Star Trek: Brinkmanship (3 page)

And to be able to show off the
Aventine
was the icing on the cake. “Most Likely to Be Admiral Before the Rest of Us”? Dax was still a player in that game.

Beside her, Bowers smiled. “I see,” he said. “‘Ezri Dax—My Success Story.’ ”

“Something like that.”

“Then I’m honored to find myself part of the parade.” Bowers cast an appraising eye around the transporter room. “So . . . does he have it?”

“Have what?”

“The glittering career that everyone predicted.”

“I lost track. You know how it is. But I imagine Starfleet Intelligence hasn’t been wasting his talents.”

“I imagine not. Your uniform’s perfectly straight, by the way,” Bowers said. “Oh, and you’re captain of one of Starfleet’s most advanced vessels.”

They exchanged grins. Dax patted Bowers on the arm. “Where would I be without you, Sam?”

“Here, probably. Hush. Your guest is about to arrive.”

The
Aventine
’s transporter chief, Spon, operated the controls, and Commander Peter Alden of Starfleet Intelligence materialized before them.

He was a taut man in his midthirties, all lines and angles, with dark hair graying at the temples and a slight frown etched upon his face. When he saw Dax, a smile softened the tension at his mouth and eyes.

“Ezri,” he said, offering her his hand. “Good to see you. It’s been . . . what, ten years? Twelve?”

“Must be,” Dax said, smiling back. She’d forgotten how good-looking Peter Alden was, and he had one of those faces that become more interesting with age and experience.

Alden glanced around the transporter room. “Your ship . . .” He laughed. “Well, it’s amazing!”

“I know,” Dax replied, beginning to laugh herself. Their hands were still clasped together. Gently, Dax detached herself from him. “Want to take a look around?”

Alden tucked both hands behind his back. “I’d like nothing better.”

They smiled at each other. At Dax’s side, Bowers cleared his throat. “Oh!” said Dax. “Yes! Allow me to introduce my first officer, Commander Samaritan Bowers.”

“Sam will do,” said Bowers, offering his hand. The two men exchanged pleasantries and handshakes.

Bowers turned to Dax. “Shall I accompany you on the tour of the ship, Captain? I know you were just saying that you didn’t know where you’d be without me—”

“D’you know, Sam, I think I’ll just about cope by myself.”

Dax gestured to Alden to go ahead through the door, and she followed him out. “May I be the first,” Bowers breathed into her ear as she went past, “to remark that your ex-roommate’s ex-boyfriend is a
fox.
”

“Shut up,” ordered Dax.

2

FROM:
Civilian Freighter
Inzitran,
flagship, Merchant Fleet 9

TO:
Ementar Vik Tov-A, senior designated speaker, Active Affairs, Department of the Outside

STATUS:
Estimated time to border: 37 skyturns
Estimated time to destination: 42 skyturns

Merchant vessel 3, hold temperature low but stable. Monitoring.

O
ver the years, the
Enterprise
had hosted countless diplomatic receptions, and Doctor Crusher and Captain Picard had evolved a system for working the room. Starting at opposite ends, they would move around the space in a figure eight, meeting briefly at the center to trade information, before moving on to the side of the room that the other had recently navigated.

“Make sure you speak to the Ferengi diplomat,” Picard murmured, as they passed each other. “Madame Ilka. I think you’ll find her very interesting.”

Madame,
Crusher thought.
Now that’s something I’ve not seen before.
She glanced across the room to where a petite Ferengi female stood, twisting her fingers around the stem of her empty glass, observing the chattering guests with an air of distant amusement. Crusher extricated herself from her conversation with a junior member of the Cardassian team and began to move toward that end of the room. Picard, meanwhile, headed off in the direction of the lead Federation negotiator, Jeyn. Veterans of many similar missions together, they greeted each other with hail-fellow-well-met joviality.

Halfway toward Ilka, Crusher realized that the Ferengi woman had spotted her and had turned her gentle amusement to Beverly’s nonchalant approach.

At last, Ilka took pity and beckoned to her. “Doctor Crusher,” she called, “why don’t you join me in my corner?”

Relieved to be able to abandon her futile attempt to sidle up discreetly on the other woman, Crusher grabbed two flutes of champagne and headed straight for her. Ilka took the proffered glass and sipped the liquid. She was middle-aged by Ferengi standards, with a higher than usual brow and perhaps slightly small earlobes. She wore a plain gray and silver dress, very elegant and conservative, that almost acted as camouflage against the ship’s bulkhead. It was an interesting
fashion statement. Most of the Ferengi women one saw in public tended to opt for bright, almost garish, colors, with plenty of decoration, as if celebrating their new freedom to dress as they pleased. Ilka’s one concession to prevailing taste was a pair of long earrings. Crusher noted, however, that they did not join together at the bottom in the usual style. She liked this innovation. The old style had always faintly reminded her of chains.

Ilka stared at her with huge, bright, intelligent eyes. “Have you met our new Cardassian colleague yet, Doctor?”

“Detrek?” Crusher shook her head. “No, not yet. I believe she’s not yet come aboard.”

“She is something of a mystery,” Ilka murmured.

“I gather it was a last-minute decision to send her along. She may well still simply be receiving her brief.”

“Perhaps.” Ilka took a sip of her drink. “Are you optimistic about the prospects of our mission, Doctor?”

“Beverly, please.”

“Beverly.”

“Am I confident about our mission?” Crusher pondered the question. “I have to say that I have mixed feelings. The news that the Venette Convention was seeking closer ties with the Tzenkethi came completely out of the blue.”

“For us, too,” Ilka said softly.

“We had such close links with them in the past. We had hoped to be welcoming them into the Federation—”

“But things change, and can change very quickly.”

“They can indeed, Madame Ilka, but not always for the worst.”

Ilka’s smile broadened. She had long white teeth, meticulously sharpened. “I would call that typical Federation optimism!”

“And I would suggest that Ferenginar proves my point.”

Ilka threw back her head and laughed, a frank, unforced laugh that warmed Crusher to the heart. She liked this small, clever Ferengi woman.

“Go ahead!” Ilka said. “Ask me whatever you like!”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing that,” Crusher said swiftly. “You must get tired of being treated as a specimen.”

Ilka briefly closed her eyes, her gaiety changing in an instant into something closer to fatigue. She leaned toward Crusher and lowered her voice in confidence.

“You know our history,” Ilka said. “As a girl I barely set foot outside my father’s house. At the age of consent I was traded by him in marriage for a controlling interest in a shipping company. By good fortune, the man to whom I had been sold happens wholeheartedly to support the advancement of females. More than that, he was willing to put latinum behind that cause. By that happy set of circumstances, I am now the first Ferengi female to be appointed head of a diplomatic mission. I have come this far by keeping my ears open, my mouth shut, and my wit sharper than that of everyone around me. There are many on my
homeworld eager to see me fail in this task.” She considered this statement and glanced around the room to where several of her juniors were in conversation with members of the Federation diplomatic mission. “There are many on my
team
eager to see me fail in this task.”

“You can trust me, Madame Ilka,” Crusher said sincerely.

Ilka studied her with her bright, wary eyes. “I’d like to think I can. But I’ll hold some of my latinum in reserve a little longer, I think.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” Crusher replied.

Smiling, Ilka polished off the last of her champagne. She twisted the stem of the glass between her fingers. “An interesting beverage,” she said. “A kind of wine, is it not? Champagne, if I remember correctly?”

“That’s right. Ruinart, to be exact,” Crusher said. “You’re very well-informed.”

“I take an interest in the world around me,” Ilka said. “The bubbles make it rather noisy, of course, but I rather like the idea of a drink that is as fun to listen to as it is to taste. One of my sons has an import company that deals in superior quality alien goods—there’s a thriving market for them on Ferenginar these days. Our Bajoran first lady has set quite a fashion. I believe my son might be interested.” Her eyes sparkled at Crusher like the bubbles in the drink she was holding. Demurely, she said, “You sound like you know what you’re talking about. Do you happen to know anyone in the wine trade?”

Only my sister-in-law,
Crusher thought.
What
a remarkable coincidence!
Ilka certainly did take an interest in the world around her. She’d also done her research quite thoroughly.

Crusher lifted her glass and gave a traditional Ferengi response to such a question. “I may well have some information that could bring you profit.”

Ilka smiled broadly. And Crusher, looking around a room where the representatives of three powers were mixing freely and good-humoredly, was suddenly cheered—that in a climate of such mistrust, and amid such fear, there were great powers lining up against them, a friendship such as this could still be made.

•   •   •

When her shift ended, Neta Efheny did not linger, as she sometimes did, to chat with Corazame and the other deck workers. Instead she hurried down to the water shuttle that ran across the lagoon around which this city was built.

Efheny sat in the back, the part of the craft designated for Atas. The shuttle set off at a gentle pace, creeping along the shore and stopping regularly to drop off passengers. Efheny watched them as they scuttled down the narrow coral lanes that ran through most Tzenkethi cities. They were heading for their homes, tucked behind the blank walls of tenements turned inward around central courts. Even relatively superior echelons such as the ones Efheny was watching preferred to crowd together. Open spaces, being alone—these things caused Tzenkethi considerable discomfort.

The evening sky was purple, and a gentle breeze ruffled the water. The shuttle, after its last stop on this side of the lagoon, accelerated out into open water, heading toward the distant district where Atas such as Efheny had their billets. The canopies began to rise automatically, shielding the passengers from the great outdoors. Before the sky was completely hidden, Efheny caught a glimpse of the Royal Moon, a pale pink pearl above. All the passengers, Efheny included, raised their hands to touch their chests and then signal up to the moon, acknowledging the blessing of their Autarch, looking down from his palace upon his loyal servants. The canopy reached its full height, and the moon could no longer be seen, although its presence remained.

Efheny leaned back tiredly on the low bench and subvocalized instructions to begin transmitting the day’s data to her superiors at the embassy. Once the task was under way, she pondered her current predicament.

Much as she would have preferred to ignore what had happened, Efheny knew she had to speak to Hertome. She was terribly afraid that someone else had noticed their exchange, the sudden slip of their masks. Perhaps Hertome, with the advantage of his higher designation, would be able to alleviate her fears. But she would have to be careful. Hertome might be the representative of an ally, but Efheny was wary of humans. They were unpredictable. Take the meeting this evening. To arrange it, Hertome had simply walked past
her and told her when and where to come as casually as if he had been instructing her on her next task. She’d had to hurry to switch on the audio-disruption devices that were part of her bioengineering, and even then she wasn’t sure that Karenzen Ter Ata-D, Hertome’s assistant, hadn’t noticed their unusual exchange.

Efheny disembarked two stops before her usual place, at a busy interchange that served as a covered market. Here Gar traders of the lower sort plied their wares to those Ata with a little more standing and a little more credit to their names. Slipping between stalls bearing
ilva
fish and
pana
stones and the sweet-smelling dyes with which many of the Ata grades liked to pattern their skins below their work wear, Efheny came at last to a tiny eatery. She came here once every other skyturn chiefly because the food was bland enough for her tastes, being largely free of the saltiness that all Tzenkethi, regardless of grade, seemed to believe was a necessary flavor to any meal.

Hertome (or whatever his name was in Standard) was already there, head down, reading the evening bulletin tickertaping across the tabletop. Efheny clicked her tongue. This was a risky meeting, out in public, but perhaps, given his slightly higher grading, it was less noteworthy than if he had come to her billet, or she had gone to his. Quietly, unobtrusively, she went to the table behind his, arranging herself on the low seat so that they had their backs to each other. The retinal scanner on the table, identifying her grade and function, changed the tickertape over to the
E-bulletin. Efheny switched on her audio-disruption devices and waited.

After a moment, Hertome leaned back. “Not quite what you seem, are you, Mayazan?”

A frank opening move, too frank for her taste. These humans, thought Efheny (conveniently forgetting her own people’s recent history)—their proclivity for gambling would surely plunge the whole quadrant into chaos one of these days. Doggedly, she continued playing her part.

“This one can only offer her services to you, Ap-Rej.”

“All right, stay in role if you want to.”

Hertome twisted his neck slightly, so that from the corner of her eye Efheny could see the side of his face. The bioengineering was flawless. There was no sign now in his eyes of that unnerving alien humanness that had been so visible before. Now there was just an expression of patient, limpid sedateness that all the Ata seemed to bear.