Star Trek: 24th Century Crossover - 018 - Section 31 - Disavowed

by David Mack

  Picard stood tall and smoothed the front of his black uniform tunic. “Commander Troi, hail them. Commander K’Ehleyr, relay my command screen to the main viewer, left one-third.”

  Troi keyed in the commands. “Opening hailing frequencies.” A moment later she touched the small, inconspicuous earpiece she wore while on bridge duty. “They’re responding.”

  On the left third of the forward viewscreen, the text that Picard had been studying for the past several days was superimposed over the image of the fleet of Jem’Hadar warships that the Enterprise had met in the Bajor system. Picard swallowed his apprehensions. “On-screen.”

  The daunting spectacle of the Dominion battle group was replaced by the unsettling image of one of the Dominion’s revered Founders. She was humanoid, pale, and vaguely feminine in her carriage and aspect. Her chestnut hair was taut against her skull.

  To her left stood a Jem’Hadar who was intimidating even by the fearsome standards of his genetically engineered super-soldier brothers-in-arms. On the Founder’s right stood a creature Picard had come to recognize as a Vorta; this one was lovely, young, and female, and went by the appellation Eris.

  The Founder acknowledged Picard with an almost imperceptible bow, a forward lean of just a few degrees. “Greetings.”

  Protocol was of paramount importance now. Picard resisted the urge to extemporize and forced himself to follow what he had been told was the negotiated script for this encounter. He read the words from the side of the screen while doing his best to maintain steady eye contact with the Founder, despite the unnerving quality of her presence.

  “Greetings. I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard, commanding officer of the free starship Enterprise. On behalf of the Galactic Commonwealth, I welcome you and your entourage in peace, and greet you as honored guests to our quadrant of the galaxy.”

  The Founder’s reply was just as stilted as Picard’s salutation, which he supposed meant she was reading from the preapproved script, just as he had been.

  “Thank you, Captain Picard. On behalf of the Founders, the Dominion, and my traveling companions, I accept your gracious welcome in the selfsame spirit of peace. May this first official visit prove beneficial to both our peoples.”

  The script recommended a slight bow by Picard at that juncture, and he did as it directed. Then he straightened and put on a slight smile—one warm enough to be ingratiating but not so exaggerated as to call itself into question. “It is my duty and pleasure to confirm that you and a contingent of your choosing are invited to follow us to Bajor, the fourth planet of this system. On its surface you will be welcomed and offered accommodations meeting your previously stated requirements. After a brief interlude, you will be invited to a private audience with our elected head of state, Chairman Michael Eddington of the Commonwealth Assembly.”

  The Founder copied Picard’s well-practiced smile with unnerving precision. “Thank you, Captain. We are honored to receive your gracious invitation, and I look forward to meeting with Chairman Eddington. My trusted lieutenants, Commander Eris of the Vorta, and Honored Elder Taran’atar of the Jem’Hadar, will stand ready to receive your approved flight plan and issue such orders as are necessary to follow your vessel to orbit of Bajor. There we will await final authorization from the planetary authorities to initiate our transport to the surface.”

  “Very good.” Picard turned his head and nodded at Troi, who entered commands into her panel, as rehearsed. “We are transmitting the flight plan to your vessel now. In a few moments we will come about on a new heading. At that time, please follow us to Bajor. Once we’ve all made orbit, final transport coordinates will be sent to our vessel by Bajor Planetary Operations Command, and we will relay those coordinates to you.”

  A curt half nod from the Founder. “We understand, Captain. Thank you.”

  The transmission ended abruptly, returning the image of the Jem’Hadar battle fleet to the Enterprise’s main viewscreen. Picard sighed with relief. The exchange had ended on cue without any major gaffes by either party. So far, he had fulfilled his duty by not misspeaking the Commonwealth into an accidental war. He turned away from the viewscreen and looked at K’Ehleyr. “Commander, set course for Bajor, quarter impulse.”

  “Aye, sir.” K’Ehleyr issued curt orders to the helmsman and navigator, who pivoted the ship back the way it had come, toward the Bajoran homeworld. Then the half-Klingon woman fired off a quick smile at Picard. “Nicely done, sir.”

  “Thank you, Number One.” He sank back into his command chair. “Now all we have to do is lead those ships into orbit. After that, if someone starts a war by mistake, it’ll be Chairman Eddington’s fault.”

  * * *

  Chairman Michael Eddington stared dumbfounded at the array of cutlery set at each place along the banquet table. He had no idea why any meal should require a person to use three forks and two spoons, all of varying sizes, not to mention two knives, three glasses, and a teacup of bone china so delicate that he was certain his would crumble at the slightest touch of his hand.

  No one in the Galactic Commonwealth had ever hosted an official reception for a visiting foreign head of state. A few persons ensconced within the fledgling interstellar government had once or twice acted as servants, attending the dignitaries at affairs of the now-defunct Klingon-Cardassian Alliance, but none of them had ever been privileged to coordinate such an event. Forced to improvise on nearly every detail of the formal soiree, the catering staff had delivered a state dinner marked by equal measures of pomp and paranoia.

  The senior delegates of the Commonwealth Assembly gathered around the lanky, fair-haired Eddington. To his left, Kellerasana zh’Faila of Andor—“Sana,” to her friends—stood with Min Zife of Bolarus. Both the Andorian zhen and the Bolian man had bedecked themselves in off-white finery that contrasted with their blue complexions. Zife’s skin tone was a few shades darker than zh’Faila’s. Seeing them together, Eddington thought of cobalt and cornflower.

  Behind the chairman’s right shoulder stood the Assembly’s other two senior delegates, who were also its most frequently opposed verbal sparring partners: Bera chim Gleer of Tellar and Sevok of Vulcan. Despite their proclivity for debate inside the Assembly chamber, the Tellarite and the Vulcan were inseparable friends outside it. Tonight, Gleer had draped his lean frame in green and gray; Sevok wore the humble, simple garb of his people, a dark brown hooded cassock cinched at the waist by a long, rough, unbleached rope knotted at each end.

  Gleer picked up one of the forks. “What’s with the gardening tools?”

  Zh’Faila almost swatted Gleer’s four-fingered hand. “Put that down!”

  He wrinkled his snout at her. “Relax. I’m not going to steal it.”

  “No one said that,” Zife protested, as if he feared a diplomatic incident were unfolding.

  Sevok unfolded his clasped hands to gesture at the fork in Gleer’s hand. “Her advice is sound, Bera. A strict protocol governs events such as this one. Even the smallest item out of place can be taken as an intentional slight and undermine years of diplomatic groundwork.”

  Eddington rested his hand on Gleer’s shoulder in what he hoped would be seen as a congenial gesture. “Please, Bera. Listen to Sevok and put the fork down before you start a war.”

  A low snort escaped Gleer’s flared nostrils. “Fine.” He returned the fork to its place on the table. “I still think any meal that needs this much hardware isn’t worth eating.”

  A fanfare sounded from outside the banquet hall and put an end to the discussion of flatware, much to Eddington’s relief. He and the others took their places.

  The delegates lined up by seniority on either side of the red carpet that started just inside the hall’s gargantuan double doors and ran down the broad aisle in the center of the room. Interspersed among the elected representatives were high-ranking commanders from Starfleet, the Commonwealth’s defense and exploration agency.

  Behind the lines of people in dress uniforms and crisply tailored formal we
ar, dozens of large circular tables awaited them and their guests from the far side of the galaxy. A minor legion of servers stood along the room’s back wall, all of them attentive and waiting for their cue to begin serving the dinner, one exquisite course at a time.

  The towering doors swung inward. The Dominion contingent entered.

  At the head of the long procession was the Founder who, as far as Eddington had been able to determine, had no proper name as he understood it. She was simply the individual selected by her race, the Changelings, to speak on behalf of the Dominion. He was unnerved by her oddly undefined face. Blank of detail or expression, her visage reminded Eddington of an artist’s mannequin, or an unfinished sculpture.

  A male Vorta, slight of build but with keen eyes, trailed the Founder by just over a pace, behind her right shoulder. Opposite the Vorta walked a grizzled, scarred Jem’Hadar. As per the negotiated terms of the summit, no one had come to the reception bearing arms, but one look at the company of Jem’Hadar filing into the banquet room convinced Eddington that the Dominion’s soldiers were more than capable of killing them all bare-handed, and perhaps even blindfolded. He swallowed hard. All the more reason to make sure this meeting goes well.

  The Founder stopped at arm’s length in front of Eddington. “Mister Chairman.”

  “Madam Founder. Welcome to the Galactic Commonwealth.” He gestured to the delegates who stood closest behind him, on either side of the red carpet. “Allow me to present the senior members of our governing assembly.” He introduced zh’Faila, Gleer, Sevok, and Zife in turn. The Founder acknowledged each of them with the slightest bow of her head.

  Then it was her turn to speak. She gestured first to the Vorta. “Allow me to present my senior diplomatic counselor, Weyoun.”

  Her aide-de-camp clasped Eddington’s outstretched hand in both of his. The Vorta flashed the most obsequious grin the chairman had ever seen. “A pleasure to meet you, Chairman Eddington. I expect this conference to usher in great things for both our peoples.”

  Eddington extracted his hand from Weyoun’s grip. “Very nice to meet you, sir.”

  When he turned toward the Founder, he stood confronted instead by her imposing Jem’Hadar escort. For a moment, Eddington thought he saw a glimmer of mirth on the Founder’s smooth face, but if he did, it passed without comment. She folded her hands at her waist. “This is Taran’atar, the Jem’Hadar First and Honored Elder who discovered our terminus of the wormhole. He is the oldest and most accomplished Jem’Hadar who has ever lived.”

  At the risk of having his hand crushed, Eddington extended it to Taran’atar. “Welcome.”

  The Jem’Hadar looked at Eddington’s hand but made no move to accept the gesture until the Founder urged him in a low voice. “Taran’atar.” As soon as she spoke his name, he took Eddington’s hand in a firm but respectful grip and shook it once before letting it go.

  Grateful to have escaped unscathed from his first encounter with a Jem’Hadar, Eddington took a half step back and smiled at the Founder. “Now that the pleasantries have been observed, why don’t we all take our seats and—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the Founder cut in.

  Her stern rebuff made Eddington self-conscious. “I don’t understand.”

  Weyoun shot an imploring look at his head of state. “Founder?” He waited until she nodded her assent, and then he looked at Eddington as he continued. “Perhaps it would help, Mister Chairman, if you explained why there are so many places set at these tables.”

  Confused glances passed among the Commonwealth delegates as Eddington replied to Weyoun. “So that we can all sit and dine together. It’s a chance for us to get to know one another in a social setting before we start discussing the terms of our treaty and trade agreement.”

  The Founder exuded disappointment as she shook her head. “So predictable. It’s been so long since we’ve dealt with solids who weren’t already socialized by contact with the Dominion, that we’ve forgotten how”—she let her disdainful gaze pass over the elaborately set tables—“quaint your customs can be.”

  Eddington was not ready to give up so easily. “Perhaps you could indulge us this once.”

  “Quite impossible, I’m afraid. My species does not ingest organic matter for sustenance.”

  “And your entourage?”

  Taran’atar spoke with pride. “Jem’Hadar require no nourishment other than the white.”

  That left Weyoun, who shrugged and hid behind his fawning half smile. “Vorta have almost no sense of taste. I’m afraid my own palate is limited to kava nuts and rippleberries.”

  Behind his back, Eddington heard Gleer quip under his breath to the other delegates, “Well, this was time and effort well spent.”

  The chairman shot a quick skunk-eye glare over his shoulder at the delegates, quashing any nascent replies to the Tellarite’s off-the-cuff snark. He softened his aspect when he faced the Founder again. “Might I suggest we retire to a more private location, then?”

  She approved with a tilted half nod. “A capital idea, Mister Chairman.” Her manner turned cold and steely as she spoke to Taran’atar. “Deploy your men. Secure the perimeter.”

  A single gesture from Taran’atar was all it took to snap the Jem’Hadar into action. They moved swiftly, their every action precise and rehearsed. The rear half of the formation turned about and left the way they had come. The rest divided into squads of five and left through the room’s various exits. Some headed outside to establish a cordon around the ground floor of the Elemspur Monastery; others ascended to its upper levels to keep watch from above.

  Eddington led the Founder, Taran’atar, and Weyoun out of the banquet hall through its rear exit. Mystified expressions traveled across the faces of the delegates and Starfleet officers who watched them depart. In accordance with instructions Eddington had given to his peers before their arrival on Bajor, zh’Faila and Sevok fell in behind them.

  The group traversed a long hallway to a flower-filled solarium that, despite its seeming fragility, had been hardened with force fields into one of the safest sites on the surface of Bajor. A small round table awaited them in the middle of the circular, high-ceilinged room, whose transparent aluminum walls looked out upon a meticulously sculpted garden. Eddington took the seat that put his back to the garden’s hedge maze and motioned for the others to sit as well. The Founder sat opposite him, while Taran’atar and Weyoun remained standing behind her.

  Emulating their visitors, Sevok and zh’Faila eschewed their planned seats to stand behind Eddington, offering him their silent support.

  The chairman met the Founder’s unblinking stare. “To business, then.”

  “Agreed.” Her eyes narrowed, as if she were sizing him up to devour him whole. “Let’s not waste time being coy. What does your Commonwealth ask of the Dominion?”

  “Freedom to explore the Gamma Quadrant. A fair trade agreement for the importing and exporting of goods. An immigration policy. An extradition treaty. And full diplomatic relations.”

  His request was met by a low, cynical huff. “Your political agenda is even more ambitious than your dinner plans.”

  “We’re prepared to offer the same privileges that we seek. Your people would be welcome to travel in both directions through the wormhole, explore this quadrant of the galaxy, engage in—”

  The Founder halted him with a raised hand. “It’s not your terms that trouble us. Many within the Great Link harbor concerns about negotiating binding treaties with a state born so recently of revolution. The Dominion has persevered for more than two thousand of your years, while your Commonwealth has barely been weaned from its violent mother.”

  Weyoun cleared his throat as a preamble to butting in. “What’s more, your choice of a parliamentary representative democracy as your system of government seems . . . untenable.”

  “I will concede it is the worst form of government,” Eddington said, “except, of course, all those others that preceded it.”

&
nbsp; His attempt at levity was met by hard, unyielding stares. The Founder looked at Weyoun. “Give him our list of requested concessions.”

  The Vorta reached inside his loose, flowing robe and pulled out a small electronic device that was similar to a padd. He offered it to Eddington, who deflected it with a small gesture into the hands of Sevok. The Vulcan accepted the padd without comment, and then he and Weyoun returned to their places, facing each other with naked suspicion.

  The Founder collected herself. “Take as much time as you require to review our proposal. When you are ready to resume our discussion, send word to Weyoun.” She stood, so Eddington got up, as well. The Founder nodded once at the chairman and his colleagues, and then she turned and walked out of the solarium, followed by Taran’atar and Weyoun.

  Sevok perused the information on the padd, then cocked one eyebrow. “Their list of demands is . . . substantial.”

  “Of course it is,” zh’Faila said. “Once again, politics is merely war by other means.”

  Eddington feared there might be more truth in the zhen’s complaint than she realized. “Sevok, review their demands and let me know which points seem the most negotiable. Sana, get word to Picard on the Enterprise and Saavik at Omega Prime. If this all goes to hell, they might need to be ready for anything—up to and including full-scale war.”

  Eight

  “Come in. Sit down.” Thot Tran ushered the Spetzkar company’s command team inside Ikkuna Station’s small auditorium. The six Breen elite commandos entered single-file and descended the ramp to the center row, where they settled into alternating seats. Tran admired their efficiency. Without hesitation or discussion, they had occupied the acoustic sweet spot of the tiered theater.

  Tran walked past them to the front of the auditorium and took his place on its low stage beside Choska, who held the remote control for the holographic projector system. He reduced the volume of his vocoder for the sake of discretion. “All set?”

  The Tzenkethi scientist nodded and stepped to one side of the stage, while Tran moved away to the other side. He cued Choska with a nod, and then he addressed the commandos as the holovid appeared in midair between him and his colleague.