, Morad had wondered why the ceiling remained empty, since in his experience, the Tzenkethi typically utilized every surface within a space. But as he peered upward, he at last saw why: the ceiling had been rendered transparent, allowing an unfettered view of space.
“Morad, you are here,” said a voice that sounded less like speech to him than a chorus of small bells, though his translator interpreted the words for him. The Cardassian looked down to see the project’s lead scientist approaching him. He recognized Nelzik Tek Lom-A from her yellow, almost golden skin and her bright orange eyes. The security officers had apparently departed the lab.
“Your message said you needed me here urgently,” Morad said. “Hasn’t the large-scale annular confinement generator I brought you satisfied your needs?” Not long ago, Nelzik had demanded the piece of equipment, stating that it could well solve the last technological hurdle and bring the project to fruition.
Morad had heard such claims many times. While he never disbelieved the sincerity of Nelzik and the other scientists, he had come to doubt the prospects of their eventual success. The Tzenkethi had begun their research more than a decade earlier, not long after Cardassia had left Bajor—a time Morad still had difficulty facing. The planet and its system had still offered abundant resources for the Union, including a wealthy supply of forced labor. The discovery of the wormhole and the access it provided to the Gamma Quadrant only underscored the foolishness of his people’s decision to abandon Bajor. How much better off would Cardassia be today if we had stayed? Morad thought bitterly. If we hadn’t released the inferior Bajorans from their servitude, if we hadn’t begun dealing with the hated Federation as anything but the enemies they are, and if we controlled the wormhole and access to the Gamma Quadrant?
“The annular confinement generator has worked as expected,” Nelzik said, much to Morad’s surprise. He had acquired it from the Romulans, some of whom understood the great danger of the Federation, against whom both Cardassia and Romulus had fought wars. The advent of the Typhon Pact had initially provided some hope for Morad, thinking that the new alliance would at least keep the UFP in check, and perhaps, ultimately, bring it down. But when the castellan of the Cardassian Union agreed to enter talks about allying with the Federation, he felt driven to take action.
One day, when traveling to Cardassia Prime to deliver a shipment of self-sealing stem bolts, Morad learned that the UFP had donated an industrial replicator to the civilian government—a clear inducement for Cardassia to join the Khitomer Accords. The Detapa Council, in turn, announced that they would place the replicator in operation outside the city of Lakat. As much as it angered Morad for the Union to engage in friendly relations with the Federation, it absolutely incensed him to think of his people accepting its charity.
By the time he reached his destination, his emotions had seethed into a blind range. After delivering his shipment, Morad set course for Lakat. He did not remember consciously thinking about what he would do when he reached the city, but when he arrived, he didn’t hesitate to act. He first used sensors to locate the industrial replicator, then confirmed its location by flying over it. Then he banked his ship hard and returned to the piece of Federation machinery. He set a short course on his navigational computer, sent out a distress call, then abandoned ship in an escape pod.
By the time the pod landed and he stepped out of it, his cargo vessel had plunged directly into the replicator. He saw it in the distance, ablaze. He felt guilt when he wondered if anybody had perished in the “accident,” but that feeling quickly passed when he realized that anyone working at the replicator deserved whatever happened to them for having contributed to the diminishment of Cardassia.
Morad’s trial had lasted longer than he’d expected. Assumed guilty, he attempted through his confession to persuade the archon that his had been an act of negligence and not malice. To his surprise, Archon Makbar ruled on his behalf, settling on a relatively light sentence of one hundred days in the Hutet labor camp on Cardassia IV. Only later would Morad discover that Makbar privately lauded the destruction of the Federation-provided replicator, and that she hoped that after serving his sentence, Morad would join her in the True Way.
Which he had. He resumed his livelihood as a merchant, but began using his connections to seek out like-minded individuals to enlist in the movement. The True Way represented a desire to return Cardassia to its greatest days, when the military—Central Command—provided strength
and order, and ensured that every citizen worked to the benefit of the Union. But the movement also pinpointed the Federation as the most dire threat in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants, and in that, support came not just from Cardassia, but from a host of other worlds.
It did not take long for Morad and the True Way to join forces with the Tzenkethi scientists who worked to create what Cardassia should have had before it retreated from Bajor. Not long ago, the Romulans, with whom Morad worked, had taken an interest in the project. Injecting considerable amounts of capital into it and providing needed equipment, Tal Shiar Chairwoman Sela over the previous hundred days had, according to the Tzenkethi scientists, advanced their efforts tremendously.
“So the annular confinement generator is working,” Morad said to Nelzik. “What is it, then? Do you need additional equipment?” For so long, Morad had sought various pieces of technology for the Tzenkethi scientists. If he had come to question their abilities, he still believed in their overall goal—a goal that he saw would help to restore the greatness of Cardassia. While Nelzik and her colleagues doubtless worked toward different objectives, Morad understood that success in their endeavors would benefit everybody.
Everybody but the Federation and Bajor.
“No, we do not need new equipment,” Nelzik said. “We have accomplished our goal.”
Morad blinked. He didn’t think he had heard the scientist correctly. “You . . . have accomplished what goal?” He could only guess that Nelzik’s team had reached some intermediate but important stage in their work.
“Our goal,” Nelzik repeated. Then she turned in a way that didn’t seem possible for a humanoid, rotating her torso completely around so that she faced away from Morad. The scientist pointed across the lab, to where several of her colleagues stood on the far wall. “We are prepared for a demonstration.” She turned back to face Morad, and he realized that she awaited an answer.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course. Show me.”
Nelzik spun the upper portion of her body around again and made a quick, complex gesture with the exceptionally agile digits of her left hand. Morad watched as the group of scientists began to work at various consoles. Nelzik peered back at him and pointed upward. “Look there,” she said.
Morad did as she instructed, gazing up at the field of stars visible through the transparent ceiling. Around him, the pitch of the machinery rose, loudly filling the space. He waited, still not convinced he understood what Nelzik had told him.
Moments passed, and nothing happened. But then a brilliant streak of blue light flashed out into the void, from a point clearly on the Vir-Akzelen asteroid. It looked a lot like a disruptor blast or phaser fire at first, but then other beams splintered off from it, forming a cone comprising the blue rays of focused light. Morad did not know what to make of the display, since it resembled nothing he’d ever seen, and nothing he’d expected.
But then, the formation of the blue beams ceased, and in its stead, a great light bloomed into existence. It swirled and churned, dazzlingly white at its center. Its outer, spinning eddies burned, not with the blue of the beams that had apparently created it, but a fiery red.
Morad watched silently, amazed, his ears filled with the din of the lab equipment, his eyes with the wonderful sight he beheld. He almost could not believe what he saw.
And then the mass of whirling red light collapsed in on itself. In almost no time at all, it vanished entirely. Morad anxiously looked down at Nelzik. “What happened?” he asked, and he heard desperation in his voice.
“You saw what happened,” Nelzik said. “We succeeded. There was no need to continue. This was merely a demonstration.”
“So what’s next?” Morad wanted to know.
“We will begin testing our ability to target the other terminus,” Nelzik said, “and to maintain stability and structural integrity.”
“How long?” Morad asked. “How long before you’ll know whether we can put this into practice?”
“If we have truly succeeded, then not long at all,” Nelzik said. “Perhaps only a matter of days.”
Days! The news stunned Morad. “Excellent,” he said. “What more do you need from me?”
“At present, nothing but your support,” Nelzik said.
“You have it,” Morad said. “Now go. Begin your testing.”
The Tzenkethi turned and headed toward where her colleagues stood. Morad watched her cross the laboratory until she reached the far wall. There, she walked up its vertical surface.
Morad peered back up at the transparent ceiling and out into space. The moments he’d just experienced seemed surreal, since the promised success of the project had for so long failed to materialize. But he had just seen it for himself, and he felt elated by it. It could only mean great things for his people.
Finally, after so much time and so much effort, he thought, Cardassia will have its own artificial wormhole.
8
Nan Bacco entered the turbolift that would take her to the fifteenth floor of the Palais de la Concorde and her presidential office. Agent Alan Kistler, a member of the security team assigned to protect her, had preceded her into the car. Her chief of staff, Esperanza Piñiero, and a second agent, Steven Wexler, followed her inside. The agents silently faded into the corners.
“Well, I think that went rather well,” said Piñiero. She carried several padds with her, one of which the president had used as a reference for the notes she’d made for her speech.
“It’s about time something went well,” replied Bacco. The doors slipped closed and the lift began to ascend. “But we never should have had to make that argument to the Federation Council.”
“I agree completely, ma’am,” Piñiero said. “It’s still hard to believe what happened out at Bajor.”
“I’m not talking about the Typhon Pact,” Bacco snapped, her temper flaring. “I’m talking about the damned Council.”
Piñiero stood still for a moment without responding. Then she said, “Yes, ma’am,” and lowered her gaze to the floor of the lift. “Of course, ma’am.”
Bacco cursed herself. Her duties as Federation president had been extremely difficult of late—When hadn’t they been?—but she certainly didn’t need to mistreat the people around her, and especially not somebody like Piñiero, on whom she relied.
Bacco inhaled deeply, held her breath, then slowly exhaled, all in an attempt to bring her frustrations under control. She had worked with Esperanza Piñiero for a long time, all the way back to their days together on Cestus III, and so she knew that her chief of staff understood how the pressures of the presidency could sometimes affect her. Bacco had barked at Piñiero before, and she probably would do so again. But that didn’t mean that the president didn’t hate herself for it.
“I’m sorry, Esperanza,” she said. “And you’re right: I should be pleased that the Federation Council finally signed off on allowing Starfleet to construct a replacement for Deep Space Nine.”
“‘Finally,’ ma’am?” Piñiero said. “With all due respect, it’s only been two weeks since the attack. The Council usually can’t clear its collective throat in that short a span of time.”
Bacco nodded, recognizing the truth of what Piñiero had said. Offering a half-smile, she said, “Next time, instead of running for president, I need to try my hand at dictator.”
“I think you do all right, ma’am,” Piñiero said, straight-faced.
Bacco let the jibe pass. “It definitely wasn’t all me this time,” she said. “Thank goodness for Krim Aldos.”
The Bajoran representative to the Federation, Krim also served on the Federation Security Council. He had been understandably furious about the Typhon Pact’s attack in his home system, the loss of more than a thousand UFP lives—many of which had been Bajoran—and the destruction of DS9. Given all that, the president felt grateful that he hadn’t lobbied for immediate retaliation. To the Federation Council that morning, he had argued passionately that they not only needed to replace the sp
ace station—as opposed to assigning a squadron of Starfleet vessels to patrol the mouth of the wormhole—but that they needed to do so as soon as possible.
“The violence perpetrated on Deep Space Nine and the other vessels represents something beyond an assault simply on the lives and property of Bajor and the Federation,” Krim had avowed. “It represents the hostility that the worlds of the Typhon Pact harbor for our very way of life. The United Federation of Planets stands for peaceful coexistence, for the sharing of resources in order to benefit all, and for the exploration of the unknown, in a quest to better understand both our universe and ourselves.
“This cowardly, unprovoked attack tells us who the Typhon Pact is, but we cannot permit it to define who we are,” Krim had continued, the volume of his voice rising. “Where we have been knocked down, we must climb back up. Where we have been hurt, we must heal. Where we have been pushed, we must hold our ground.”
During the speech, Bacco had observed from her position on the platform the reactions of the councilors in the chamber. All of them watched Krim. Nobody moved.
“They have destroyed Deep Space Nine,” Krim had gone on, his voice reaching a crescendo. “Do we here today propose that it is too dangerous to rebuild the station, or too impractical, or too costly? Do we propose that the Typhon Pact should dictate to us where or how we should live? The answers to those two questions must be the same, and that answer must be: No! I am the Bajoran councilor, and I say that Bajor, a vital crossroads of exploration, diplomacy, and trade, must remain exactly that, and nothing less than that. I say that we must rebuild, and that we must do it now!”
Bacco had not risen to her feet and applauded only because, in her position, it would have been neither decorous nor politic to do so. But she wanted to. Fortunately, a great many of the councilors present did stand and clap for Krim Aldos.
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Raise the Dawn (Star Trek, the Next Generation) Page 13