Star Trek: Typhon Pact 04 - Paths of Disharmony

by Dayton Ward

  After bending to kiss her, Jean-Luc stepped over to René, kissing him on the top of his head before reaching out to caress the boy’s thin, dark hair. “Thankfully, the delegation we’re transporting is proving to be very easy to handle, at least in comparison to some of the other times we’ve been assigned this sort of duty. I have to say, I almost miss some of the theatrics.”

  “That’s what happens when the politicians stay home,” Beverly said.

  “Indeed,” Picard replied, releasing a sigh. “As for the other, you know, there was a time when I could review that material in far less time. Am I slowing down with old age, or is there just that much more to read?”

  “Yes,” Beverly teased, smiling as she watched him move to the replicator. When he ordered the unit to provide a tossed-greens salad with a raspberry vinaigrette dressing, she could not help the small chuckle that escaped her lips. “I see you’re following the diet card I wrote up for you.”

  The replicator delivered his salad, which Jean-Luc retrieved before turning back to the table. “As if I had any choice.”

  “Well, you were a bit overweight at your last physical,” she said, her tone teasing as Jean-Luc settled into the seat on the other side of René. For his part the child had forsaken the remainder of his own meal and was now watching his father with rapt attention.

  He regarded her across the table, his eyes narrowing. “You said yourself that I’m in fine condition for a man of my age.”

  “True enough,” Beverly replied, “but it’s in my best interest to keep you in top form.” She bobbed her eyebrows in suggestive fashion before taking another sip of water from her glass. “And don’t think I won’t check the programming for the replicator in your ready room.”

  “I’ve already asked Commander La Forge to place it under voice print lockout,” Jean-Luc said, playing the game. “Captain’s prerogative.”

  Beverly shrugged. “Maybe, but Geordi wants me to introduce him to my new medical intern, Dr. Harstad, so he owes me a favor or two.” Tamala Harstad was a recent addition to the Enterprise crew, replacing Dr. th’Shelas, who, like a handful of other Andorian crew members, had resigned his Starfleet commission and returned to his homeworld to assist with rebuilding efforts. At last report, th’Shelas was working in a small hospital in one of the isolated southern regions that had survived the Borg attack yet sustained massive damage and thousands of casualties.

  “It’s always something, isn’t it?” Jean-Luc asked as he picked up his fork and stabbed at the green leaves on his plate. He had barely put the first bite in his mouth when René indicated that he was done with his supper by extending both arms toward his father.

  “Well,” Beverly replied, “it doesn’t hurt that she seems interested in him, too.”

  As he reached for the boy and brought him to his lap, Jean-Luc said, “So, we’re adding matchmaker to your list of talents, are we?” When she chose to offer as her only response a knowing smile, he changed the subject, nodding to the computer interface. “I take it you’re reviewing Professor zh’Thiin’s research?”

  “Just getting started,” Beverly replied, shaking her head. “Genetic resequencing has never been a strong suit of mine.” Rolling her eyes, she added, “Maybe you remember that mess with Barclay?” Reviewing zh’Thiin’s logs had only served to remind her of the unfortunate series of events that had transpired after her attempt to treat Lieutenant Reginald Barclay for the Urodelan flu he had contracted. Her chosen remedy was to use the synthetic version of a form of white blood cell—thymus lymphocytes, or “T cells” as they were colloquially known—to help him fight his infection. An unknown anomaly affecting the lieutenant’s genetic structure resulted in an unanticipated mutation of the T cells, activating a latent gene that, when working in concert with the Urodelan flu already in his body, triggered a bizarre transformation in Barclay, causing him to “de-evolve.” The mutation, spurred by the flu virus, also became airborne, eventually contaminating everyone on the ship, save for Jean-Luc and their dear, departed friend, Data. Off the ship at the time of the outbreak, they had returned to find the degenerating crew, and Data was the one who had fashioned a cure to reverse the regression process.

  Pausing with a forkful of salad poised before his lips, Jean-Luc replied, “Will tried to eat my fish, as I recall.”

  “Well, understanding what happened then is nothing compared to trying to make sense of Professor zh’Thiin’s work.” Beverly gestured toward the terminal. “Reading this makes me feel like a first-year student all over again.”

  Jean-Luc placed his fork down on his plate, freeing his hand to situate René in a better position in his lap. “Come, now. You’ve done your share of work in this area, thanks in no small part to several encounters we’ve had with previously unknown species and diseases, to say nothing of the role you played in helping to complete Dr. Galen’s research. I wouldn’t think twice about pitting your hard-won experiences in the field against any academic’s theories and dissertations.” When René reached for the salad, his father pushed back his chair, widening the gap between his plate and his son’s determined grasp.

  “The Barclay incident wasn’t your fault,” he continued. “I read the report and paper you submitted to Starfleet Medical. His condition was unique, offering no means of anticipating the effects of your treatment. Still, I’d think that experience would have proven to be a valuable learning opportunity with respect to genetic mutation or manipulation.”

  “Maybe,” Beverly replied, reaching up to massage the back of her neck, and unable to resist smiling in appreciation at her husband’s steadfast support. In the hope of aiding her current research, Beverly had even revisited some of the notes recorded by Jean-Luc’s late mentor, Federation archeologist Richard Galen. It was Galen who had discovered fragments of four-billion-year-old genetic code contained within the DNA of dozens of humanoid species throughout the quadrant, and his research eventually had revealed this commonality to be a deliberate machination, left by an ancient and now-extinct humanoid civilization. After exploring the stars and finding no other beings like themselves, these humanoids had seeded this genetic code into primeval, evolving forms of life on numerous worlds, providing a common link to uncounted races throughout the galaxy.

  “I have to tell you, Jean-Luc,” she continued, “the work zh’Thiin’s done is nothing short of remarkable. I’m just beginning to scratch the surface, but some of the theories she’s postulating about gene therapy and resequencing are mind-boggling. Some of it looks as though she was inspired by the research Dr. Galen performed, but in many respects, zh’Thiin has charted her own course.”

  Jean-Luc frowned. “How do you mean?”

  Reaching to turn the computer terminal so he could see it, Beverly said, “According to her notes, she’s been working to develop an artificial strand of DNA code that can be resequenced within living DNA—in this case, Andorian—to repair the defective genes. This isn’t like other gene therapy, where existing DNA is resequenced to repair birth defects, Jean-Luc. We’re talking about introducing something entirely new into the equation, which is the part of zh’Thiin’s research that’s causing the controversy on Andor. But, if the computer simulations she’s run are any indication, this could be the best chance of helping the Andorians to solve this crisis, once and for all.”

  “And she’s developed this artificial DNA on her own?” Jean-Luc asked.

  Beverly nodded. “According to her notes, which are extensive. Her work on this aspect of her research goes back almost a year, but you can see hints of it going back farther than that. She was working on this problem even before joining the project in an official capacity, making her the best choice to continue in Dr. sh’Veileth’s stead. It’s really quite something.”

  His meal forgotten as he divided his attention between René and the computer display, Jean-Luc turned to regard Beverly. “If only the Andorian people were as receptive to the professor’s ideas as you seem to be.”

  “Not all
Andorians are against zh’Thiin,” Beverly countered, reaching once more for her water glass. “The best estimates say that opinions are divided pretty evenly on the subject. It wasn’t always that way, but the Borg attack changed a lot of minds. There are many segments of Andorian society who now believe that if drastic action isn’t taken, the species is doomed within just a few generations.”

  “Is there any truth to that?” Jean-Luc asked, leaning over to lower René to the floor. Now free, the boy walked on unsteady legs away from the table, searching for one of the toys he had left near the sofa in the suite’s main room.

  Beverly shook her head. “No hard proof, but the data we have is so uncertain that one could draw that conclusion and not really be seen as a paranoid reactionary.” Shrugging, she added, “I suppose that’s enough to explain the sharp division in opinions.”

  “Well,” Jean-Luc said, rising from his chair and taking his plate back to the replicator, “hopefully, this conference can raise the level of debate on the issue.”

  Eyeing her husband as he turned from the replicator and walked to where René had busied himself playing, Beverly said, “The debate’s your problem. I’ve got my hands full just understanding how this will work.” For a time, she watched in silence as her husband and son interacted, with Jean-Luc having taken a seat on the floor next to René as the boy proffered a toy his father had made for him—a replica of a Constitution-class starship placed inside a transparent, unbreakable bottle.

  “Do you have to go back up?” she asked, after a moment.

  Resting on the floor with his back against the couch, Jean-Luc nodded as he pulled René into his lap and accepted the toy. “Yes, but it can wait until he goes to bed. Admiral DeSoto forwarded me several reports on Tholian, Breen, and Tzenkethi ship movements. He’s worried that the Typhon Pact might be trying to get away with something in some of the outlying systems while our attentions are elsewhere.”

  “What do you think?” Beverly asked.

  “So far,” Jean-Luc replied, “every move the Typhon Pact has made, regardless of the ultimate goal, has been carried out with deliberation and patience. Whatever they’re doing, it’s for a reason.”

  Beverly nodded in agreement. For the past year and for the most part, the Typhon Pact had seemed content to carry on with their affairs in private, though a handful of incidents had flown in the face of such proceedings. The theft of top-secret information and plans pertaining to Starfleet slipstream propulsion technology had been traced back to the Breen and no doubt sanctioned by the Pact. Incidents of interstellar merchant shipping running afoul of pirates believed to be working as contract agents with ties to Pact members were on the rise. The Romulan Empire was believed to be spearheading efforts to bring the Typhon Pact’s goals into focus, for purposes as yet unknown.

  Just what we need, she thought as she reached up to rub her temples, Romulans with goals.

  Noting his wife’s apparent distress, Jean-Luc asked, “I take it you’re working late again tonight?”

  “I think so, yes,” Beverly replied, stifling a sudden urge to yawn as she regarded the work arrayed before her. There was still so much to read, and she had taken copious notes on what she had already reviewed. The idea of waiting until the baby was put down for the night before resuming her work brought back yet another memory: caring for young Wesley at the same time she was completing her final year at Starfleet Medical Academy. There had been a lot of long days and nights then, too, many of them made all the more difficult and oftentimes exasperating due to her late husband, Jack, being gone on assignment aboard the Stargazer.

  The more things change, she mused.

  It did not matter how tired she was or how frustrating her work might be, Beverly decided. All of that was easy to forget in the face of the joy she now felt, to say nothing of the ever-strengthening bond between her and Jean-Luc. If anything, it fueled her desire to see this through; to contribute to Professor zh’Thiin’s efforts in any way possible. If those labors were successful, then anyone on Andor who sought such happiness, to say nothing of zh’Thiin herself, would be able to enjoy the feelings Beverly now was experiencing.

  That had to be worth at least a few more sleepless nights.

  9

  “What are you doing?”

  Looking up from her desk, Chen turned to see her friend Lieutenant Dina Elfiki standing in the open doorway leading from her quarters. “How did you get in here?” she asked.

  Elfiki regarded her with an almost Vulcan-like expression, her right eyebrow arching as she smirked. “You just told me to come in.”

  “I did?” Chen asked. Then, blinking several times, she shook her head. “Whatever.” Swiveling her chair back to face her desk, she looked down at the mess she had created.

  “What is all that?” Elfiki asked as she strode across the room. “Wait, don’t tell me. You broke one of Commander La Forge’s diagnostic scanners again, didn’t you?”

  Reaching across the desk for her tricorder, Chen replied, “I wish it were that simple. This is something I’m working on for Dr. Crusher.” Arrayed before her atop a rubber work mat were the components of the flute. After running a thorough scan of the instrument and capturing a complete schematic of its construction, she had disassembled it with painstaking care, recording each step of the process with her tricorder so that she could reverse the procedure when the time came.

  “It’s a flute?” Elfiki asked, frowning as she looked over Chen’s shoulder and read the tricorder’s display.

  Chen nodded. “A very special, one-of-a-kind flute. Irreplaceable, I’m told.” One evening after her duty shift, she had accessed the mission logs from Picard’s tenure as captain of the Enterprise-D, reading the report filed after the ship’s encounter with the automated probe launched by the long-extinct population of the planet Kataan. Chen had read with rapt fascination the accounts of the bridge officers on duty when the probe incapacitated Captain Picard for a period of twenty-five minutes, but it was the captain’s own recounting of what he had experienced during that brief span that had prevented Chen from sleeping that night. The report, written with a level of passion and detail unrivaled even by Picard’s usual meticulous attention to such matters, had compelled Chen to keep reading without regard for the lateness of the hour. During the time Dr. Crusher and the rest of the bridge crew thought Picard to be in a coma, he instead was in communion with the probe, which transmitted into his mind the life experiences of a Kataan native, Kamin. From Picard’s point of view, he lived for decades as Kamin, raising a family and watching as Kataan suffered the effects of an extended drought that ultimately doomed the planet. After the connection was severed, an inspection of the probe revealed that it contained—among other mementos—the flute Kamin had played throughout his life; the same flute that now lay disassembled on Chen’s desk.

  Reading and rereading the report, she could not see how Picard’s experiences at the hands of the probe, which had imbued him with the history and culture of a civilization dead and gone for more than a millennium, had not affected him on some fundamental level. There was the flute, of course, which, according to Dr. Crusher, was among the captain’s most prized possessions. Even damaged as it had been from the destruction to his ready room, Picard had kept it, cleaned it, replaced the decorative tassel, and held on to it despite being denied the pleasure and comfort he derived from playing the instrument.

  “Enterprise to Lieutenant Chen.”

  It took an extra moment to remember that she was not alone, and Chen blinked away her reverie and turned to look at Elfiki, who now was regarding her with amused skepticism. “What?” she asked, shaking off the last bit of distracted remembrance.

  “Wow,” Elfiki said, “you really beamed out there for a minute, didn’t you? Widest possible dispersion and everything.” Indicating the dismantled flute, she asked, “How long have you been working on that thing, anyway?”

  Chen shrugged. “A couple of days. Dr. Crusher gave it to me the night we
left Earth.”

  Shaking her head, Elfiki frowned. “Can’t you just replicate what you need? Better yet, why not just replicate a whole new one?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Chen said, “and that’s not the point, anyway.” If such a solution truly were viable, she believed that Picard would have done so himself by now. That he had not spoke volumes about the sentimental value of this object. Chen knew from her tricorder scans as well as her own visual inspection of the instrument that she would have to replace at least some of its internal components, but she planned to do so without relying on a replicator to speed up the process. Instead, she had decided to fashion any necessary replacement parts herself, with her own two hands. So far, she had found the exercise of disassembling and studying the flute to be a surprising form of relaxation. It was a creative challenge that she welcomed, and she had no intention of shortchanging her own satisfaction at completing the task given to her.

  “You really respect him, don’t you?” Elfiki asked. “Captain Picard.”

  Looking up from the tricorder in her hand, Chen turned to her friend. “Yeah, I do. You know what’s weird? I can count on one hand, with fingers left over, how many people I respect that way. I knew how tough he could be before I came aboard, how rigid and proper and all that, and I figured I’d shoot myself in the foot within the first day, but that didn’t happen.” She smiled. “Sure, we bumped heads a few times, but that’s to be expected when we’re talking about me, right? He probably could have thrown me off the ship if he’d wanted to a dozen times over, but instead I’ve had more opportunities to contribute something here than at any other time since I joined Starfleet. I don’t get it.”

  Elfiki shrugged. “Maybe he just sees through that rebellious façade you like to put on, and found whatever it is inside you that makes you a decent Starfleet officer. I just wish he’d tell the rest of us, because I’ve tried scanning with full sensors and haven’t been able to find it.”