Star Trek: Brinkmanship (11 page)

Ask a stupid question . . .
Dax thought. From the corner of her eye, she saw Alden shake his head and open his mouth. Hyatt quickly intervened. “The resinous compounds, Captain,” she said.

“Yes,” said Dax, also trying to cut Alden off. “Heldon, do you know what their purpose is?”

“Of course I do,” said Heldon. “Nobody brings anything onto this base without full disclosure. You must understand—as our Tzenkethi friends here understand—that this is still a Venetan base, operating according to our principles.”

“I do understand that,” Dax replied. “So, in the spirit of your principle of frankness, are you willing to disclose the purpose of the compounds to me?”

“Naturally,” said Heldon, and Dax was pleased to see a twitch of a smile. “Chemicals that we have added to the air here on Outpost V-4 make it comfortably breathable for our Tzenkethi friends. Unfortunately, they also make it rather dry for them.” She turned to Entrigar. “You’ll be able to explain this better than I can.”

“You’ve seen us, Captain Dax,” Entrigar said. “You’ve seen how complex an organ our skin is.” A pulse of lights passed across his pale blue flesh, as if to prove his words.

Dax watched in fascination. “This is part of how you communicate, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Entrigar said. “The resins are an emollient, nothing more. They’re needed to treat skin conditions likely to arise from the arid air quality here.” He turned to Alden. “You can confirm this, can you not, Commander? I understand that we are your . . .”—he lingered over the word—“‘
specialism.
’ ”

Alden almost audibly snapped. “Do you think we’re
idiots
? Ezri,” he said, turning to her, “this is
ridiculous
!”

“Peter—”

“How much longer are we going to carry on with this bloody ridiculous charade?”

“Commander, be quiet!” Dax looked over at Heldon, whose eyes had widened, pushing the dark stripes farther back up her gentle face and giving her an expression of considerable alarm.

“As for
you,
” Alden said, jabbing his finger toward Entrigar, whose skin crackled in response, “don’t think I don’t know what your game is!”

“Commander Alden. Outside. Now!”

Dax, grabbing Alden’s arm, practically shoved him out of the room. Hyatt followed them out into the cool, forestlike corridor.

“What the
hell
do you think you’re doing?” Dax said.

“What do
I
think I’m doing? Ezri, they’re assembling the materials to make biogenic weapons! They’re refitting a base to make it suitable for Tzenkethi warships! They are within
strike range
of Federation space! Why are you doing
nothing
?”

“I am listening to
everything
they have to say before I accuse them of intending to commit unimaginable crimes against us.”

“They are feeding you a lie! A lie so transparent, it’s practically an insult. I’m warning you, Ezri, don’t make me go over your head—”

“Over my
head
? You need to be careful about what you say, mister. You’re not in command here.”

“I warned you about the Tzenkethi.” Alden pressed his hands against his head. “I thought I could trust you, Ezri.”

There was a rising note of desperation in his voice that stopped Dax from replying. She glanced at Hyatt, who was gesturing with her hands, palms down, toward the floor:
Calm it down. Calm it down.
Dax eased her posture slightly and moved backward, making herself less threatening.

“You
can
trust me, Peter,” she said. “You can trust me to do everything in my power to try to stop a war breaking out. But I need to be able to trust you to keep your cool. Entrigar is playing you. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you blow up.”

Slowly, Alden drew his hand across his face. “Of course. Of course. Damn it!” He slammed his hand against the wall, and the soft pliable material accepted the blow and absorbed it. “I should have seen it. Yes, yes, you’re right, Ezri. You’re right.”

Dax glanced at Hyatt.
Better,
she mouthed.
A bit.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dax said. “We’re all tired, and we’re all twitchy. But now comes the hard part. I
need you to go back in there and apologize. I’ll follow you back in a moment, by which time I know you’ll have everyone in that room smiling again.”

“Yes. Of course. I’ll do that. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. Tense days. Everyone’s tense.”

He pushed himself up from the wall and went back inside Heldon’s office.

“Captain,” Hyatt said, “a word in your inner ear . . .”

“Fire ahead.”

“Get Alden back on the ship. Now. He’s not helping.”

“You
think
?” Dax breathed out. “Look, can you give me a diagnosis?”

Hyatt raised her eyebrows. “Oh, come on. You trained long enough to know that I can’t do that. I’d need to sit down with him, talk to him, do some tests . . .”

“Right, and any suggestions on how I go about persuading him to do that? ‘Peter, I know we haven’t seen each other for a long time, but don’t take it the wrong way when I say I think you may be exhibiting symptoms of mild paranoia, and so Susan here would like a quick chat—’ ”

“You can
order
him, sir.”

Dax didn’t reply. She
could
order him, but she knew she wouldn’t. That would be too cruel.

“I can’t give you a diagnosis,” Hyatt said, “but at the very least, it’s my judgment that Commander Alden is suffering from stress, exhaustion, and tension,
and as a result his reactions to the Tzenkethi are verging on phobic. That’s the best-case scenario.”

Dax sighed. “And the worst case?”

“At the worst, we have someone with incipient paranoia on our hands, for whom the Tzenkethi presence is a significant stressor. There’s the possibility that he might take preemptive action against them.”

“Preemptive
action
?” Dax said in horror. Visions of Alden running amok on the base ran horrifically through her mind. “Should I confiscate his phaser?”

“I don’t think it would be anything so direct. He might simply collapse. Ezri, this is all conjecture. I can’t diagnose simply from observation; I’d have to talk to him. But get him back on board the
Aventine.
He’s not doing anyone any good here, himself least of all. And I can’t promise that he’ll be able to keep himself together much longer.”

“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.