Brinkmanship Page 9

  “All right, yes. I’ll do that.” Dax took a deep breath. “First, though, Heldon.”

  She went back into the room. Entrigar had gone, but Alden and Heldon were there: Heldon sitting at her desk and Alden standing rather sheepishly to one side.

  “Alden has made a charming apology,” Heldon said, “which I was glad to accept and which I shall pass on to Entrigar.” She eyed Alden thoughtfully and, Dax realized, with considerable compassion. “We’re all under a great deal of strain,” Heldon said after a moment. “Perhaps it would be best for you and your crew to return to your ship for a short while.”

  Cool down, she means, Dax thought. And get Alden out of here. She was touched by Heldon’s kind and tactful suggestion. The Venetan tendency toward bluntness certainly did not prevent them from seeing when face needed to be saved. Heldon glanced over at Dax and gave her a knowing smile. She seemed to be saying, These young people, Dax. You and I, we are both so much older. We have so much more patience, so much more resilience.

  “I’m aware that there are still questions in your mind about the solvents, Dax,” Heldon went on. “I’ll speak to Entrigar and see what we can do. Perhaps another visit to the medical facility can be arranged.”

  Dax nodded. “Thank you, Heldon. Thank you for everything.”

  • • •

  Parts of the Department of the Outside were still in lockdown, so Efheny found herself assigned to Karenzen again the next day. She saw Corazame only briefly in the washroom at the start of their shift, and they didn’t get a chance to speak before Karenzen’s voice came booming down the corridor, demanding to know what purpose the Ret Mayazan thought she served by standing under the shower all morning. Dashing to obey his summons, Efheny was hardly surprised when Corazame reached out to touch her hand and whispered, “I’ll come by later.”

  Corazame arrived at Efheny’s billet early in the evening. Efheny made a pot of kela, an expensive but friendly gesture. Corazame salted hers freely, while Efheny added enough not to attract comment. They curled up on the floor to savor it and chatted about the new songs that had been released earlier in the day on the E-bulletin. Then Corazame lowered her eyes and fell silent. Here it comes, thought Efheny, bracing herself.

  “I know,” said Corazame at last, staring down into her kela.

  “What do you mean, Cory?”

  “You know what I mean! I know about you and Hertome Ter Ata-C. I know that you’ve been meeting.” Quietly, almost inaudibly, Corazame added, “And I know the kinds of risks that you’re running.”

  For one brief, terrifying moment, Efheny thought that Corazame really did know. But no, no, she couldn’t possibly mean the truth . . .

  Corazame reached out to take her hand. “What I really wanted you to know was that I understand, Maymi,” she said shyly. “I’ve been where you are now. An Ata-CC. It was the best thing that has ever happened to me. It made me feel . . . special.”

  Efheny didn’t know what to say. She knew that Corazame was entrusting her with a great secret, one that could bring her to the attention of the enforcers. All romantic and sexual liaisons were scrutinized before being given official permission (or refusal) to proceed, in order to ensure that no errors or impurities crept into the genetic-screening programs. If Corazame and her lover had been discovered, Corazame Ret Ata-E would not be here now. She would be in a reconditioning camp, and when she was allowed to leave she would no longer have even an E classification. She would be graded 0, null, contaminating stock, unfit for breeding, the greatest badge of shame a Tzenkethi could bear.

  “The funny thing is,” Corazame went on, “that all the time it was happening, I worked much harder. I sang more too . . .” She shook her head. “But it couldn’t be, not given who I was. I know our purpose is to serve. I know that. It’s a great comfort.” She looked up. Her eyes were very bright. “But I wanted you to know that I understand, Maymi, and that your secret’s safe with me. You’ll have only a little time together. Enjoy it while you can. And I’ll be here for you when it ends.”

  They sat there for a while, simply holding hands. Corazame was emitting a gentle charge from her skin that they both found comforting. Efheny tried to think what was best to do. Should she deny that she and Hertome were lovers? But then Corazame would be hurt. She’d seen them together, after all, and it would seem that her friend Mayazan was lying to her after she had confided in her. Or should she say that she and Hertome had been lovers, but that the affair was over now? In the end, she fell back on the spy’s best tactic: sit still and say nothing.

  Eventually Corazame stirred. She smiled at Efheny, who smiled back, and she was just about to say something comforting to her friend when a red glow, undetectable from the outside, flooded her eye filters, and data began to stream past her eyes. It was her superiors at the embassy, giving Neta Efheny twenty-five skyturns’ warning before her extraction and issuing her instructions on how to get to her pickup point.

  • • •

  Xenoanthropologists studying all the major (and minor) powers frequently remark that there is one social ritual that cuts across all the cultures that fall within their purview. When asked what this is, they darkly reply, The knock on the door in the middle of the night.

  If you ask them to explain why this phenomenon is found across so many and such different civilizations, they give you a variety of answers utilizing an impressive arsenal of professional technical language (or, as some would call it, jargon). But the gist of their responses is this: that social control relies ultimately on fear of the power that others have over you, and that consequently the shocking display of power required to hammer on a door in the middle of the night, knock down that door, and drag out whoever is behind while you kick and scream and beg for mercy, has been universally shown to have the desired effect on anyone listening. They might hide beneath the covers, or turn up the volume on their holoviewer, or try to sing their loved ones back to sleep, but they will know what is happening nearby. And they will be afraid.

  That, most xenoanthropologists will tell you, is an almost universal experience.

  Like many assertions made by social scientists, it’s not entirely accurate. The explanation it gives of the phenomenon is very good but not the claim that such experiences are to be had across all civilizations at some point in their history. It is not, for example, found within the Venette Convention (and never was). Neither is it to be found on Ab-Tzenketh.

  On Ab-Tzenketh, as experts such as Neta Efheny or Peter Alden could tell you, enforcement relies less on inducing terror than on maintaining compliance. Tzenkethi remain docile, they would tell you, because they feel content. On Ab-Tzenketh, a ritualized display of force serves little purpose. It would not make people feel happy. It would not make them feel loved. It would only make them feel afraid, and frightened people dream of escape. That is not what the Autarch wants for his servants. Who would want to escape from Ab-Tzenketh, where one’s function is clear and life is so beautiful and so safe?

  Take this particular situation unfolding now. The two enforcers in the air car hovering above the Ata tenement on the far side of Velentur Lagoon could, if they chose, switch on sirens, set searchlights flaring, lower their car into the courtyard with the screech of high-grade entimium gears (enforcer air cars are state of the art), and, as a result, the whole surrounding area would be shocked from its slumber and lie awake in terror. But that is not what they want to achieve. All they want is the removal of the individual currently sleeping in a seventh-level billet.

  So, instead, they drop the air car’s lights and put the engine into a low-power mode. They descend into the small courtyard with a gentle, almost soundless whoomph. Before leaving the car, they dim their silvery flesh tones to a dull iron. Naturally, they check their weapons. They are not fools. They know the danger that their target might pose.

  They cross the courtyard silently to the correct stairwell. They use their master codes to find and unseal the entrance. They pass like ghosts upstairs. At
the door to the target’s billet, they pause to check what is within. It is like many other billets in this district: there is the seating space, the holoviewer, the heater, the gravity pocket on the anterior deck where some personal possessions are stacked, the bed, with its sole occupant fast asleep after the day’s labors. There are no surprises. Unsealing the door, they enter quickly and without fuss. The occupant, waking suddenly, cries out, but they are already there to muffle the sound. The contents of a hypospray are used to make the occupant unconscious, whereupon the comatose body is carried downstairs (this is the most awkward part) and secured in the back of the air car. The car lifts noiselessly, and not long afterward, the enforcers deliver their charge to the basement of the Department of the Outside, where numerous people are very eager to ask this particular individual numerous questions.

  An efficiently executed, almost routine job, carried out by experienced people. And if anyone nearby heard a thing, and consequently felt fear, he did not call it that but instead reminded himself how much the Autarch must love his people to bless them with enforcers whose function was to keep his servants safe and sleeping.

  • • •

  Day two of talks with the Venetans got off to an equally rocky start. Not because of anything Detrek was doing but because of her absence. The Venetans in the room muttered away, but Rusht sat silently in her seat, her expression becoming more severe and remote with every passing minute. Vitig exchanged a few quiet words with Alizome and then also sat and waited in quiet and dignified silence.

  Crusher eased forward in her seat and tapped Picard on the shoulder. “What’s going on? Where is she?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Want me to go and ask Dygan?”

  They glanced across the table to where Dygan and the other Cardassian juniors sat huddled together, whispering.

  “I’m not sure he knows much more than we do.”

  After about fifteen minutes, Rusht slowly began to gather up her data files. The assembled Venetans indicated their approval. The cheerful and friendly Venetan from the previous day leaned over to Crusher and said, “She’s not going out of her way to win any friends, is she?”

  On the whole, Crusher agreed. And when, three minutes later, Detrek did finally put in an appearance, her demeanor was hardly that of someone who wanted to apologize for her tardiness in arriving for a critical set of talks. She strode into the room, a padd in one hand, and pushed her way magisterially through the crowd to get to her place. She didn’t sit down. She stayed standing and looked around the room witheringly. The buzz of Venetan dislike rose, peaked, and then simmered down.

  “I’m glad I have your full attention,” Detrek said.

  Crusher’s heart went out briefly to Dygan, who seemed to be shrinking into his chair at every word.

  “And I hope that the whole of your convention is listening to this.” Detrek held up her padd. “I have been in conversation with my government this morning. The observers we sent to Outpost V-15 reported back last night. Based on their observations, and information supplied to us by . . . alternative sources here on Venette, we are in no doubt that Outpost V-15 is being fitted out for military use—”

  Picard started. “Has she quite lost her senses?”

  Crusher put her hand over her mouth. Had she heard that correctly? Alternative sources? Had Detrek all but come out and said that the Cardassian Intelligence Bureau was operating within the Venette Convention?

  The whole room was in an uproar. Detrek’s voice grew louder to compensate for the racket. “This is an outrage, Rusht!” she cried. “We came to your world in good faith. We have no history of disagreement with you, and this is how you choose to repay us—”

  Rusht rose from her chair, a tall woman with at least as much steel in her as in her Cardassian accuser. The room fell silent, and yet Crusher was left in no doubt of the respect in which the Venetans held this woman, and of their trust that she would know how to respond on behalf of them all.

  “I shall not dignify your accusations by asking you to prove them, Detrek,” she said softly, and the room agreed with her. “You were indeed invited here in good faith, but from the moment you entered this room, you have done nothing but demonstrate yourself unworthy of any trust.” She leaned down to speak quickly to Vitig and then looked over to Alizome, who nodded. “We shall not continue with this,” she said. “Not while you and your contingent remain in this room.”

  She turned to leave. Vitig followed, and Alizome, uncoiling from her place, took up the rear. The Venetans cheered and stamped their feet in support of the delegates, and booed loudly when Detrek strode out of the room. Over the noise, Crusher could hear Jeyn curse.

  “That’s it,” Picard said. “Detrek’s effectively removed herself from these negotiations. If we’re going to keep on talking to the Venetans, it will be without the Cardassians here.”

  “Akaar is going to hit the roof,” Jeyn said.

  Picard pulled himself out of his seat. “I’m going to speak to Dygan, get him assigned back to the Federation mission. I think we’re going to need him more than ever now. Jeyn, see if you can get to see Detrek. We need to meet with her about this at once. Damn it, she could have warned us about this!”

  He went around the table to where a shell-shocked Dygan was sitting. Crusher, standing up to go speak to Ilka, felt a tap on her arm. It was the friendly Venetan.

  “You need to find some better friends!” he said, and Crusher very nearly found herself agreeing with him.

  The backroom negotiations got nowhere. Rusht confirmed what Picard had guessed: the Venetans were no longer willing to speak to the Cardassians. Detrek had gone too far, and not even an apology was likely to make Rusht agree to speak to her again. Detrek, meanwhile, had shut her doors and was, seemingly, in conference with her castellan. And the day was not over yet.

  Captain Dax contacted the Enterprise to brief them on the presence of the P96 solvents and their significance in relation to navithium resin.

  Picard frowned. “Navithium resin?”

  “It’s a substance deadly to humans,” Crusher said. There was a cold, horrible sensation in her stomach, as if she was suddenly carrying a great weight. “It’s used in bioweapons.”

  “Bioweapons? Dax, you haven’t found some of this substance on Outpost V-4?”

  Dax shook her head. “No, and that’s my problem. Yes, there’s the presence of the stabilizing compounds. Yes, the Venetans have confirmed that the Tzenkethi have asked if they can stock certain ‘resinous compounds’ on the base. Yes, there’s a large medical facility being run by Tzenkethi who could all be bioweapons experts for all I know. And yes, the base is being refitted to cope with large Tzenkethi ships. Whether these will be merchant freighters or warships, your guess is as good as mine.”

  “That’s a great deal of evidence,” Picard said. “But all circumstantial.”

  “Exactly. Every single element is innocuous by itself. But put it all side by side and it looks horrifically like the Tzenkethi are intending to put bioweapons along the Venetan border with Federation space. And given what Detrek said earlier, I don’t think they’ll be stopping with our border. This could affect most of the powers in the Khitomer Accords.”

  Bioweapons. On three borders. It was too easy, Crusher realized, to imagine the horrors that could follow. Far too easy. We’ve seen too much in these last years.

  “But what does your mission specialist have to say about all this?” Picard asked. “What’s his opinion?” A pause followed Picard’s question. He frowned. “Captain Dax, what does Commander Alden have to say?”

  Dax sighed. “This is very difficult, Captain, and what I’m about to tell you I’m saying in the strictest confidence. Again, I have no evidence, but . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ve got serious doubts about Peter Alden.”

  “Doubts?” Picard said in alarm. “About his loyalty?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. About his judgment. He’s cer
tainly suffering from stress—”

  “If we weren’t suffering from stress after the last few years,” Crusher said softly, “we’d all be very ill indeed.”

  “This is something else.”

  Crusher looked at Dax in sympathy. “Just say it, Dax. It might turn out not to be true, but you’ve got to put it out there. You know it won’t go farther than us.”

  “I think it might be possible—just possible, mind you—that he’s suffering from a mild form of paranoia. I mean where the Tzenkethi are concerned. I can’t say for sure, my counselor hasn’t interviewed him at all, but . . .” Dax shook her head. “Something isn’t right. I can’t entirely trust his judgment where the Tzenkethi are concerned. He sees a threat where there might not necessarily be any.”

  “And he therefore presumably believes that the evidence is not circumstantial but definitive proof,” Picard said.

  “That’s right.”

  “But is it not possible, Dax,” said Picard, “that despite any irrational response on Commander Alden’s part to the Tzenkethi around him, his assessment of the situation may be correct?”

  “Of course it’s possible. It’s also possible that he’s wrong. You’ve met the Venetans now, Captain. Do you think they want to rain bioweapons down on us?”

  “No,” Picard said immediately. “No. I think they are angry with us, and that they are often confused or even shocked by us, but I don’t believe they have murderous intent.”

  “Nor do I. The Venetan I’m dealing with here, Heldon, she’s intelligent, aware, principled, sometimes she’s even friendly. Like anybody rational, she’s appalled at the thought of biological warfare.”

  “Which leaves us stuck,” said Picard. “Either we accuse the Tzenkethi outright of intending to weaponize Outpost V-4—”