Brinkmanship

by Una McCormack

  Hertome, his voice very low, said, “This one must thank his Ap-Rej for reminding him of his functions and providing him with an opportunity to correct his faults. May he assure his Ap-Rej of his eagerness to begin the work necessary to improve him?”

  “I hope so. You may go, Hertome. Return to your cabin and remain there until we reach our next port of call.” Inzegil turned away and walked to the superior deck, where she sat at her desk, high above her three inferiors.

  Hertome, turning to leave the room, caught Efheny’s eye. “You’ve killed me,” he called across to her from the safety of his audio-disruption field. “I hope you’re happy.”

  Efheny looked away from him, down at the floor of the inferior deck. When Hertome was gone, Inzegil’s voice floated down to Efheny and Corazame. “You too may go now. Turn your attention back to your immediate duty of restoration. You should not think about this matter again.”

  Gesturing their gratitude, the two Rets fled the room and back to their side of the ship. Partway there, Corazame gave a small scream. “Oh, Maymi! We’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  For a moment Efheny thought that she meant something really serious, and then Corazame said, “Now we have to answer to Karenzen!”

  The relief that she didn’t mean anything else, and of having avoided exposure, not to mention having defeated Hertome . . . suddenly Efheny burst out laughing. Corazame, also clearly relieved at having escaped the room, began to giggle too. They hurried back to the Ata quarters. Hertome was out of the way, and now all Efheny had to do was get past Corazame and make her way to the pickup point. And then . . .

  And then to Cardassia.

  Cardassia. That dry world, with dry work waiting for her, so far away from this dazzling, mesmerizing, generous planet. She tried not to think about it. Instead she played her part as Mayazan and ran giggling back with Cory to their quarters, putting all thought of her imminent departure from Ab-Tzenketh out of her head.

  • • •

  When the Rets had gone, Inzegil Ter Mak-B turned her attention to the paperwork arising from the case. Opening her portable comm to file her report, she spoke quickly, informing her colleagues back in the city that the case had been resolved and there was a dysfunctional Ata in need of collection. Her information was noted and logged, and two colleagues were assigned to his pickup. Next she put the necessary wheels in motion to ensure his subsequent reconditioning. Checking the logs at the various Re-Co camps on the north side of the city, she looked for one able to take an Ata of that one’s grade for fifty skyturns, and at such short notice. It wasn’t a lengthy period by any means, but it was of sufficient duration that she had to look slightly farther afield than usual to find a camp that could accommodate him and provide the necessary program. When this was secured, she closed the comm and reflected on the case.

  Sweet girls, those two Rets, she thought, but silly. Ideal targets for an Ata Ter with grand ideas about himself, such as Hertome turned out to be. What a mess they’d got themselves into! At least the smaller one (What was her name again? Corinzame?) had the sense to get her little friend to appeal to her superiors. Inzegil had been serious when she’d told the Ret girls they’d been in danger of reconditioning themselves if they’d not presented themselves to her. Maintenance Unit 17 had been under observation for potential behavioral irregularities for some time.

  The lead had come from an Ata-EE attached to the Department of the Outside who had been deployed for the past two and a half twin-months to provide ancillary support to the maintenance units there. Ata-EEs, always on watch for instruction, saw and heard everything, and consequently were implanted with data-recording devices equipped with intelligent monitoring software that tracked the behavior of those around them and alerted the appropriate local enforcers of any irregularities. It was an entirely automated system: the Ata-EEs didn’t know they had these implants and the data was automatically transferred to the relevant enforcer divisions. Besides, it wasn’t their function to make such judgments about what was and was not relevant. There were software systems designed to do that far beyond any Ata-EE’s ability. Sometimes the irregularities turned out to be coincidence. Sometimes there was a more serious malaise. Hertome Ter Ata-C had been flagged a while ago, although it was his first meeting with the Ret Mayazan that had moved the status of his case from “under observation” to “potential intervention.”

  At the thought of Hertome, Inzegil felt a rising sense of disgust. There were always some like that one, she thought, who used their power to prey upon their charges. It was an absolute betrayal of their function, of the trust placed in them as an Ap-Rej. Some of the Rets were very vulnerable. Take those two girls: their heads were no doubt full of E-grade songs and holoromances, making them too easily persuaded that a superior was interested in them. They should have more sense than to imagine such a thing was possible. But that was the problem: Atas of that type weren’t always sensible. That was why they had superiors, and that was why an enforcer division such as Inzegil’s existed: to monitor the behavior of these grades and to intervene to protect them from themselves when necessary.

  The door below her opened, and her colleague, Artamer Ter Mak-B, came in. Inzegil came down from the superior deck to join him. Artamer was much older than Inzegil and had performed this function for much longer. He had observed the meeting with the Atas from the next room and then had followed the Ata-EE taking Hertome back to his cabin.

  “Well,” he said, “he’s back in his cabin and the doors are sealed. All seems pretty straightforward to me. Case closed. Can we go back to the city now?” He glanced over at the window. Artamer was unusually sensitive to being outside. Not even shutters and canopies always helped him persuade himself that he was safe. “I hate it when the job brings us out of town.”

  Inzegil, crossing the room to close the blinds, said automatically, “Our purpose is to serve.”

  “I know, Inzy, I know. Have we served yet?”

  “I think so . . .”

  Artamer gave her a narrow look. “Don’t tell me you think there’s more to this than the obvious? Big Man Ter tells a daft little girl that she’s the only one for him, and then when he makes the inevitable move on her, she realizes it’s not all love’s young dream and comes running to us to sort out the mess. How often have we seen that?”

  It was true—this was a standard irregularity and one they were often called on to resolve. But Inzegil’s instincts were very good, and today her instincts were telling her that the case was not over yet.

  Artamer too, the Autarch bless him, knew and trusted his colleague’s instincts. “Come on, Inz,” he said with resignation. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “It’s Hertome,” she said. “There’s something about him I don’t like.”

  “He’s a predatory creep,” Artamer said bluntly. “What’s to like?”

  “I don’t know. There was something about his responses to me that didn’t ring true.”

  “Sounded perfectly contrite from where I was sitting. And what does it matter? Even if he was concealing his true feelings, reconditioning will sort that out for him.”

  “If he gets as far as reconditioning.”

  “What?” Artamer looked at her in disbelief. “You think he might try to go on the run? That would be mad! Where would he go? Outside, he’ll soon start to panic. Back to the city, and the EE-network will pick him up.” He shrugged. “Let him go on the run if he wants to. That’s his problem. There’ll be a nice warm cot waiting for him in Re-Co when he realizes that he doesn’t like the great outdoors very much after all.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about Hertome Ter Ata-C,” said Inzegil. “He can drag himself all the way down to decommissioning as far as I’m concerned. What does concern me is what he might do to those two Rets in the meantime.”

  Now Artamer really sat up and paid attention. “You think he might try to harm them?”

  “If he’s the kind that doesn’t understand that the fault lies with h
im, then he’ll externalize that fault, and he’ll put the blame on the people who reported him to the enforcers.” She glanced at Artamer, who was listening with keen interest. “I might be misjudging him. He might be sitting quietly in his cabin waiting for his pickup and reflecting upon his errors.”

  “If he has any sense, he’ll be doing just that. What do you want to do? We can stop the boat now and take him back if you want.”

  “Mmm . . .” Inzegil considered that. “I’m not sure it would be best. If he understands his fault and is simply waiting to be collected, stopping will cause a serious disruption and might distress some of the Atas. And those two girls wouldn’t be very popular. They shouldn’t be punished any more. Agonizing over what we might do to them was punishment enough. But if we wait, he might find a way to get to them.” She paused. “Our chief responsibility is to the Rets. We’re here to protect them from Hertome as much as from themselves.”

  “Then let’s stick around. Hand Hertome over to his collectors, then see the two of them back to the city.” Artamer sighed. “Oh, well, not too long now till the boat turns for home.”

  “I think that’s probably for the best,” Inzegil said. She gestured an apology. “Sorry, Art. I know you’re keen to get back.”

  “That’s all right, Inzy. It is our function. But sometimes I find my function very hard.”

  • • •

  Dax sat in her quarters with Bowers and Hyatt and watched the recording of Alden’s interview. Alden was running rings around her first officer and counselor. Partway through, she switched off.

  “I know,” said Bowers apologetically. “What can we do? He’s trained to withstand torturers.”

  “Susan,” Dax said. “Any suggestions?”

  Hyatt sighed. “Perhaps Sam and Lonnoc could eventually get him to make a mistake,” she said. “But it would take time—”

  “We don’t have time,” Dax said. “We’re on the brink of war.” She tapped her knuckles against her cheek. “What if I talked to him? What effect might that have on him? Would he trust me?”

  “Ezri,” Hyatt said, “you’re one of the last people he trusts right now, with the possible exception of whoever ordered him to do this—if such a person exists. Speaking as a counselor, and with Alden’s well-being in mind, I’d say leave it to Sam and Lonnoc. Lonnoc’s demonstrated her reliability on the mission with him, and as for Sam . . . well, everyone trusts Sam. He just gives off that vibe.”

  Bowers shook his head. “I know when I’m out of my league, Susan.”

  Dax pondered her options. “If he was ordered to do this, he won’t say a word to them. He might to me.”

  “I don’t think he would,” Hyatt said. “The only way that Peter Alden is going to confess to this is if he was acting on his own initiative. Eventually, the strain of the secret will become too much and he’ll have to tell. But he wouldn’t tell you. He won’t risk breaking down in front of you. It needs someone close to you, but not you. If there are answers to be had, then Sam and Lonnoc will get them. But it’s going to take careful handling, and it’s going to take time.”

  “We don’t have time,” Dax said again.

  Hyatt and Bowers looked at her sadly. “Decision’s yours, Captain,” Bowers said, with a rueful smile.

  Decision’s mine.

  • • •

  A somber mood lay upon the hall when the Federation representatives went to meet Rusht, Vitig, the people of the Venette Convention, and Alizome Vik Tov-A.

  The hall was packed. The seats vacated by the Ferengi and Cardassian diplomatic teams were filled by Venetans who did not want to miss seeing this pivotal moment in the history of their worlds. Only around the Federation contingent was there a suggestion of space, as if the people of Venette wanted to signify the distance between them and their difficult visitors. Crusher keenly felt the absence of the other parties. It was as if Alizome had picked them off, one by one. Now only the Federation remained to represent the Khitomer Accords, and to prevent the militarization of the Venetan border.

  But what cards do we have to play? Crusher thought desperately, looking around the hostile room. There’s still the offer to deliver whatever medical supplies the Tzenkethi require, but will we get a chance to make that offer again? Surely this whole business with the bomb is going to stop us even mentioning it.

  Rusht, her expression grim, asked her fellow Venetans for quiet. Once the room had settled, she passed around padds showing images and readings that gave information about the explosive device found on Outpost V-4. The data was displayed on screens around the room and, Crusher assumed, could be seen in every Venetan dwelling.

  “I have learned from all our prior conversations,” Rusht said to the Federation team, “that simply asserting the truth—that an attempt was made to sabotage Outpost V-4—will be insufficient for you.” She gestured to the padds and the screens. “Here is as much evidence as I am able to give you from this distance. You could now claim that these images have been falsified, and that Dax should be given permission to inspect Outpost V-4 again. However, you have my word. Doubly. You have my word that these images are not forgeries. And you have my word that no Starfleet officer will ever again set foot on a Venetan base.”

  The room gave its strong approval.

  “Rusht,” said Jeyn, “we do not doubt your word. But you do us a great disservice. And you give us no proof that this bomb was planted by a Starfleet officer—”

  “Who else would it be?” Rusht said. “One of us, forgetting herself and her principles entirely? From what I hear from Heldon, the most likely candidate in that respect is your own Peter Alden. Or do you mean to imply that it is the Tzenkethi on the base who are responsible?” Her expression became even more severe. “Again and again, I’ve told you that we do not look favorably upon your attempts to slander our friends. But you do not listen to what we say!”

  “But Rusht,” Picard replied quietly, “you slander us in turn when you suggest that one of our officers must be responsible and yet offer no proof that is the case. It goes against everything this uniform stands for.”

  Rusht frowned. An uncertain ripple crossed the room. When it died down, Rusht nodded. “You’re right, Picard. That was unjust of me, and unworthy of us all. But there is a simple way to resolve this and to demonstrate your good faith: send Peter Alden to Heldon on Outpost V-4. She is sympathetic, intelligent, and reasonable. She will soon determine whether or not he is responsible.”

  Picard shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not?” asked Rusht.

  The room wanted to know that too.

  “Do you think that we’ll harm him?” Rusht said. “We’re more likely to discover whether he’s suffering from some emotional distress that your own doctors have either failed to see or else have willfully ignored. Again, I must ask that he speak to Heldon. I understand that he is a friend of Captain Dax, and that perhaps her loyalty to him prevents her from issuing whatever order would make him go back to Outpost V-4. That’s certainly commendable on her part, but unwise. But you can order Dax, can you not? That is how your system works? And she would obey that order, wouldn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Picard said. “But I will not order her to do so. And no, Rusht, I do not believe that you would harm him. Not you.” He looked meaningfully along the table toward Alizome.

  Crusher drew in a silent breath. You’re taking a risk, Jean-Luc. I hope it pays off. But, really, what other option was available to them? Either they somehow separated the Venetans from the Tzenkethi, or they left now and prepared for war.

  Rusht, baffled, followed Picard’s gaze. And recoiled. “You believe that our Tzenkethi friends would be the ones to harm him?”

  “I believe it’s possible.”

  Alizome leaned forward to speak, but Picard continued his offensive.

  “Rusht, has it crossed your mind that even though you are scrupulously telling the truth, your allies might be lying? And that they might be lying to you?”

 
Deep disapproval sounded from around the room. Picard lifted his voice to keep pace, but he did not sound aggressive. He merely sounded authoritative.

  “There is no proof,” he said, “that this bomb was planted by anyone from Starfleet during their visit to your base. It’s possible, yes, but it’s also possible that it was planted by your so-called allies to prevent you from accepting our offer of alternative medical supplies.”

  Again, he had to raise his voice to be heard over the noisy consensus surrounding him. “Our officers were on your base for a few hours at the most, and they were accompanied throughout. Your ‘allies’ certainly had much more opportunity to plant the bomb—and motive.”

  Now he turned to address the whole room and, through the recording devices, the whole Venette Convention. He swung his hand out toward Alizome, and, with the gesture, implicated her government and her Autarch.

  “Isn’t it possible,” he said, “that they’re lying to you? That they were lying to you before we arrived, that they’ve been lying to you throughout these talks, and that they will continue lying to you until their bioweapons are placed on your base and your three beautiful systems are put into the front line of a bitter war among the major powers? Isn’t it possible?”

  The room fell terribly, frighteningly silent. Crusher gripped her hands around her knees. I know they’ve said they prefer plain speaking, she thought, but does anyone want to be spoken to so plainly?

  Alizome unraveled from her seat. “This is slander! Captain Picard, how often will you harass my people? Not content with attacking our ships, now you attempt to destroy our friendships—”

  “Speaker Alizome,” Picard replied, “I am not here to talk to you. I am here to talk to those delegated by the Venette Convention to speak on their behalf. You claim to support their right to self-determination and yet you prove that to be a lie every time you speak on their behalf.”

  That, Crusher saw, had hit its mark. The consensus around the room collapsed as quickly as it had formed, and every single Venetan seemed to want to make his or her opinion known. Alizome raised her voice in an attempt to be heard over the noise. A mistake, Crusher thought. She was only proving what Jean-Luc had said.