Star Trek: Typhon Pact 04 - Paths of Disharmony Read online

  Perhaps you’re simply getting soft in your old age.

  The next message in the queue was from Admiral Robert DeSoto at Starfleet Headquarters. It also did not have a priority flag attachment, and there was no video component, simply a text entry indicating the admiral’s desire to speak at Picard’s earliest opportunity. The captain frowned, knowing his old friend was not given to melodramatic displays. Indeed, Robert DeSoto was a man of minimalist tendencies, at least when it came to official matters, never using ten words to convey an idea or instruction when five would do. Picard even had joked with him that his inclination toward brevity likely would get him into trouble once he began navigating the upper echelons of the Starfleet hierarchy and all of the political dodging and weaving that entailed. Most of the inhabitants of that rarified air liked to talk, often to excess, much to Picard’s chagrin.

  After donning exercise attire—hoping as he did so that he actually would be able to avail himself of the ship’s fitness center before commencing with the day’s official schedule, and ordering a cup of hot Earl Grey tea from the office’s small replicator—Picard returned to his desk. “Computer,” he prompted, “what is the current time at Starfleet Headquarters on Earth?”

  “The current time at Starfleet Headquarters is fourteen fifty-three hours,” replied the warm, feminine voice of the Enterprise’s main computer.

  Nodding at the report as he sipped his tea, Picard said, “Computer, open a channel to Admiral Robert DeSoto at Starfleet Command.”

  “Acknowledged,” the computer answered, after which there was a delay as the request was channeled through the communications system and the message transmitted via subspace to Earth. Picard busied himself during those moments by reviewing the latest personnel and ship’s status report as submitted by Worf just prior to the end of his duty shift the previous evening. A similar report had also been filed by the beta-shift watch officer, and another glance at the desktop chronometer informed him that—if his guess was right—the report from the gamma-shift watch officer should be coming anytime now.

  The bland, predictable nature of the reports was broken a moment later by a tone from Picard’s workstation, followed by the voice of the computer: “Communications link established.” On the computer’s display screen, the seal of the United Federation of Planets on its black background faded, replaced by the grizzled, aged visage of Admiral DeSoto. His hair, now completely white, had receded to the point that nearly the entire top of his head was visible. Was it possible that his friend looked even older than he did the last time they had spoken, mere weeks earlier?

  “Good afternoon, Admiral,” Picard said by way of greeting.

  On the screen, DeSoto shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning upward in a wry grin. “Jean-Luc, we’ve been friends since we were fresh-faced cadets at the Academy. How many times do I have to tell you to please call me Robert?”

  Picard shrugged. “Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

  Glancing away to something off-screen that Picard could not see, the admiral said, “The computer’s telling me it’s oh five thirty hours, shipboard time. What’s got you up so early?”

  “René,” Picard replied. “He had a dream or something. Beverly’s still sound asleep, but I thought that since I was up, I might as well get started.”

  DeSoto laughed. “Welcome to parenthood, Jean-Luc. You’ll be happy to know that you can start sleeping in again once he leaves for college, or Starfleet Academy, or whatever it is he eventually decides to do. Until then? Well, it’s just like the old days when we were know-nothing ensigns on the Antares. Grab those catnaps when and where you can.”

  “Duly noted,” Picard said, smiling at the memories his friend had recalled. He and DeSoto had been friends or shipmates from the earliest days of their careers. Their paths through the ranks had diverged in radical fashion, following Picard’s assignment to the Stargazer and his subsequent rapid promotion to captain following the tragic events that resulted in the death of the ship’s commanding officer and the incapacitation of its second-in-command. Still, DeSoto had distinguished himself on numerous occasions over the years, particularly during early engagements with the Cardassians as well as the Jem’Hadar at the height of the Dominion War. A skilled diplomat despite Picard’s good-natured teasing to the contrary, DeSoto had helped negotiate treaties with the Romulans, Cardassians, and the Breen, and his temperament and ability to see the “big picture” was well suited to his current role as Starfleet’s director of postwar rebuilding efforts.

  “You sent a message, asking me to contact you at my earliest opportunity,” Picard said, reaching for his tea. “Now’s as early a time as any, I suppose.”

  DeSoto nodded. “It wasn’t urgent, but I appreciate the call-back just the same. I thought you might like to know that Admiral Hasslein has decided to retire.”

  “Eric Hasslein?” Picard asked, the hand holding his tea-cup freezing at the midpoint between the saucer and his mouth. “Really?” He shook his head in disbelief. “He’s been the director of Starfleet’s exploration and colonization division for . . . how long has it been?”

  “Longer than either one of us wants to admit,” DeSoto replied. “There’s already talk about who his replacement might be. Admiral Akaar hasn’t said as much, but I get the feeling he’s thinking about hitting you up for the job.”

  Sighing, Picard placed the teacup back on its saucer. “Robert, we’ve been over this. I’m more useful out here than I’d ever be sitting behind some desk.” Pausing, he shrugged. “Though, I have to admit, that particular desk has more appeal to it than some of the others I’ve been offered.” Then, realizing what he had just said, he smiled again. “No offense meant to you, old friend.”

  “I know,” DeSoto replied, waving away any notion of having been troubled by the remarks. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re right. Even Akaar seems to know what your answer will be when he asks you. Whatever you said to him the last time he asked must’ve made an impression. That said, Starfleet’s going to need someone making sure our priorities are where they need to be with respect to renewing our exploration efforts. We’re getting back on our feet in that department, but you and I both know we’ve got a long way to go.” Pausing, he leaned closer to the screen and lowered his voice, as though worried someone might overhear the conversation. “That division needs someone who’s not a politician, but who can at least speak the language when it’s time to fight for resource allocation and prioritization. The people who can pull that off, and who also have a genuine, vested interest in exploration, make for a very short list, Jean-Luc, and your name’s at the top.”

  Picard said nothing at first, choosing instead to sip his tea and consider his friend’s words. This was a topic that had not gone away as he originally had hoped, and even had increased in frequency over the past year. The strain and stresses of guiding Starfleet and the Federation through the post-invasion rebuilding efforts were proving too great for a large number of people occupying the higher levels of authority within both hierarchies. Good people, men and women with whom Picard had served or was at least acquainted, were tendering their resignations, opting to spend their twilight years with their families. For many, it was the only way to address the lingering feelings, doubts, and even depression they harbored after surviving the Borg attack.

  The result was that a lot of vital positions within the Starfleet command structure were being left unattended, and officers were being reassigned or promoted to fill those vacancies. The domino effect of that action was increasing, if the promotion bulletins Picard read as part of his daily Starfleet status-briefing package were any indication. With that in mind, he had on numerous occasions asked himself how much longer he might forestall the inevitable. Might the time to accept a promotion be now, or coming soon? If so, would it not be prudent to accept an assignment that at least kept him in touch with those functions of Starfleet that had drawn him to the service in the first place?

  “Th
ere’s something else,” DeSoto said, after a moment. “More scuttlebutt, about you.”

  “I am rather popular, it seems,” Picard replied, placing his now-empty teacup on his desk.

  DeSoto chuckled. “More than you realize. The diplomatic corps has had their eye on you for a while now, too. They’ve even made their case to President Bacco herself, inquiring about your possible availability and interest in becoming a new Federation ambassador.”

  That caught Picard by surprise, and he made no effort to hide that from the admiral. “An ambassador? Me?”

  “Face it, Jean-Luc,” DeSoto said. “You’ve got the skills and the track record to pull it off. Hell, your diplomatic record is better than some of the people who do it for a living. If nothing else, this past year has only made your case that much stronger.” He offered a warm smile, and the two men regarded each other as the friends they had been for all of their adult lives. “Take it from me, old friend: Sooner or later, they’re going to have no choice but to bump you up the ladder. At least make sure that when they do it, you can still make some kind of difference when the dust settles. Otherwise, you might as well retire; maybe go pick grapes from that family vineyard of yours.”

  For the admiral’s benefit, Picard nodded. “There’s a lot to consider, Robert, but I can’t say I’m not interested in the notion.”

  “Well, consider this,” DeSoto replied. “The life of an ambassador is a hell of a lot less dangerous than that of a starship captain. Plus, don’t forget that you’ve got other people to think about, as well.” He pointed to the screen. “Do you want that son of yours growing up running the halls of that ship, or on a planet with real grass and dirt beneath his feet? Besides, how much longer can the three of you share quarters before somebody has to move out? Are you planning to turn one of the cargo bays into an apartment?”

  Picard actually smiled at that. Sharing living space first with Beverly and then René had necessitated definite changes in the captain’s quarters. The rooms Picard had occupied aboard the starship for years were adequate even for two people, but adding a child was something else altogether. While the Enterprise-E did not feature the same lavish interior-space allocations as its Galaxy-class predecessor, the design still allowed for some modular reconfiguration of different interior spaces. This had already occurred in the case of several members of the ship’s complement who also had their families aboard. The result was a home that might not measure up to a luxury apartment on Earth or some other world, but was still a far cry from the single berth and locker Picard had enjoyed as a young Starfleet officer.

  “It’s an interesting offer, Robert, but this isn’t something I can concern myself with right now. We still have much to do before we reach Andor, and then my full attention will be there at least until after the conference concludes. Once that’s done and I’ve received orders for my next assignment, I’ll give this the attention it deserves. I promise.”

  Once more offering a knowing smile, DeSoto nodded. “I know you will. For what it’s worth, even though I know I’m doing some good here, there are days I wish I was still out there. Felt like that just this morning, in case you were wondering. You take care of yourself, Jean-Luc, and I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “You do the same, Robert. Picard out.” The computer automatically severed the link, and DeSoto’s face disappeared, now replaced once again with the UFP seal and the message “COMMUNICATION ENDED,” along with the current time.

  Sitting alone in his office, the rest of the family quarters now silent, Picard was able to hear the soft sounds of René snoring in his crib. Only a few minutes remained until the computer roused Beverly. How better to spend these few precious moments of solitude than in careful contemplation of the future? Not simply his own, but also that of his family?

  He found himself revisiting thoughts he already had pondered on several occasions since René’s birth. Was life aboard a starship really in the boy’s best interest? It was one thing when his son was still an infant, but what about just a few years from now, as his intellect developed and he began wanting to explore the world around him? Was it fair to limit that world to the decks of the Enterprise? Even with all the ship’s expansive facilities and wondrous technology at his fingertips, Picard knew it was no substitute for living on a planet, with fresh air and sunshine. Though it might not be an issue at present, Picard knew this was a question he one day would have to revisit.

  But not today.

  12

  “So, as you can see, Professor, everything is in order, and both patients are progressing as expected. As you might imagine, they both are very excited.”

  Marthrossi zh’Thiin smiled into her computer station’s visual pickup as she beheld the image of her assistants, Dr. Eluqunil sh’Laenatha and Lieutenant Thirishar ch’Thane, transmitted via subspace communications relay from Andor. “I wasn’t expecting news to the contrary, Doctor, but it’s nonetheless gratifying to hear it.”

  Despite being away from Andor, zh’Thiin had kept apprised of the current status for each of the twenty-three bondgroups that had volunteered to be test subjects for her gamete gene-therapy protocol. After all the time she spent devising the new regimen to reach a point where she was ready for testing on living hosts, she had no intention of being uninformed simply because she was off world. The first two of the zhen who had volunteered for the trials now were nearing the end of their pregnancies, and the latest reports from sh’Laenatha, who was serving on zh’Thiin’s staff as its resident obstetrician, all were favorable with respect to the patients’ conditions. The prognosis was for both zhen to conclude their pregnancies with the birth of healthy babies.

  “I trust you conveyed my best regards and that I look forward to seeing them upon my return?” zh’Thiin asked.

  On the terminal’s display, sh’Laenatha nodded. “Indeed I did. They are most anxious to share their anticipation with you. I’m told there are celebrations being planned to herald the birth of both children, for which you are to be the guest of honor.”

  “That is,” ch’Thane added, “if you don’t mind sharing the spotlight with the new arrivals.”

  Laughing at that, zh’Thiin nodded. “Please tell them that it would be my great privilege, Lieutenant. Barring unforeseen circumstances, I expect to be back on Andor before our patients’ next examination. I look forward to seeing them again.”

  Sh’Laenatha said, “I for one look forward to you announcing the success of this new protocol to the people of Andor at the upcoming conference. After everything our people have endured over the past several generations, I cannot imagine this news will be greeted with anything but the most heartfelt support, at least by the majority of the populace.”

  “If only that were true, my friend,” zh’Thiin replied. Given how her predecessor’s work and theories were treated by some segments of Andorian society—a negative reaction even before the flaws in the Yrythny DNA approach were discovered—zh’Thiin expected that resistance to her own ideas and the tests she already had conducted would be even greater than that shown to the late sh’Veileth. “Still, we can certainly hope for the best.” Directing her attention to ch’Thane, she said, “Lieutenant, before I forget, please instruct my computer to transmit any incoming correspondence to the Enterprise.” With the starship still more than a day’s travel from Andor, she figured culling her burgeoning backlog of subspace communiqués and other message traffic would go a long way toward passing the time.

  The young Andorian Starfleet officer replied, “I have already done so, Professor.”

  As if on cue, zh’Thiin’s desktop terminal emitted a pointed telltale tone, alerting her to incoming messages. “Your ability to anticipate my needs never ceases to amaze me, Lieutenant.”

  “Indeed,” sh’Laenatha added. “I have given serious consideration to requesting his transfer to my own team.”

  “There will be no kidnapping of my staff members,” zh’Thiin said, smiling.

  Looking uncomfortable at
being the sudden focus of the light banter, ch’Thane asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Professor?”

  Zh’Thiin shook her head. “Find a way to transport me from one planet to another without having to travel by starship?”

  “Engineering’s not my specialty,” the lieutenant said, “but I will look into it. Good day, Professor. Ch’Thane out.”

  Leaning back in her desk chair as the image of her colleagues dissolved, zh’Thiin reached for the cup of tea sitting near her right hand. She had done her best to program the replicator in her guest quarters so that the device would produce her preferred herbal blend, but after several attempts the computer’s approximation of her personal recipe still left much to be desired.

  One more day, she reminded herself, and you’ll be able to enjoy proper tea.

  “Computer,” she said, turning her attention back to the desktop terminal, “retrieve private correspondence.”

  “Working,” replied the Enterprise’s main computer. Another series of melodic tones sprang from the interface before a scroll of text filled the terminal’s screen. Zh’Thiin studied the list of senders’ names, along with the date-time stamps on each of the entries. In her absence from Andor and despite continuous efforts to remain up to date with the constant flow of correspondence to and from her office, a backlog of unanswered messages was beginning to accumulate. The professor sighed in resignation, knowing she would have to devote at least one entire evening upon her return home toward clearing out her message queue.

  One entry on the list caught her gaze, and she reviewed the sender’s name a second time to be certain she had correctly read it. According to the entry’s header text, the communiqué was an audio-visual message, as was all of the correspondence sent to her by this individual. Reaching across the desk, she used the terminal’s manual interface to open the message. The data list vanished, replaced by the image of a Gallamite. She normally experienced no overt reactions when encountering even some of the most acute variations in appearance to be found among the myriad species populating the known galaxy. Still, zh’Thiin nevertheless felt uncomfortable whenever she beheld a member of this specific race. To her, at least, there was just something unsettling about being able to look upon the oversized brain—seemingly floating within a thick, lucent fluid—that was visible through the upper portion of a Gallamite’s enlarged, transparent skull.