Typhon Pact: The Struggle Within
Author: Christopher L. Bennett
Date: 2011-10-04 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Star Trek
Description: Product Description An original e-novella in the acclaimed Typhon Pact series! The Enterprise-E is on a diplomatic mission to the Talarian Republic, the last holdout in the Federation’s efforts to expand the Khitomer Accords in response to the emergence of the Typhon Pact. In the wake of Andor’s recent secession, the Federation is more concerned than ever with strengthening its alliances. The Talarians have been a tenuous potential partner at best, given the history of conflict and mistrust between them and the Federation. But the negotiations between Picard and the Talarians are disrupted by
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Rights: All rights reserved

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STAR TREK®
TYPHON PACT

THE STRUGGLE WITHIN

OTHER STAR TREK NOVELS BY
CHRISTOPHER L. BENNETT

Star Trek: Ex Machina

Star Trek Titan: Orion’s Hounds

Star Trek: The Next Generation—The Buried Age

Places of Exile (from Star Trek: Myriad Universes—Infinity’s Prism)

Star Trek: The Next Generation—Greater than the Sum

Star Trek Titan: Over a Torrent Sea

Star Trek: Department of Temporal Investigations—

Watching the Clock

SHORT FICTION

“Aftermath” (from Star Trek Corps of Engineers: Aftermath)

“. . . Loved I Not Honor More” (from Star Trek: Deep Space

Nine—Prophecy and Change)

“Brief Candle” (from Star Trek: Voyager—Distant Shore)

“As Others See Us” (from Star Trek: Constellations)

“The Darkness Drops Again” (from Star Trek: Mere Anarchy)

“Friends with the Sparrows” (from Star Trek: The Next

Generation—The Sky’s the Limit)

“Empathy” (from Star Trek: Mirror Universe—

Shards and Shadows)

MORE NOVELS

X-Men: Watchers on the Walls

Spider-Man: Drowned in Thunder

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eISBN 978-1-4516-5142-3

“Conscience is the root of all true courage;
if a man would be brave let him obey his conscience.”

—James Freeman Clarke

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Acknowledgments

1

U.S.S. ENTERPRISE

STARDATE 59881.2

Jean-Luc Picard stood before the empty platform in the main transporter room, trying not to fidget as he awaited the arrival of the Enterprise-E’s distinguished guests. Next to him, Commander Worf gave the captain a sidelong look. “You seem anxious, sir.”

“Excited, Mister Worf,” he corrected. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

The Klingon nodded sagely. “Yes. With this treaty, the last piece of the expanded Khitomer Alliance will fall into place. It is an honor to be a part of it.”

“Yes, certainly that,” Picard said. “Assuming, of course, that we can persuade them to sign. But my enthusiasm is more personal. I haven’t seen the lad in nearly sixteen years. Hardly a lad anymore, I suppose. He’s made quite a name for himself in diplomatic circles. But I suppose I can’t help feeling a certain . . . almost paternal pride in his accomplishments.”

Worf gave a rumble that those who knew him well would recognize as amusement. “As I recall, that was a role you were reluctant to accept at the time.”

“Oh, I fought it tooth and nail. But it was my first taste of a parental role, and in a way it helped prepare me for the real thing. I must admit, I’m a little nervous . . .”

“Uh, Captain?” said the transporter operator. “Alrescha Control reports they’re ready to beam aboard.”

Picard faced the platform again and straightened his tunic. “Energize.”

Moments later, two figures materialized, and the older, larger man stepped down to face him. “Captain Picard!” Ambassador Endar of the Talarian Republic bowed in a ritual greeting, his gloved hands clasped before him. “An honor to meet you once again.”

Picard returned the bow and said, “The honor is mine, Ambassador.”

“And an auspicious meeting it is,” Endar replied in a deep, measured voice. “When last we met, your actions turned our peoples from the brink of war and laid the seeds for our current good relations. Now, with luck, together we can take those relations to the next level.”

“You are too kind,” Picard said. “All I did was correct my own mistake which had brought us to that brink to begin with.”

“But it takes a brave man to admit his mistakes,” said the younger man who stood at Endar’s side, a lanky, square-jawed fellow with blond hair and no sign of the knobby cranial ridges crowning Endar’s skull. “My father and I both honor that bravery.”

“Jono. You’ve grown into a fine young man.” Picard clasped the ungloved hands Jono extended, appreciating what it meant. He had first met Jono as a fourteen-year-old human rescued from a wrecked Talarian observation craft. Starfleet records had identified him as Jeremiah Rossa, believed killed during the Talarian attack on Galen IV when he was less than four years of age. But the boy had seen himself as Talarian, refusing to shed his gloves and touch an alien, and had regarded Endar, then a warship captain, as his father. Doctor Crusher had found evidence of multiple injuries and feared the boy had been abducted and abused, and his grandmother, Admiral Connaught Rossa, had insisted that he be repatriated. But in time, Picard and Crusher had learned the truth: Endar had rescued the orphaned boy and adopted him according to Talarian tradition, lovingly raising him as a son. The injuries had simply been the wear and tear voluntarily endured by a competitive, somewhat reckless child in a rough-and-tumble society. And most of all, Jono had thought of himself as Talarian for as long as he could remember, and was willing to die rather than reject that heritage. Picard had belatedly realized that he had no right to deny Jono his Talarian identity simply because his genes were human, and that the Federation’s own condescension toward a society less peaceful than theirs had led him and Crusher to misjudge the situation. When Picard had returned the boy to his adoptive father, Jono had finally removed his gloves and taken Picard’s head in his hands, touching foreheads as he would with his own father. Even though he was returning to his life as a Talarian, Jono had acknowledged that Picard was no longer an alien to him.

“And I’m pleased to see,” Picard went on, “that you’ve chosen a career in diplomacy like your father.”

“In fact,” Endar told him, “it was I who became a diplomat because of Jono. He desired to learn more of his human heritage while still serving Talar. I took the role of ambassador to the Federation so that he could be my apprentice and ultimately my successor.”

Jono smirked. “Endar is truly a diplomat. In fact, my government is happy to use me to speak to aliens, so that they don’t have to deal with them directly, or face females as equals.”

“Jono,” his father chided.

“Don’t misunderstand, Captain. I have earned my status as a Talarian and my people recognize me as such. But they’re still glad that I’m willing to deal with humans—and women—on their behalf.”

“I’m gratified that you’ve found a way to embrace both of your heritages,” Picard said. He gestured to the towering Klingon at his side. “Speaking of which, you remember Commander Worf, who is now my first officer.”

Endar gave a shallow bow, eyeing Worf carefully. “A privilege, Commander. Your reputation is known both as a warrior and a diplomat.”

“As is yours,” Worf replied. “Though I would be hard-pressed to say which calling I have found more perilous.” The two shared a rumbling chuckle.

“Indeed, these are perilous times even without war,” Endar said. “The Typhon Pact has struck serious blows in recent months without firing a shot. Dissolving the Imperial Romulan State. Driving Andor to secede from the Federation. And now this exclusive trade deal with the Kobheerians, robbing both my people and the Cardassians of a vital trading partner. This . . . erosion of our foundations must be halted.”

“Which is why the Federation has great hopes that the Talarian Republic will lend its strength to the new Khitomer Alliance,” Picard replied, “and draw new strength from it in turn.” To be honest, the Talarians’ military technology was generations behind the Federation’s or the Pact’s. But they were tenacious, disciplined, and resourceful enough to compensate for their shortfalls, and had held their own both as foes of the Federation in the border skirmishes of the 2350s and as allies during the Borg invasion of 2381. The latter alignment had prompted President Bacco to invite them, along with the Ferengi Alliance, the Cardassian Union, and the Imperial Romulan State, to explore the possibility of joining the Federation and the Klingon Empire in an expansion of the Khitomer Accords. Negotiations had been stalled for some time, but with the IRS rejoining the Romulan Star Empire in February, and given the Pact’s role in Andor’s secession in October, the talks had taken on new urgency. The Cardassians and Ferengi were now provisionally on board, leaving the Talarians as the last holdouts.

“There are questions we must resolve before that can happen,” Jono told him. “The Federation has shown a certain . . . arrogance toward other cultures in the past. That fear of your domination is what drove the nations of the Typhon Pact to unite and rival you.” He gave a polite smile. “I have seen the Federation’s good intentions at first hand, on the Enterprise and on Earth. But many of my people have their doubts. They will need to be convinced that the Federation will heed and respect the Talarian point of view—rather than seeking to impose its own upon us.”

Picard held Jono’s gaze, understanding the subtext. Jono’s very presence here was a reminder of one of Picard’s greatest mistakes, an incentive to exercise all due consideration toward the Talarians’ cultural values. And Jono clearly knew it and was willing to use it. Whatever personal bond existed between Jono and Picard, the younger man served his people first.

Picard couldn’t have been more proud of the lad.

•   •   •

“A leave of absence on such short notice is . . . irregular,” Worf said, studying Jasminder Choudhury as she stood before him in his quarters. Her tall, strong frame bore a tautness he’d come to know well over the past year, but there was an additional anxiety within her as well.

“I know, Worf,” she said in her soft Denevan lilt. “But this is something I need to do, and I can’t put it off any longer.”

“You are needed for the Talarian mission.”

“There’s always another mission.” From anyone else, it would have been a shout. “I’ve known for weeks that I needed this, but one thing after another keeps coming up. But it’s a poor excuse. Unless I can recover my balance, I’m no good to this ship.”

Worf softened his tone. “You must not blame yourself for what happened at Andor.”

“Yes, Worf, I must. My old self would never have allowed ch’Lhren to irritate me into leaving him unescorted. It was my failure of control that let him sabotage the ship.” Threlas ch’Lhren had toured the Enterprise during its stay at Andor, using his background as a former Starfleet engineer as cover for his true mission to sabotage the vessel’s computer systems on behalf of the Threishya, the Andorian secessionist movement behind the recent coup attempt. The armed uprising had failed, largely because Lieutenant T’Ryssa Chen had devised a way to work around the sabotage, but the event had crystallized the divisions that existed within Andorian society following years of futile struggle to cure the reproductive crisis that endangered the species’ future and the devastation inflicted on their world in the Borg invasion. Where armed force had failed, democracy had succeeded, as a global referendum led to Andor’s secession from the Federation.

“Ch’Lhren’s sabotage made no critical difference in events,” Worf told her. “You have nothing to blame yourself for.”

“Not this time, perhaps. But what about the next?” She sighed. “More fundamentally, this is about the consequences to myself. I cannot lead a life where anger masters me instead of the reverse. I’ve lost myself, Worf. I hardly recognize myself anymore.” She blinked away tears.

Worf had to admit he understood what she was saying. When he had met Jasminder Choudhury, the lieutenant had been the most serene, self-assured human he had ever met, deriving great peace from a spiritual, philosophical outlook that drew from Hinduism, Buddhism, Vulcan cthia, and an eclectic range of other beliefs. In contrast to Worf’s own warrior approach, Choudhury had emphasized the role of security as protectors and peacekeepers, building a reputation for her ability to defuse dangerous situations before they became violent. Yet she had never judged him for his more Klingon approach to life, and indeed they had been drawn to each other, fascinated by the similarities they found amid their differences.

But the Borg’s destruction of Deneva had changed things for her. Losing her family and her entire home had been a tragedy too great for her serenity to endure. In the twenty-one months since, she had struggled to find her center again, with little success. “It was always my home and my family that I looked to in my mind to remind me of who I was,” he remembered her telling him late last year. “Now, when I try to focus on the disciplines they taught me, it just reminds me of their loss.”

“Jasminder,” he said now, “you know that I am here for you.”

She winced. “Worf . . . that’s part of the problem. You have been good to me, I’m grateful for that . . . but what we share is . . . aggressive. For a time, I thought it was helping. I thought you could show me how to master my anger by embracing it, channeling it as a warrior does. But after Andor, I’ve realized that I don’t have the inner strength to achieve that. I can’t redirect the force of my anger when I’m not spiritually anchored to begin with.” She took a shuddering breath. “So I think . . . it would be best . . . if I spent some time away from you, Worf. I know you mean well, and I care for you deeply, but it’s not working for me.”

It was like a physical blow to Worf’s heart. But he bore it, maintaining his own control. He cherished her too much to think of himself at a time like this. And he knew her well enough to see that arguing would not dissuade her. “I . . . see,” he said at length. He turned and stepped away. “I will grant your sabbatical. Lieutenant Konya will ably fill your position for the duration.” If anything, that would make things easier, given the Talarians’ distaste for women in authority. “But . . . when you return . . .”

Silence, then finally: “I don’t know, Worf. I don’t know anything right now.”

•   •   •

T’Ryssa Chen stared at Lieutenant Choudhury, her slanted brows rising beneath her long black bangs. “Let me get this straight, Jazz. You’re going on a sabbatical to find peace and tranquillity—and you think inviting me is a good idea?”

It was surprising enough to discover that the graceful security chief considered herself overwhelmed by anger and frustration. True, now that T’Ryssa thought about it, she recognized that Choudhury had developed more of a sardonic attitude over the past year, a change from the Buddha-like serenity she’d projected when first they’d met. Trys had even seen her angry from time to time, particularly during the Andorian affair. But even so, Jasminder’s “angry” resembled most people’s “irked” or T’Ryssa’s “lightly sedated.” So it had been hard for the younger lieutenant to recognize what had been going on with her colleague this past year.

“You never know, Trys,” Choudhury said with a wry smile as they walked together down the corridor. “It might do you some good.”

“Well, maybe.” Truth be told, she’d sometimes been tempted to continue the meditation lessons that Choudhury had given her early in their respective tenures on the Enterprise, when she’d needed them to assist her in using her untrained telepathy, a legacy of her absentee Vulcan father, to achieve rapport with a powerful alien life-form. There had been times after the Borg invasion—after learning of her human mother’s death—when she’d felt she could have used some inner peace. But Jasminder had her own even greater losses to deal with, and T’Ryssa had been reluctant to intrude. Besides, it just wasn’t her general style—meditation, that is, not intrusion; she had a habit of being too curious for her own good. She didn’t have the kind of brain that took well to inactivity. When she tried to clear her mind, there was too much random junk and trivia that tumbled in to fill the void, like when she’d “cleaned” her room as a child and her mother had insisted on opening the closet door.

“And sure, I wouldn’t mind skipping out on a visit to the Planet of the Male Chauvinists,” Trys went on. “Hell, if I did come, I’d probably cause a diplomatic incident.”

Jasminder smiled. “You could hardly resist pulling some prank to put them in their place. In a way, I’d be sorry to deprive you of the opportunity.”

“Yeah, but after Andor, if I screwed up this alliance, Admiral Akaar would transfer me to maintenance detail in the center of the nearest star, and then put my vaporized atoms on report for dereliction of duty. Still,” she went on as the two women entered T’Ryssa’s quarters, “a spiritual retreat doesn’t sound like my idea of a fun vacation.”

She heard Jasminder tapping a code into her door pad, locking the door and doing something else Trys’s sensitive ears couldn’t recognize by sound. She spun. “What gives?”

“I’m securing the room, Trys. So that I can offer you a more exciting vacation than a spiritual retreat.”

Trys blinked, taking in Jasminder’s suddenly transformed manner. “Whoa. I’m listening. Are we talking secret mission here?”

“Yes. May we sit down?”

“After telling me that, you want me to sit?” She shook it off. “Okay, sure.” She led Jasminder to the desk chair, sat on the bed across from her, then almost immediately was back on her feet, pacing. “So all this stuff about finding your center again, that’s—”

“That’s absolutely true, Trys. I couldn’t lie about something like that. But this mission is one that I hope can help me achieve my personal goals, while also making a positive difference for the Federation and maybe many others as well.”

Suddenly T’Ryssa did need to sit down. She did so on a pile of clothes near Jasminder’s feet, crossing her legs and looking up at the taller woman. She couldn’t trust herself to say anything, so she listened silently.

“I’ve been contacted by a friend in Starfleet Intelligence,” Choudhury said. “They’ve learned of a growing dissident movement among the Kinshaya, seeking to unseat the current regime.”

“The Kinshaya?” T’Ryssa blurted. “Wow, I wondered what happened to those guys. We’ve hardly heard a peep out of them since they joined the Typhon Pact.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Well, sure. They’re basically griffins. I’ve always wanted to meet a griffin. Okay, so they’re also xenophobic, isolationist religious fanatics, but still, griffins!”

Jasminder smiled. “Well, that isolationism has helped maintain a tenuous balance in the Typhon Pact. On the one hand, Gell Kamemor is the most progressive, least belligerent praetor the Romulan Empire has had in generations, and with the recent setbacks to the Gorn warrior caste, their diplomatic caste has gained a stronger voice in their government, and has been reminding the Gorn leadership of the debt they owe the Federation for their continued hold on power.” T’Ryssa remembered that Picard and Commander Data had helped defeat a coup by a faction of the Gorn warrior caste several years back. After that, she imagined, the Gorn government was likely to have little sympathy with the warrior caste anyway. “Both those nations have shown themselves to be moderate and willing to engage in measured diplomacy with the Federation. But on the other hand, the Breen have undertaken . . . certain aggressive acts of espionage toward us that I’m not cleared to reveal, and the Tholians have waged a propaganda war that cost us Andor’s membership. They’re both determined to oppose and weaken us, and have been pushing the other Pact nations to take a more aggressive stance. The Tzenkethi could go either way; they’ve always mistrusted us deeply, but to all indications, they seek stability within the Pact, and have emerged as strong supporters of the Kamemor government. So with the Holy Order of the Kinshaya remaining largely isolated, uninterested in external affairs so long as they’re left alone, the moderate and militant forces within the Pact are evenly balanced.

“But by opening up enough to join the Pact at all, by cooperating with ‘heretics,’ the Holy Order has admitted that its dogmas are adaptable. And that’s prompted their subjects to begin questioning those dogmas, to be curious about new ideas and possibilities. As often happens at such a time, the internal pressures that have long been held in check are being set loose, prompting cultural revolution.”

T’Ryssa nodded. “I get it. So if the current Kinshaya muckamucks get overthrown, it could change the balance of power.” Her eyes widened. “Whoa, you’re not talking about some kind of black-ops thing to help overthrow the government? Or keep them in charge? What about—”

“No, nothing like that. As I said, this is a peaceful mission. The protesters have been largely nonviolent so far, but there have been crackdowns, and other, more militant voices of resistance are jockeying for advantage. If that faction within the resistance becomes dominant and should succeed in an overthrow, it could tip the balance of the Pact in a more warlike direction.”

“So we want the nonviolent side to succeed?”

“Yes. According to our intelligence, they represent a strain of devotional mysticism within Kinshaya religion: the belief that knowledge of the divine is gained on a direct, personal level rather than mediated through the church—which in this case is also the state. They believe faith should be a matter of individual revelation rather than an imposed doctrine. So they’re more tolerant of other beliefs or even lack of belief. Were they to take over, they would likely make the Kinshaya state more secular and open, end its policies based on xenophobia and rejection of outside heresies.”

“And that would put them in the moderate camp along with the Gorn and the Romulans. Tip the balance toward peace.”

“That’s what we hope. Oh, it would hardly make the Typhon Pact our bosom friends, but it would leave the more bellicose voices in the minority, less likely to get Pact approval for further assaults on the Federation.”

T’Ryssa thought it over. The contact specialist in her was ready to leap at the chance. The Kinshaya were the one Typhon Pact member with no significant history of interaction, hostile or otherwise, with the Federation, but they had been warring on and off with the Klingon Empire for over a century. The Klingons, however, had never taken much scientific interest in their culture or psychology, so a great deal about them was still unknown. It would be almost like a first-contact mission, the sort of thing she’d joined Starfleet for, but had gotten little opportunity to do since the Borg invasion, given that the Enterprise had been too busy with reconstruction and resettlement to do much science. Luckily Trys had picked up an eclectic range of skills during her misspent youth and had been able to keep busy assisting in engineering or flight control as needed. But her hunger for novelty and discovery had gone unsated. What Choudhury was offering her was a thrilling opportunity.

Yet T’Ryssa was aware that the unknown could carry considerable risks. She liked an adventure as well as the next Starfleet brat, but she wasn’t the type for suicide missions. “It’s a nice idea, but I don’t know. How much good can a bunch of hippie-griffs really do against a dictatorship like the Holy Order?”

Jasminder chuckled. “Never underestimate the power of nonviolent resistance, Trys. It’s proven its efficacy in India, Egypt, Vulcan, Argelius, and many other places. It’s gaining a growing foothold even now on Romulus, now that Ambassador Spock’s Unification movement has been decriminalized. Truth and conscience are powerful weapons, especially against a state that claims to be acting in the name of righteousness.”

“Okay . . . so SI wants you to go in and help out the peaceniks?”

“Officially, our role would be to observe and report back on the situation. Unofficially, yes, if we can help nurture and advise this peaceful movement without direct interference, then we will. But only if we can do so without calling attention to ourselves. If the Federation were seen to be interfering in the internal politics of a Pact nation, it would scuttle everything we hope to achieve.”

“Hence the hush-hush.”

“Yes. They offered me this assignment because I’m known for my subtle touch, as well as my experience with spirituality.” She sighed. “I accepted because I hope it will help me relearn some of the subtlety and patience I’ve misplaced.”

“And I repeat: you think it’s a good idea to have me along? Subtlety isn’t something I do well.”

“In this case, you may find it easier to blend in than I will. The Unificationists are sending a delegation of their own to advise and support the Kinshaya dissidents. Members of the movement from all over the Romulan Empire are being invited to join. That’s our way in.”

T’Ryssa winced. “I should’ve known. You only love me for my ears.” Her hand unconsciously brushed across the hair that she tended to wear over her ears to conceal their points.

“Well, it’s true you wouldn’t need much cosmetic alteration to pass as Romulan. There are plenty of Romulans who are visually indistinguishable from Vulcans, which is how Spock was able to pass for so many years. And your temperament is already . . . reasonably close to Romulan.”

“But aren’t Unificationists big on all that Surak stuff I never studied?”

“They also welcome the Romulan side of their heritage. That’s what Unification means.” Jasminder leaned forward. “Trys, I need a contact specialist. Someone who can help me pass as Romulan, and more importantly, someone with the skill to help me understand a race we know very little about. The fact that you can easily pass as Romulan yourself is a bonus.”

Jasminder clasped T’Ryssa’s hands in hers. “Please, Trys. This mission is important to me. If I can help these groups promote nonviolence, assist them to stand peacefully against the oppression of their state, my hope is that it will help me rediscover how to maintain serenity against the emotions that oppress me. I know, in my mind, how powerful peace and compassion can be against anger and despair. But these past two years, it’s been very hard to feel it. I need to experience it directly, to be a part of it. And I need you, my friend, to help me succeed. You doubt yourself, Trys, but you have a knack for finding paths to success.”

“Aww, hell.” T’Ryssa blinked away tears and fell into a hug with Jasminder. “Okay, I’ll come along. I can hardly pass up the chance to walk among griffins.” She sighed. “Even if it does mean I have to put up with a Romulan haircut.”

2

TALAR SYSTEM
STARDATE 59897.6

The first day of meetings in M’leint, Talar’s capital city, was purely ceremonial, as the head of state, Commander-in-Chief Ronzel, and his staff offered formal greetings to their Federation guests with abundant pomp and circumstance. His four years in the Federation Diplomatic Corps had not cured Worf of impatience with such ceremony; after all, he had been the ambassador to the Klingon Empire, and Klingons preferred to get down to business. But he had learned to be stoic and endure his impatience, seeing it as a challenge to be overcome. The Talarians, themselves a warrior culture and perhaps even distant cousins to the Klingons, may have seen the rituals the same way, and deliberately drawn them out so long as a test of endurance.

Well, if nothing else, it distracted Worf from his unease about that last conversation with Jasminder. There was no point in dwelling on it, he told himself, for there was no action he could take to alter the situation until she returned. He must simply be patient and allow the lieutenant to work things out for herself—and hope that, once she had regained her balance, she would be receptive to a relationship once again. And if not . . . well, he had survived worse endings to past relationships. So long as Jasminder was alive and content, he would be grateful either way. Still, her absence in the present—and the prospect of her absence from his life in the future—preoccupied him more than he felt it should.

His thoughts gave him a certain sympathy for the patriarchal Talarians, who kept their females constrained and sheltered. Naturally, having been raised by humans, Worf had grown up taking the equality of the sexes for granted. But he could still feel a certain envy toward the males in a society like Talar, who must have it so much simpler. And he could understand the motivations behind it, even without agreeing with them. Talarian males were warriors, and a warrior’s duty was to protect one’s own. Females bore children, raised and educated them while the males in such a society tended to war and government, and so to protect females was to protect one’s home and the future of one’s civilization. It was not that females were deemed unimportant, but that they were deemed too precious to be allowed to risk themselves.

Of course, that presupposed that females were unable to take care of themselves, and after knowing the likes of K’Ehleyr, Natasha Yar, Deanna Troi, Ro Laren, Kira Nerys, Jadzia and Ezri Dax, and Jasminder Choudhury, Worf would never think that. But the Talarian females he saw here in the conference hall, tending to the males as greeters and servitors, were distinctly smaller than their male counterparts, the difference in size even more pronounced than among humans. They wore colorful, close-fitting clothing that was often partly translucent, but which nonetheless covered them from neck to toe; they wore gloves at all times, as their males did among aliens. Their wide-brimmed hats resembled the traditional conical hats of Asian cultures on Earth, but were open at the crown, exposing subtle, underdeveloped cranial ridges even smaller than those of a juvenile male Talarian. “I’m reminded of the traditional veiling customs of Earth’s Middle East or the Nexanral Period on Betazed,” Picard whispered to him at one point, “except oriented toward discouraging touch rather than vision.”

Worf nodded, recognizing that the wide brims of the hats would prevent males from drawing too close to the females’ exposed faces. “The Talarians do have strong tactile taboos,” Worf murmured in return. “But these women’s attire is quite . . . aesthetically appealing. One would think it would create a certain temptation among the men.”

Beside them, Jono chuckled; the young man had very good hearing. “Merely one more test for us to surmount. Besides, the females like to look pretty. It’s for their own benefit, not ours. To touch a female who is not family or one’s betrothed would bring shame to both toucher and touched.”

But as Jono looked around at the women in the conference hall, he furrowed his brow. “Odd,” he said. “There seem to be more females here than there should.”

“What do you mean?” Worf asked. “Surely our presence has invited their curiosity.”

“Females do not concern themselves with matters of state. But there are too many here to be servitors or custodial staff. And look—more are arriving.”

Over the next several moments, the number of brightly attired, wide-hatted females increased at an accelerating pace. Soon they were practically pouring in from outside. As the males watched, nonplussed, a number of females filed into the conference rooms adjoining the main concourse, while others took up positions before those rooms’ entrances and the building exits. Then they simply stood there, unmoving, as the males murmured in consternation and annoyance. Commander-in-Chief Ronzel, a portly, gray-bearded man whose days in fighting trim were well behind him, stepped forward and raised his voice. “What is the meaning of this? Return to your tasks, your homes!”

“Hear us!” came a new, strident female voice. Worf and Picard spun to see a relatively tall, golden-haired Talarian woman speaking through a handheld amplifier. “We stand in protest of the Ronzel regime! No more will the females of Talar stand for Ronzel’s impositions on our freedom! No more will the females of Talar stand for offworlders stealing our children’s resources with Ronzel’s complicity! Instead, we stand here, unmoving and together, until the dominion of males over females is ended!”

An embarrassed Endar turned to Picard. “My apologies, Captain. These females are members of a fringe movement—I had no idea they had become so brazen as to disrupt a state function. It is unseemly.”

Picard spoke with care. “No apology to us is necessary, Ambassador. These are turbulent times—the kind of times that prompt unrest and uncertainty on many worlds, as people seek new answers. We have not been free of such dissent ourselves, as you are well aware. But we respect the right of all beings to express their beliefs, so this demonstration does not offend us. It is only through dialogue, after all, that we can come to an understanding with other points of view.”

Ronzel had come over now, looking stern. “If it were only a matter of speech,” said the chief of state, “you might be right. But these . . . radicals are interfering with matters far above their station. I am grateful that you are not offended, Captain Picard, but I am not in a position to be so generous.” Worf saw through the front windows of the hall that security troops were now gathering outside, while those already within the hall were congregating here on the main concourse.

“Commander Ronzel,” said Picard, “I’m sure there’s a way to resolve this peacefully.”

Ronzel looked at once scandalized and annoyed. “If you imagine I intend to use force, you misunderstand us. I would never ask any of these fine men to shame themselves by using force on a female.” He shook his head. “Were they but male, we could deal with them properly. As it is . . .”

Indeed, the security troops seemed flustered. Some tried asking the women to disperse, cajoling them to return home or resume working. Some argued with them, accusing them of neglecting their children or their societal duties, but were visibly restraining themselves from lashing out physically. Most just stood there nonplussed and indecisive.

Beside Worf, Rennan Konya moved in and whispered to him. “It’s true, sir. I can feel it in them—almost a physical revulsion toward the idea of using any kind of force on these women.” Worf nodded. The Betazoid lieutenant had trained his atypically weak telepathy to home in on others’ somatic perception rather than their thoughts. It let him sense opponents’ moves before they struck or recognize deception through a person’s physical tension. If he could sense these troops’ resistance to using force on females, it must be an ingrained reflex, conditioned right into their muscles. Strong tactile taboos, indeed.

“What exactly are these females protesting?” Picard was asking Ronzel. “Perhaps if you promise to hear their grievances . . .”

“We have attempted it, Captain,” the commander-in-chief replied. “But they are intractable. Their leaders will accept nothing less than the dissolution of the government and the patriarchy. They are fanatics.” Ronzel sighed. “Return to your ship, Picard. We will attempt to arrange a more secure site for our negotiations.”

“If that is your wish,” Picard said. “But if there’s anything we can do to help mediate . . .”

“This is an internal matter, Picard! We are not formal allies yet. Remember your own laws against interference.”

Worf and Picard exchanged a look. The situation was more delicate than they had realized . . . but they were in no position to do anything about it.

•   •   •

The Talarian women’s protests continued the next day. Monitoring the situation from the Enterprise, Picard was struck to discover just how integral the females were to the functioning of Talarian society even while lacking a voice in government. With the women on strike, there was no one to perform food preparation, custodial work, transit driving, secretarial work, or other services, and so society was practically brought to a halt. True, not all females were joining in the strike, but the protesters continued to blockade government and military facilities, prohibiting the males from entering or using their places of business. Apparently the Talarians’ taboos against physical coercion of females extended to beaming them away without their consent, since that would be seen as a violation of their bodily integrity.

Privately, in his quarters with Beverly and their year-old toddler René, Picard was free to admit, “I admire what these women are doing. Without violence, they’re taking a potent stand against the status quo, and in the process are demonstrating just how vital to society their contributions are. I’m reminded of the strikes conducted by Indian nationalists during the waning days of the British Raj. As I recall, there were instances of Indian women employing much the same tactics we see here, paralyzing male soldiers through their own taboos against treating women roughly.”

“Hmm,” his wife replied, an amused grin on her face. “I wonder if they’re striking at home, too, if you know what I mean. A bit of the old Lysistrata.”

“Now, that would be a potent tactic indeed,” Picard replied, proceeding to express his gratitude that Beverly felt no need to withhold her affections. Although he had to wait until René had been put down for the night to express it in full.

On the third day, Ronzel’s government finally managed to secure a suitable facility for the conference. Perhaps the females felt they had made their point, for the protests seemed to be waning. Upon arriving at the conference site, Picard found that a number of females were once again at work providing food and drink to the delegates. “As you see,” Ronzel told him, “the protesters represent only an irresponsible fringe group. They managed to stir up many of our females to play along with their little statement for a while, to put on a pageant for our offworld visitors, but most of them soon remembered they had families and responsibilities to attend to. There should be no further disruptions, now that the novelty has worn off.”

“I see,” Picard said, keeping his tone neutral. Ronzel seemed to show no interest in actually listening to the protesters’ grievances or taking action to address the causes of the strike. He seemed content to dismiss it as a momentary aberration from the rightful status quo. But it was not Picard’s place to challenge that.

So he moved on to the matter he was here to address: finalizing Talarian membership in the expanded Accords. As the ambassador, Endar took the lead in presenting the Talarian side of the remaining issues: trade concessions, the sharing of improved defensive technologies (Starfleet would not share its weapons, but shields and tactical sensor improvements were on the table), Federation aid in resolving a lingering territorial dispute with the Cardassians and renegotiating raktajino import tariffs with the Klingons, and so forth. Endar proved a firm but reasonable negotiator, as he had been when he and Picard had first clashed over the fate of Jono sixteen years ago. Ronzel took a more rigid stance, but only because it let him and Talar save face while Endar did the real horse trading—with Jono’s assistance as an interpreter between Talarian and Federation value systems, helping bridge the gaps in understanding. Picard was confident that all three negotiators wanted this alliance to succeed, so long as they could ensure that Talarian interests were not compromised.

The negotiations ran for hours, and female servitors flitted about in their bright clothes, keeping refreshments at hand and clearing away empty plates and goblets. Picard found the Talarian cuisine too spicy and aromatic for his tastes, but he made a point of thanking the women who provided it all the same.

Soon, after a particularly pungent dish was served, it seemed to Picard that Endar and Ronzel found it as distasteful as he did, for they both faltered and began to cough. But he soon realized that both Talarians—indeed, all the Talarian males in the chamber—were suffering from something worse than bad flavor. “Endar!” Jono cried as the ambassador choked and slumped in his seat. “Father!”

The captain’s hand flew to his combadge. “Picard to Enterprise. Medical emergency!”

Moments after Picard explained the situation to her over the comm, Beverly materialized along with one of her nurses, Crewman Huang. She wasted no time on preliminaries before taking scans of the shuddering, retching Talarians. “Food poisoning,” she said. “Some kind of biotoxin. How soon until local medical care arrives?”

“I . . . I’ve notified them,” Jono said unevenly. “They should be here in minutes.”

“Minutes!” Beverly shook her head and muttered, “Spare me from stoic warrior cultures and their disdain for decent medical care.” She thought for a moment, then began tapping on her tricorder. “Luckily, we don’t need their help. Jean-Luc, I’ve just uploaded the toxin’s parameters to the biofilters.” Picard nodded, and Beverly tapped her combadge. “Crusher to transporter room. Beam myself, Huang, and every Talarian male in this room to sickbay, full biofilter protocols. Shunt the biofilter output to the medical lab.”

Jono grew agitated as his father and the other Talarian males in the room disappeared in a shimmer of light along with the medical team. Picard noted that all the females had already disappeared through more conventional means, before or during the incident. “What’s going on?” Jono demanded of Picard.

“The transporter will cleanse the toxin from their bodies,” Picard assured him. “Then Doctor Crusher and her team will assess and repair whatever damage it’s already done.” He placed a hand on Jono’s shoulder. “Be assured, they’ll receive the best of care.”

Picard could see the struggle on Jono’s face to accept his word. It must have been difficult for him to trust in the skills of a female doctor. Particularly under these circumstances. “Poison in the food,” Jono growled. “It is a woman’s weapon.”

The captain nodded, thinking back on Ancient Rome and other patriarchies where females adopted their own subtle tools of self-defense and coercion. Talarian females lacked the bulk to take the males on physically, but that clearly did not make them powerless.

“So much for protests and mediation,” Jono snarled. “This has now become a war.”

•   •   •

The biofilter trick successfully purged the toxin before any of the Talarians were fatally affected, but it had been a nasty piece of work, doing a lot of damage. Beverly Crusher was adamant that Endar, Ronzel, and the other poisoning victims would need several days to rest and recuperate. Predictably, they tried to take the warrior’s line that pain was merely a test to overcome, to which she replied, “Yes, and in this case it’s an intelligence test. You can be smart and conserve your body’s resources for healing, or squander them foolishly and get yourselves killed.” Luckily, they were feeling ill enough to see the wisdom of her words—their condition was not life-threatening so long as they remained under care, but it would be a while before their stomachs settled sufficiently to keep any food down.

Crusher could tell that Jono wanted to stay by his father’s side, but he clung to his sense of duty. “I know you will serve Talar well in my stead,” Endar told his son from his sickbay bed.

“I hope I can, Ambassador,” the younger man said. “This should not be my place. I only escaped illness because I am human.”

Endar placed a hand against his son’s cheek. “Because you are strong. You have always risen to every challenge.”

Crusher remembered the determined set of Jono’s jaw the next day when negotiations resumed—with more security in place and with Crusher and a medical team on hand just in case. It had taken this to get the Talarians to agree to let a female chief medical officer participate in any capacity, though they didn’t exactly make her feel welcome. And Jono wasn’t much friendlier. Before, he had done his best to serve as a bridge between the cultures. But now that Jono felt the weight of Endar’s job fall on his shoulders, he clung to a much harder line.

“If the people of Talar cannot unite their efforts,” Jean-Luc was telling him, “you can provide little benefit to the alliance—and draw little benefit from it. It is in all our best interests if you can resolve this unrest. Let the Federation mediate your dispute, help you establish a dialogue with—”

“No!” Jono banged his gloved fist on the table. “These are internal matters, for Talarians to resolve in a Talarian way. The Federation does not understand what that means. You do not understand, Captain. I know that better than anyone.”

Picard concealed his reaction like the master diplomat he was, but Crusher could see how it wounded him—not so much the charge itself as the fact that Jono would strike such a personal blow.

During a break in the talks, Beverly took Jono aside. “Don’t you think you’re overcompensating?” she asked. “It’s one thing to try to maintain a strong bargaining position, but what you said to Captain Picard back there was simply spiteful. We all want the same thing here, you know.”

“Do we?” Jono challenged. “We’re supposed to be banding together against the Typhon Pact. Instead, your captain seems more concerned about liberating our females. Even after they commit an atrocity like this!”

“Not all of them,” Beverly reminded him.

“But enough. Enough to endanger the life of our commander-in-chief . . . and my father. How are we to know who to trust? Give them license and it will give these terrorists an opening to strike again!”

“So what do you propose to do?” she countered. “Lock up every woman on the planet? It looks to me like your civilization would grind to a halt without them. And maybe if you’d acknowledged that fact, you wouldn’t be in this position now.”

“Take care, Doctor. You have no political role here. I only listen to you at all out of respect for your husband.”

“I wasn’t seeing a lot of respect for him at that table. You crossed a line. Made it personal.”

“I thought he had learned! Learned to respect our ways, accept us without judging. But I see now, he is still the same man who looked down on us and found our ways unworthy. The same man who accused my father of beating me and tried to take me from him. I must stand firm against that. My people rely on it.”

Beverly winced. “Jono, you’re being too hard on him. You need to know . . .”

Suddenly they were interrupted by a loud whine, like that of a transporter beam, only sharper, more shrill. It seemed to come from multiple places at once. Beverly spun to see several small objects materializing around the room. A moment later, a series of loud bangs heralded the release of clouds of gas into the chamber. The delegates and the Enterprise party were caught in the densest concentration, with Beverly and Jono spared the worst of it by their more peripheral position. It was clear that whatever toxin was being used this time, it affected the Enterprise party as well as the Talarians. And enough of it was reaching Beverly to burn her throat.

She pulled Jono down to the ground and cried, “Hold your breath!” She opened her kit and began to ready a tri-ox injection for him even as she tapped her combadge. “Crusher to Enterprise! We’re . . . under gas attack! Beam . . . gas . . .” Her voice dissolved into choking.

But the personnel aboard must have understood her intent, for a moment later, the gas sparkled and faded away. Crusher felt her ears pop as the pressure in the room decreased. She looked around. The others appeared to be unconscious, but breathing—at least some were. She tried to gather her strength to go to them, but she was growing numb, her vision blurring. The gas she’d inhaled was still in her system.

The doors banged open and people rushed in. Talarian security? No, they wore bright garments and wide-brimmed hats. But these women were no servitors. They moved with speed and determination—and below their hat brims were veils that looked to Beverly like gas filters.

The women—the terrorists—closed in around her and Jono. “The gas is gone!” one cried.

“These two must have contacted the ship,” said the oldest female, golden-haired and tall for her species and sex (though still short of Beverly’s height). “Their people will be here in moments.” She looked Beverly over. “Come with us, sister. For your own good.”

“I’m . . . doctor. Need . . . help injured!” Anesthetic gas delivered so crudely, with no control over dosage, could easily be fatal. Starfleet anesthizine contained a built-in antagonist that prevented it from exceeding a safe dosage in most beings, but she doubted the same went for Talarian knockout gas.

The woman shook her festively filtered head. “Not my orders. Take them both!” she told the others.

They pulled the barely conscious ambassador’s aide to his feet—it took two of them—and bound his hands behind him. Beverly tried to struggle as two more did the same to her. But one of the women crushed a capsule under her nose, and a strong medicinal smell was the last thing she sensed.

3

GLINTARA, ROMULAN STAR EMPIRE
STARDATE 59898.1

T’Ryssa Chen soon decided that having to wear a Romulan haircut was the least of her worries. It was actually a bit liberating to have her hair no longer covering her ears and forehead, especially once she reached Romulan space and knew that nobody would look at her and expect her to act aloof and emotionless. “But the clothes!“ Trys had moaned to Jasminder Choudhury more than once during their preparations, lamenting the need to wear the heavy, quilted attire with the broad, squared-off shoulders that seemed to be an enduring fashion among the Romulans. “I look like a stone slab. At least Starfleet uniforms have some color. And don’t completely hide my figure. I need to make the most of what curves I’ve got, you know.”

Somehow, Jasminder managed to make even Romulan attire look graceful and flowing, but her tonsorial choice had made Trys more content with her own new haircut. Jasminder had chosen to adopt the same Vulcanesque appearance as Trys, eschewing the heavier brow ridge of the currently dominant Romulan ethnic group, so that they could both pass as working-class Romulans from a remote colony world, which would explain why their Imperial Romulan was a little stilted. Knowledge of major galactic powers’ languages was part of Trys’s contact-specialist training, and Jasminder had picked up Romulan during a weeks-long captivity on T’Met back in 2369, a skill that had enabled her to negotiate the release of her shipmates at the time and possibly avert a war. But they were both out of practice, and didn’t dare risk being caught using translators. In keeping with working-class custom, Jasminder had taken the radical step of completely shaving off her luxurious black hair and adorning her scalp with mourning tattoos. It was a striking look, and Trys had to resist doing a double take every time she glanced at Choudhury. But if nothing else, it served to distract attention from any imperfections in her prosthetic ears.

The need to avoid giving clues to their origins had precluded Trys from picking an undercover name she would’ve liked—something like Matahari, or maybe Sirenn after the lead character from her favorite spy holoserial. Instead she’d been saddled with Janil, a perfectly decent name but one with no private joke about it to amuse her. It and Jasminder’s identity, Del’oda, were part of the cover created for them by Jasminder’s connections in Starfleet Intelligence. Their infiltration had been arranged in intricate detail, but it had almost seemed unnecessary; upon contacting the Unificationists and requesting to join their Kinshaya mission, they had been welcomed readily. Trys had wondered about the lack of security, since it seemed to leave the Unificationists wide open for infiltration by government spies and saboteurs; but Jasminder had assured her in private that their identities had surely been checked by subtler means. The Unificationists had only been legal for a year and a half or so, and had plenty of experience from their years undergound to teach them caution. Also, Jasminder reminded her, their leader was Spock, a man with decades of Starfleet training.

The Unificationist mission was led by a man named Vranien, himself a working-class Romulan with a heavily lined face and a bald, tattooed pate like Choudhury’s. “Whom do you mourn?” he asked her when they were introduced.

“My family,” Jasminder told him. “They were lost in the Borg onslaught.” She looked away. “And I was lost for a time thereafter, to anger and despair. Finally I heard the word of Surak and found some measure of peace in it. Now I hope that by promoting peace in others, I may truly achieve it within myself.”

Trys remembered the Ferengi saying, “A near-truth is an economical lie.” She’d had plenty of occasion to learn the principle in her own checkered past. But she realized that for Choudhury, it was more than that. She was trying to achieve something positive for herself and others, and no doubt felt that honesty, to the extent that she could safely practice it in this context, was the best way to go about it.

“And you, Janil?” The question came from Vranien’s aide, a young Romulan named Lorrav who bore the familiar brow ridge and a full head of hair worn a few centimeters longer than fashionable. It took a moment for T’Ryssa to respond, not just because she didn’t immediately recognize her assumed name, but because he was quite possibly the most adorable Romulan she’d ever seen.

“Oh!” she finally said, struggling to remember her cover story. “Oh, I’m just . . . well, I’m fascinated by what lies beyond our borders. I want to learn about other worlds, other cultures. So I like the idea of unification. Not just with Vulcans—I mean, sure, Vulcans are great, I’m all about the Vulcans—” Jasminder kicked her in the ankle. “But with our new brethren in the Typhon Pact as well. If we can bring the cause to the Kinshaya, then that’ll help make us more . . . unified. I’m very fond of . . . uniting,” she went on as she gazed into Lorrav’s eyes.

Once they were finally alone aboard the Unificationists’ ship bound for Kinshaya space, Choudhury grinned and teased, “Fond of uniting? I just bet.”

“I couldn’t help it! He had puppy-dog eyes! Or, what’s the Romulan equivalent of a puppy dog? He had that.”

“And what about Mister Taurik? I thought there was something going on between you two.”

T’Ryssa fidgeted at the reminder of the Enterprise’s assistant chief engineer. “I don’t know about that. We’re friends.” Jasminder’s gaze simply held hers, and Trys suddenly understood just what a good interrogator she was. “Okay, maybe I’ve been feeling a little . . . curious about him. Maybe a lot curious. But I don’t know, Jazz. He’s just so . . . Vulcan. I’m not sure it would work out, me with someone that unemotional and sedate. It’s not my style.”

Jasminder pondered for a moment. “Maybe,” she finally said, her voice soft. “But there’s virtue in serenity.”

JANALWA, HOLY ORDER OF THE KINSHAYA STARDATE 59906.3

Janalwa had been one of the Kinshaya’s oldest colony worlds before the Klingons had razed their home planet two years ago in retaliation for the Holy Order’s renewed campaign of aggression against them (though the Episcopate, the ruling council of bishops, had painted it as the unprovoked savagery of a race of “demons”). The colony’s age and large population had given it enough clout within the Order to maintain a certain independence, allowing long-held traditions of devotional mysticism and intensely individual spirituality to maintain a foothold among the common people even as the Episcopate had imposed its stringent orthodoxy upon the homeworld and the institutions of their interstellar state. But now, as the most populous surviving Kinshaya world after the Klingon assault, Janalwa had been chosen as the new capital, and the apparatus of church and state—which here were one and the same—had descended upon it in full force. The Devotionalists had fallen victim to a series of sudden purges and been driven underground, but that had backfired by inspiring a populist resistance among the masses, bringing new sympathy and support to the Devotionalist cause.

“This was their mistake,” Vranien told the assembly of Devotionalists and Unificationists who had met in the catacombs beneath an old church, abandoned and left to deteriorate since its diocese’s teachings had been declared heretical by the Pontifex Maxima, leader of the church and thus of the nation. “The Order claims to act in defense of the people against demons, of the righteous against evil,” the tattooed Romulan elder intoned, his words echoing about the hemispherical amphitheater. “But now they strike against members of their own community, Kinshaya such as yourselves who are known to the common people for their decency and kindness. It goes against their own claims of service to the people and the people’s ideals.”

It had been more of a challenge to arrange this meeting, Jasminder Choudhury reflected, than it had been to reach the planet in the first place. All members of the Typhon Pact had been obligated to liberalize their immigration policies where fellow signatories were concerned, and Praetor Kamemor’s tolerance of the Unificationists compelled the Holy Order to treat them gingerly lest they offend Romulus, now one of the most powerful Typhon Pact members since it had reabsorbed the schismatic Imperial Romulan State at the end of 2381. However, the Devotionalists’ protests were defined as heretical acts, assemblies such as this illegal, so the Unificationists who had arrived openly on Janalwa now had to elude the Inquisitorial enforcers to attend this clandestine meeting. Just as well that the Unificationists had far longer—though less recent—experience as an underground movement.

Vranien’s words prompted angry grumbling in the Kinshaya audience, though to Choudhury’s ears it sounded more like a cross between the cawing of crows and the snarls of bobcats, accompanied by the batlike flutter of vestigial wings. T’Ryssa had called the Kinshaya griffins, and that was a reasonable analogy for their overall shape, but they lacked the eagle-like qualities of that mythical breed; their wings were leathery and gargoylesque, their bodies furred in reddish or brown hues, their heads bearing carnivorous muzzles rather than beaks, their forelegs ending in sharp-nailed, four-digited hands rather than talons. A crowd of them in a surly mood was an intimidating sight, and Trys was visibly fidgeting beside her. Choudhury was disturbed by the intensity of her own reaction, though she managed to maintain her surface calm.

“ ’Aya,” came a Kinshaya voice, placid but commanding enough to draw the crowd’s attention. This was Yeffir, leader of the Devotionalists, an aged, pale-furred Kinshaya female whose gaunt frame bespoke a life of asceticism. “Be glad of the Episcopate’s calls for righteousness and decency,” she said. “For it is those very things within themselves that we seek to remind them of. By giving them no cause to doubt our own decency, we challenge them to respond in kind and prove they genuinely believe their words—and if they do not, they shame themselves in their own eyes.”

“ ’Aya, Teacher,” replied Nagrom, a burlier, scarlet-furred male who led a more aggressive faction of dissidents. Kinshaya commoners were not as segregated in their social roles as the priestly classes, which restricted males to military leadership and diplomacy and females to civil government, but their males still tended to be more contentious. “When they do not, we must be prepared to defend ourselves. What good is the moral high ground if it merely allows our blood to run downhill?”

“Then it will spread more widely, and all who watch will be bathed in it, and know what they have done. They will have to live with whatever choices they make. By not resisting, we show them that it is their choices that lead to bloodshed, not ours. No being can compel another to change. We must help them to recognize their own need to change.”

“And how long will that take, Teacher? A generation? Four? Eight? Who will teach those future generations if we merely sit and allow ourselves to be killed?”

“Who will teach them if we send them off to die in our battles?”

“‘With time and persistence, even a gentle trickle of water can erode a mountain,’” said Vranien. “Those were the words of Surak of Vulcan. He did not live to see his cause succeed. But over the generations that followed, it transformed his entire world.”

Vranien’s backing helped tip the scales in Yeffir’s favor. Nagrom recognized that he would not win the day and agreed that his faction would, for now, go along with the nonviolent protests planned to begin the next day.

Choudhury spent the remainder of the evening in meditation with the Unificationists, trying to draw on their calm and control. But T’Ryssa had no interest in such sedentary activities. She spent the evening speaking with the Kinshaya, trying to learn more about their culture, history, and behavior—as much for her own fascination with the alien as for the benefit of the Federation. Lorrav, he of the puppy-dog eyes, soon slipped from the meditation circle to join “Janil” in her griffinological studies. But before long, their attention shifted away from the Kinshaya and toward each other, and not long after that, they wandered off together.

Jasminder wished them well. It wasn’t her place to judge T’Ryssa’s relationship choices . . . and given what they would all face at the protest rally tomorrow, she couldn’t begrudge them the need to take comfort where they could.

“Does it scare you?” T’Ryssa asked Lorrav as they walked hand-in-hand through the catacombs. “Knowing you’re going to go up against armed government troops and have no way to defend yourself?”

Lorrav took a moment before replying. “Spock teaches us that fear is just a tool. It advises us to consider the consequences of our actions. But it is our tool to wield, and to set aside when it has served its purpose.”

“Yes, but are you scared?”

He smiled. “Yes. I suppose I don’t quite have the spiritual conviction of Vranien or Yeffir. I draw courage from their example. By myself, I don’t know if I could go out there tomorrow and face the Kinshaya enforcers. But I trust Vranien completely. I have no doubt about his wisdom, his strength, his commitment. So as long as he leads, I will be able to follow and face the danger.”

“Yeah,” T’Ryssa said, thinking of Captain Picard. “I know someone like that.”

“Your friend Del’oda?”

“Oh. Yes, her too. At her best. Though it seems she’s been less sure of herself lately than I realized. Still, she came here, despite the danger. And I still can’t believe I let her talk me into it. So yes,” she went on after another moment of reflection. “Her too.”

They walked in warm silence for a few moments. “So what do you do?” she went on. “When you know you’re about to do something dangerous in the morning. Do you meditate? Read Surak’s Analects or the Kir’Shara?”

He gave her a sheepish grin. “I eat. I get very hungry when I’m nervous.”

Trys chuckled. “We could do that. I guess.” She hesitated for a moment, then took the plunge. “You know what I usually like to do the night before doing something dangerous?”

“What?”

She kissed him. It went on for a while. “Does that give you a clue?” she concluded breathlessly.

“I, um, I think I’m getting the idea,” Lorrav replied. He was smiling, but at the same time he seemed even more nervous than he’d been before. The innocent puppy look evidently wasn’t so far from the truth. But then he added, “I think maybe I’ve had enough food today already.”

T’Ryssa grinned. “Oh, I think we can work up an appetite.”

•   •   •

The Devotionalist rally the next morning was held in the main square of the Janalwan capital city, Rashtag—or rather, its main circle, T’Ryssa corrected. Virtually all Kinshaya architecture and city planning was based on the circle, which their scripture taught was the most perfect, holy shape. Trys wondered how much that assumption had slowed down their development of Kepler’s laws and orbital mechanics, but none of the Kinshaya she’d spoken to here seemed to be versed in science history. Apparently such mysteries were the privilege of the noble classes—the priests and bishops. Indeed, it seemed the theocracy suppressed a lot of scientific truths that would undermine their dogmas. That was one of the things the Devotionalist movement sought to change. They felt the common people had the right to pursue understanding of the Divine by studying Its creation, the physical universe, for themselves.

Niamlar Circle, fittingly, was at the geometric center of Rashtag and always would be; all new construction in the city was carefully planned to expand the circle symmetrically to preserve its purity. Curving around its eastern quadrant (the holiest direction since it pointed toward that great orb, the rising sun) was the Cathedral of State, once a simple large dome, now expanded into a massive, ornate, multidomed complex trumpeting the majesty of the Pontifex Maxima and her Episcopate. The cathedral gleamed and grew while elsewhere in the city, businesses closed down, buildings fell into decay, and Kinshaya lived in poverty. It was both the seat of the government the Devotionalists opposed and the symbol of its abuses of power. This made Niamlar Circle the natural place for a protest, as did its geography; it was open enough that the Inquisitors could not prevent a crowd from gathering if they had no warning.

And it was a respectable-sized crowd that assembled this morning. Hundreds of Kinshaya commoners had come out to stand with Yeffir and the Devotionalists—maybe not a sea of bodies, Trys thought, but at least a small lake. Their mood was surprisingly festive, even playful. Whole creche groups had come out together—adults, children, and elder caregivers alike—to help show that this was a peaceful assembly and one with widespread support. Children soared through the air over their creche elders’ heads, their bodies light enough to let them glide short distances in Janalwa’s relatively light gravity and dense air.

The Romulan group stayed at the rear of the crowd, here simply as observers. This was a Kinshaya movement, and Vranien wished to respect that and leave no doubt of it in the eyes of watchers. Trys wished she could be a bit deeper in the crowd, though, for it was a chilly morning in Rashtag, at least by Vulcan standards. Most of the Unificationists were huddling close or rubbing their hands together. Her half-human metabolism, or perhaps her lifetime of acclimation to Starfleet-standard environmental settings, made her less sensitive to the chill than the Romulans, but she felt it enough that it was easy to fake a more pronounced reaction. But Trys noticed that Choudhury didn’t seem aware of the temperature. “Whoo! Brisk, isn’t it, hey, Del’oda?” she said to get the human woman’s attention. Jasminder caught the cue and wrapped her arms around herself, grinning in feigned agreement. Still, it surprised Trys that the reminder had been needed. Jasminder was usually such a keen observer.

She began to sidle closer to the disguised security chief, but she was intercepted by Senis, a young Romulan woman with whom she’d struck up a friendly acquaintance on the trip here. “Janil! So I heard you and Lorrav continued your discussion of ‘unity’ last night,” Senis said with a giggle. “I was wondering why your bunk was unused.”

“It wasn’t what you’re thinking,” Trys insisted. “We talked for hours.” She fidgeted. “And . . . then we did some other stuff for a while. But we didn’t quite get around to actual . . . unity.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Senis replied. “These ascetics and their reserve. Or is he really as shy as he seems? I always figured he’d be quite a reonmet once he loosened up a bit,” she tittered.

T’Ryssa didn’t bother to tell her that it had been her choice to hold back, not Lorrav’s. He’d been very understanding and patient about it, yet she could sense his disappointment. But she hadn’t wanted to risk getting too carried away and crying out in Standard, say. And Lorrav was just so innocent and guileless that she’d felt a little bad about seducing him under false pretenses. Okay, so maybe she’d found herself thinking about Taurik just a bit, but surely that hadn’t been the deciding factor. Of course it hadn’t.

She distracted herself by focusing on what was distracting Choudhury. “Are you okay?” she asked once Senis had moved on.

Jasminder gave a small sigh. “I’m still struggling to find my center. Meditating with Vranien and the others was helpful, but . . . I couldn’t help dwelling on the risks of this. The fear of being attacked or captured. I’m still too preoccupied with my fears.”

“You’d never know it to look at you.”

The taller woman shrugged. “I have the training to cope with threats. My response to fear is readiness, not panic. But that doesn’t mean that those threats don’t preoccupy my thoughts, make it hard for me to find peace. Without that stillness giving me an anchor, I can be driven away from where I want to be in my mind.” Trys heard what went unspoken: Like ch’Lhren drove me away from my post.

“That’s what this is about, my friend,” Jasminder went on, gesturing to the great steps where Yeffir was now speaking. “They choose to stand in a place of peace, a place of conscience, resisting all pressures to drive them away from that ideal. They refuse to stand by and tolerate the state’s cruelty and violence any longer, but they will not let themselves be brought down to the same level. Instead they combat it by providing a better example and challenging the state to rise to it.”

Yeffir spoke softly but with undeniable energy, calling on Pontifex Ykredna to stand down and allow reformers to step in. She acknowledged the virtue of forgiveness and second chances, but pointed out that the current regime had clung to power too long, crippled the Kinshaya economy too badly with its diversion of revenues to unnecessary warfare and self-glorification, and created too much bad blood both within the Holy Order and beyond, so that the only truly constructive step they could take anymore would be a step away from the reins of power. Their party, or sect, or denomination, or whatever it was called, could continue to have a voice in the coalition to follow, but preferably under new leadership; Ykredna and her Matriarchs should step aside as a gesture of good faith.

The Devotionalist teacher went on to chastise the Episcopate for its persecution of those Kinshaya they considered heretics, citing the passages from the holy writ on altash, or tolerance, which the state used to justify membership in the Typhon Pact, and urging them to extend the same principle to their own people. “The circle is holy because its every point is equal. None are closer to the center, none are higher or lower than any other. The Pontifex all but declares herself the center of the circle, which is the true heresy. Only the Divine resides in that place of perfection. It is time to recognize that we mortals all stand beside one another upon the same circle, equidistant from the Divine and equally defined by it.”

But it wasn’t long before the Inquisitors, marked by the wing tattoos of the priestly classes, began to move in, declaring the assembly an act of sacrilege and commanding the crowd to disperse. “We will not be moved,” Yeffir intoned. “A circle has no sides. We belong here as much as you.”

But the Inquisitors didn’t see it that way. They came forth rampant, balancing on their hind legs and throwing their wings back for counterbalance as they advanced with clubs in their forelegs, striking at the protesters. Others manned directional force field projectors that fired into the crowd, forcing Kinshaya back by the dozens. Yeffir urged her followers not to retaliate, but that didn’t deter the Inquisitors.

“We have to do something!” T’Ryssa cried, fury filling her at the sight of the shock troops beating defenseless Kinshaya, using their force beams indiscriminately on young and old.

“We are,” Jasminder replied, though her voice was tight. “We’re bearing witness.”

Trys caught sight of a Kinshaya she recognized, a motley-furred young female she’d spoken to at length the night before, who’d been as curious to learn about Romulans as Trys had been to learn about Kinshaya, which had caused Trys some awkward moments trying to cover for her limited knowledge of Romulan customs. The young one leapt between an enforcer and an elder with a broken wing, pleading with the trooper to see reason but quickly falling before his blows.

“Gireuk that!” she cursed in Romulan. “I’m not going to stand by and do nothing!” She ran forward into the crowd, readying herself. She didn’t really know what she was doing. She had Starfleet self-defense training, but she was no fighter. She didn’t know if she could accomplish anything beyond getting her own head bashed in.

But she was past thinking. She simply had to act.

•   •   •

“Trys—Janil, no!” Choudhury cried as the young lieutenant threw herself into the crowd. But it was too late. And T’Ryssa wasn’t alone. Nagrom and his followers were charging forward as well, slashing at the Inquisitors with claws and fangs. Some of the Romulans were joining the fight as well, despite Vranien’s entreaties.

Choudhury knew this was a mistake. It was undermining everything Yeffir and Vranien stood for. It was letting the state win by sinking to their level. But despite all that, she also leapt into the fray. She had a duty to protect T’Ryssa. Maybe that’s my true path, she thought, not for the first time in recent months. Maybe the way of peace is not mine to find again. But at least I can protect others.

She surged forward into the crowd, giving in to her security training—and her extensive hand-to-hand combat practice with Worf. She came abreast with Trys and the others, put herself between the Kinshaya troops and the Devotionalists, and acted as she needed to act to neutralize the threats. She took hold of the righteous anger that filled her and channeled it into action. Beside her, Nagrom’s faction did the same, striking more viciously than she did, though her strikes were just as effective. Together, they made headway toward the steps, toward Yeffir. Choudhury saw a group of Kinshaya work their way around a force beam and overrun its operators, taking it out of action. For a moment, she allowed herself to hope this might turn out all right.

But then the disruptor fire began.

Blinding bolts cut through the crowd in a shocking barrage, striking down protesters indiscriminately. Choudhury recognized the sight of those bolts, their sound, their smell. She had faced them in the final weeks of the Dominion War. She looked up to the top of the great stairs, knowing what she would see: dozens of bipedal figures, encased in identical, all-concealing armor and cylindrical helmets with green visors and pronounced muzzles.

Breen.

The crowd’s momentum broke, giving way to blind panic as the barrage continued. The angry roar of the crowd changed to screaming and moaning. Kinshaya and Romulans ran, but the lightning-hot plasma bolts tore into their backs, filling the air with a charnel scent.

Choudhury held her ground as long as she could, searching for Trys and the others, guiding as many as she could to a safe retreat. Finally Trys found her, dragging a wounded Kinshaya behind her. Jasminder lifted the young quadruped onto her shoulders and ran with Trys toward the nearest catacomb entrance.

Soon they were underground, the terrors of the Breen attack behind them. But Choudhury knew the worst was just beginning.

4

TALAR SYSTEM
STARDATE 59908.7

“Have you found them?”

When Rennan Konya entered Beverly Crusher’s office, now occupied by a worried Picard and Endar (since the ambassador refused to lie in bed but Doctor Tropp had not allowed him to leave sickbay), the captain only barely managed to beat Endar to the question. Both of them had been standing here silently, sometimes pacing, sometimes pounding a wall with a fist—two men united in their anxiety for their families despite having very little to say to each other. Some of the Talarians in sickbay had begun the B’Nar mourning ritual, a sustained, high-pitched keening, upon hearing of the lives lost in the rebels’ gas attack—though the quick actions of Tropp and his team had prevented more fatalities. But Endar had asked them to defer the ritual out of respect for their hosts. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t wished to appear weak in front of them by openly expressing his fear and grief.

“No, sir,” the Betazoid lieutenant replied, shaking his sandy-haired head. “There’s significant sensor interference blanketing the entire district around M’leint, an area of thousands of square kilometers. And there are definitely no human life signs anywhere else on the planet or on any moon or asteroid within transporter range.”

“How is that possible?” Picard demanded. “Talarians don’t have the technology to block our sensors.” At the moment, the captain couldn’t care less about offending Endar by calling attention to his people’s lower technological level. But Endar didn’t seem to care much either.

“No, sir, they don’t. Nor should they have the technology to tune a transporter beam to the kind of power and focus that let those gas bombs penetrate the beaming shields.”

“Then who does have this technology?” Endar demanded. “And how could the female radicals have obtained it? They do not travel offworld.”

“Each individual technology’s signature is consistent with a number of different civilizations,” Konya said. “But put the two of them together, and the one likely possibility is the Tzenkethi.”

Picard and Endar traded an intense look. “The Tzenkethi do not share their technology,” Picard told the ambassador. “Except with their partners in the Typhon Pact.”

“No wonder the females have grown so brazen,” Endar growled. “These aliens are using them to destabilize our government. Overthrow it, replace it with one beholden to the Pact.”

“Robbing us of Talar as an ally,” Picard added, “just as they robbed the Federation of Andor.”

“This will not stand,” Endar declared. “They miscalculated, Picard. They stole my son from me, and your mate from you. I know that among your kind, the value of that loss rivals that of a son.”

“They have done that and more,” Picard said. Indeed, his fear of losing Beverly was great, a pain he had not known since three years ago when she had been believed dead at Kevratas. Nearly losing her then was what had prompted him to finally act on his long-repressed feelings for her and take her as his lover and then his wife. But what he felt now had levels he could not have imagined then. “They have robbed my son of his mother. And that is simply not acceptable. I guarantee you, Endar, we will find them.” He turned to Konya. “Lieutenant, can we penetrate the interference?”

“Knowing that it’s probably Tzenkethi gives us a starting point,” Konya replied. “They’ve no doubt improved their sensor countermeasures since our last conflict, but we’ve improved our sensors as well.” He turned to Endar. “Don’t worry, Ambassador. We’ll get your son back to you. And Doctor Crusher, Captain.”

Endar lowered his head. “It is not our way to ask for help, Captain Picard. Every hardship we face is a challenge, and our strength is measured by our ability to overcome it. But this . . . a rebellion of females . . . it changes the game. We diminish ourselves if we strike at females, yet we diminish ourselves if we do nothing to conquer an enemy. It is a devious dilemma that only an alien could force upon us. So perhaps we must accept the assistance of aliens to even the battle.” He let out a heavy breath. “You have methods at your disposal that we cannot use. You are more likely to find them than we are . . . and you can take actions against them that we cannot.”

Despite Picard’s determination to recover Beverly and Jono, the ambassador’s words gave him pause. Endar was implicitly inviting the Enterprise crew to use the kind of force against the female rebels that the Talarians’ taboos prohibited them from using.

Sensing Picard’s hesitation, Endar went on. “You wish to prove yourselves worthy as allies. To demonstrate that Talar will be stronger as your partner in the Accords. This is your chance to do so, Picard. We are united in our deprivation now. Let us be united in our victory.”

All of Picard’s instincts as a diplomat, as a believer in justice and equality, as an officer sworn to uphold the Prime Directive, resisted Endar’s request. All his experience told him it was wrong.

But he thought of René sleeping in Beverly’s arms, or gazing up at her with wonder and adoration. He thought of the profound bond of empathy between mother and child, like two halves of a single entity—which they had truly been not much more than a year ago—and how, when he was with the two of them, he almost felt like he could share in that bond. He thought of his old friend Jack Crusher, who had placed Starfleet duties first and thus missed out on sharing in that bond between Beverly and her first son for any length of time—in part because a far younger and more naive Jean-Luc Picard had pressed him to do so, and in so doing had ultimately taken him from Beverly and Wesley forever. He had let his guilt about Jack keep him from sharing his love for Beverly for so many years, until he’d finally learned that he could only repay that debt by giving Beverly the same kind of love, devotion, and family unity he had cheated her of in the past.

And he knew that he would tear Talar apart in order to find Beverly and ensure that her family would not be ripped apart again.

•   •   •

Crusher awoke to find herself being dragged through what looked like a maintenance tunnel of some sort—probably underground, she decided as she studied her surroundings through slitted eyelids, hiding her restored alertness. I’ve had entirely too many opportunities to get good at dealing with captivity, she thought. But she used that experience to size up the situation. Jono was being dragged along behind her, his greater bulk slowing his bearers down. All their captors were female Talarians—no surprise there.

Soon they entered a large chamber containing some sort of massive machinery. Beverly didn’t know enough about Talarian engineering to identify it. It was the occupants that held her interest—more women, as brightly attired as the rest, but with their heads and hands bare. She briefly wondered why these militants didn’t wear something duller if they wished to avoid drawing attention. Then she realized that dressing as typical Talarian women gave them essential invisibility, the freedom to go wherever they wished and be perceived as little more than part of the scenery.

The leader of their captors, the blond woman who’d invited Beverly to join their cause, called out. “Matron Dirin!” An older female looked up in response and strode toward her. The matron was a full-figured woman whose hair was atypically dark for a Talarian, aside from the streaks of gray running through it. Beverly would have pegged her as the leader even without the title.

“I am glad to see you well, Velet, and your team.” Her gaze swept over the captives. “Excellent work.”

“Thank you, Matron.” She fidgeted.

“Something troubles you?”

“This sister is a doctor. She wished to tend to the injured. I had to prevent her.”

“They have other doctors. The delay would have been brief.”

Crusher spoke up, abandoning the pretense of unconsciousness. “Any delay in treatment can be fatal in a case like this!”

“Silence!” the matron barked. “I will hear nothing from you.”

Velet frowned. “I thought we brought her here to persuade her, win her over.”

“No chance. She is Starfleet. They side with the patriarchs.”

“But she is a sister!”

“Not of us.” The matron turned to Crusher. “Tell me, human—have you ever been denied the option of managing your own life? Ever been forbidden to speak in public? Ever had a male child taken from you at birth to be raised by strangers?”

“No,” she replied honestly. The last question had evoked a regretful thought of Wesley, but it had been his own choice as an adult to follow a path that took him far from her.

“Then you cannot understand us.” Dirin looked away, dismissing her.

“But doesn’t she represent what we seek to achieve?” Velet asked.

“She represents Starfleet. She represents the elite and powerful.”

Velet was still unconvinced. “And they will seek her out relentlessly. Just as they will seek out the ambassador’s son. We play a dangerous game.”

Dirin gave a confident smile. “They won’t find her, thanks to our friend.”

“But it will give Starfleet an excuse to abet the High Command in cracking down further.”

“And thereby show the people how cruel our oppressors truly are.”

Crusher was puzzled. She’d been wondering all along why the women had targeted her as a hostage, and Dirin’s explanations didn’t seem to make much sense. She spoke up. “Starfleet has no interest in oppressing anyone. And our laws forbid interference in local affairs. You have nothing to gain by holding us hostage.”

Dirin turned back, studying her. “We shall see. Guard them,” she ordered Velet before marching across to an adjoining room and opening the door. Beverly saw a soft blue illumination from within, shifting as a figure moved in front of it. Dirin began to speak to the source of the shadows, her commanding body language replaced by deference.

No, wait. As Beverly watched the shifting light, she realized it wasn’t the shadows that were moving—the figure itself was the source of the light, the pattern suggesting a generally humanoid shape. Moving her head to the side, she caught a glimpse of a gently glowing blue arm that moved fluidly, as if boneless. It’s a Tzenkethi! The most beautiful and delicate members of the Typhon Pact in appearance, and the most deceptive, for that beauty masked a deep-rooted paranoia and a nearly fanatical need for control.

Beside her, Jono groaned and began to awaken. Beverly switched into doctor mode and gave him a quick visual once-over. When she’d verified—as well as she could with her hands bound behind her—that Jono was recovering adequately, she filled him in on the situation. “Tzenkethi!” he hissed. “Then the Pact is behind this.”

Beverly spoke to their guard. “Is that true, Velet? Was it the Tzenkethi who provoked you to violence?”

“It was the males who provoked us,” the blond woman riposted. “The Typhon Pact has offered us aid in our struggle—aid the Federation would not give.”

“They’re using you, can’t you see? They want you to destabilize the government so they can replace it with a puppet state that’ll be friendly to them. They’re not doing any of this to help you.”

“Dezinor said the Federation would spin such lies. But you are wrong. She is a true sister.”

“Dezinor. Is that the Tzenkethi agent in there? The one your matron is taking orders from?”

Velet bristled. “I will speak no more to you.” She summoned over her troops and had them move the prisoners to another, empty side room. Jono tried to resist for a moment, but Crusher could see that the Talarian taboo against striking females held him back. Once they were shut into the room, though, he let out his anger, snarling and kicking the wall.

“Now that you’ve got that out of your system,” Beverly said, “how about we use our energy for something constructive?”

They spent the next few minutes back-to-back, working on each other’s bonds. Jono winced and apologized every time her hands touched the bare skin between his gloves and sleeves. But her slender, surgeon’s hands proved more successful at slipping out of her own bonds and then untying his. They were still locked in, but at least they were more comfortable.

“We must get out of here,” Jono said. “We must expose the Tzenkethi ploy and end this once and for all.”

Crusher threw him a look. “You really think it’s going to be that simple? This Dezinor wouldn’t have been able to get a foothold with these women if they hadn’t already had some real grievances of their own.”

He glared at her. “These women are dupes at best, fanatics at worst.”

“Which means there’s at least a chance they can be reasoned with.”

“You tried that. It didn’t go well.”

“You’re the diplomat here, Jono.”

He scoffed. “If you could not reach them, a fellow female, how could I?” He shook his head. “You sound like Picard, telling us to negotiate with these deviants. As if he could understand anything about Talarians!”

His anger startled Beverly, even though she knew it shouldn’t. He’d made it clear already that there was still some unresolved resentment toward Jean-Luc for trying to take him away from Endar. Crusher sighed. “Jono, there’s something I need to tell you. You’re wrong to blame Captain Picard for what happened sixteen years ago.” She hesitated. “I’m the one you should blame. I’m the one who interpreted your past injuries as evidence of abuse. Who assumed you had to be a prisoner of the Talarians.”

Jono stared at her. “It was you?” She nodded. “Why? Why would you think that of my father?”

“I’m a doctor. It’s my job to try to protect people from harm. And I’d seen the things that Talarians did to their enemies.”

“In war! To those who took arms against them! Not to children!”

“If you think there’s such a thing as a war that never harms children, you’ve never been in one!” Beverly winced as she realized what she’d said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” He simply glared.

After a few moments’ awkward silence, she said, “All right. It wasn’t just a medical precaution. I only knew Talarians as warriors—and I knew a thing or two about how you treated your women. Maybe I was predisposed to expect you to be violent.”

Jono stared, aghast. “You thought we would be violent to our women? You truly knew nothing of us.”

“No, I suppose I didn’t. And there’s so much else I don’t know. I’m no diplomat, Jono. I’m not an expert at bridging cultural divides.” She moved closer to him. “But you are. That’s what’s defined your whole career, your ability to bridge the gap between cultures.”

“These women are already part of my culture.”

“Are they? You live on the same planet, but you inhabit very different worlds. But you have a unique capability to bridge that gap as well, Jono. You’re a Talarian man by culture, but you’ve lived in the Federation, you’ve learned to deal with women as equals. You can negotiate with these women in a way that no other Talarian man could. And that may be the only way to undermine the Tzenkethi’s hold over them.” She reached out and clasped his arm. “It’s what Captain Picard would do. And Captain Picard wasn’t the one who tried to take you from Endar. He was the one who had the insight to recognize that you should be returned. So don’t lose faith in his judgment, his methods, because of my mistake.”

Jono studied her for a long moment. “I think, Doctor Crusher,” he finally said, “that you are a better diplomat than you believe.”

•   •   •

Worf stepped into the captain’s ready room. “You asked to see me, sir?”

“Come in, come in.”

Worf came forward and stood at attention before his desk. The captain had rarely insisted on such formality from his junior officers, and certainly not from his first officer, whom he never failed to treat as an equal. But it was Worf’s habit and his preference to show proper respect to his commander and his friend. At this time in particular, it was important to do so.

Picard knew Worf well enough by now not to ask him to sit down—or maybe he was simply too preoccupied. “Mister Worf,” Picard said after a moment, “I need you to check my judgment.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I’ve been in contact with Starfleet Command. Admiral Nechayev has recommended that we cooperate with Endar’s request and help the Talarians locate and overcome the rebels.”

“That is good, sir.” Worf tilted his head, studying his captain. “Isn’t it?”

Picard sighed and rubbed his scalp. “I wish I knew. The ramifications of this are very disquieting, Worf. You know as well as I that this will not simply be a rescue of two people. The Talarians are asking for our help in putting down this dissident movement altogether. And it may well be necessary to mount a swift, decisive strike to incapacitate the entire organization if we wish to retrieve the captives unharmed.”

“They have committed acts of violence against the state and against a Starfleet officer. They are terrorists.”

“But they are protesting a government that denies rights and representation to half its populace. What kind of precedent does it set if Starfleet helps prop up an oppressive regime?”

“The Tzenkethi are the real enemy here. The Prime Directive does allow assisting an ally against an external threat.”

Picard nodded. “Yes, and the admiral made a good point about that. More Talarians will surely suffer if the Tzenkethi are allowed to retain a foothold here. And many more beyond Talar will suffer if the Typhon Pact continues to undermine the Federation and the Khitomer Alliance.”

“That is true,” Worf said. “It is also true that once we find the rebels, our superior technology should enable us to subdue them with a minimum of violence.”

“There is that. In every respect, this seems like a justified course of action. The lesser of two evils, at the least.”

Worf held his gaze for a moment before speaking. “But you did not call me here to discuss the strategic benefits of the plan.”

“No.” Picard rose from the desk and moved to look out the port at the stars. “How many times have I resisted when the Federation has attempted to put political expediency over the good of another culture, over our own principles? At Dorvan Five, at the Ba’ku planet, at Tezwa. I’ve never been ready to accept the argument that the ends justify the means. And yet here I am, ready to set all that aside and charge in with phasers blazing.”

Worf moved to stand behind him, meeting his eyes reflected in the port. “You wish to ask me whether I think your judgment is compromised by your personal stake here. Whether you are judging the situation as a Starfleet officer evaluating the variables . . . or as a husband and father looking for an excuse to act.” Picard simply nodded.

Worf took his time before responding. “I do have . . . some experience with tossing duty and judgment aside to save my mate, sir. During the Dominion War . . .”

“Yes, I remember.” Worf had scrapped a mission to retrieve a contact with important military information in order to save the life of his par’machkai, Jadzia Dax. It was one of the few black marks on his record, and Jadzia had been killed only a few months later. Yet Worf would still make the same choice if he had to do it again.

“So I would not judge you,” the Klingon went on, “if you were to do the same.”

After another moment, he stepped forward and put a hand on his captain’s shoulder. “But you are not me,” he said. “And you do not need me to tell you the right thing to do. Whether as a captain or as a man, you will know.”

•   •   •

Jono began his work when Velet came in to feed them, accompanied by several guards. “Don’t think you can force your way past us,” she warned Crusher. “You may be big, but we can still overpower you.” The mere presence of several females blocking the door was sufficient to keep Jono from trying to reach it. Velet scoffed. “You can’t bring yourself to try anything because there’s no honor in attacking the helpless. But who’s really helpless here?”

“It’s clear that you are not,” Jono told her. “Your matron has taught you well.”

Velet bristled. “Watch what you say about Matron Dirin!”

“I was only going to say that she reminds me of my grandmother.” The women stared, speechless. Beverly remembered that Talarian males only considered themselves to have fathers; their female progenitors were regarded merely as gene donors and nursemaids. “Mother” was a term used only by females.

Jono smiled and continued. “Yes—I have a grandmother. She is human, and her sons fought bravely in the border wars. Her name is Connaught Rossa. She is an admiral in Starfleet.”

He went on to tell the startled women about his grandmother the admiral: how he had seen her for the first time when the Enterprise first found him sixteen years ago, how she had spoken to him of the heroic deeds of his progenitors, how his curiosity about his birth family had remained even after his return to Endar, and how he had pursued a career in diplomacy in order to have a chance to connect with his human heritage.

“Why take such interest in a female forebear?” Velet challenged.

“She was my only connection to my human father, and his forefathers,” Jono admitted. “But the more I spoke with her, the more I interacted with humans, the more I came to understand that foremothers can matter as much to a man as forefathers. I saw how strong a mother’s love for her family can be, a strength and commitment rivaling that of any warrior. Admiral Rossa has been a warrior herself, from a long line of warriors. But she fought not for challenge or for glory, but to protect those she loved. I learned she would go to any lengths to keep them safe.”

“Yes!” Velet said. “Yes, that’s exactly why we do all this.”

And with that, the ice was broken. The women were beginning to realize that Jono was exactly what they had been yearning for: a male within the Talarian establishment who would actually listen to them. And that was what Jono did. Deftly, by saying the right words at the right times but otherwise staying silent and listening, he drew the women into dialogue, hearing out their complaints, their reasons for engaging in the struggle. Crusher was reminded of the writings of the great negotiator Riva, who had often spoken of the importance—and difficulty—of getting the sides in a negotiation to truly listen to one another, without which there could be no understanding. Beverly wondered why so many people thought that attacking and hurting others would make them more willing to listen, when it usually had the opposite effect.

But Velet and the women with her seemed eager to consider alternatives to using force. “All we wanted was to get your attention,” she said. “To get you to take us seriously.”

“You did that with the strikes,” Jono said. Throwing a sheepish look at Beverly, he added, “You certainly proved how vital you are to the running of our everyday lives.”

“But Ronzel would not have budged. We had to go further.”

Jono studied her. “You seem less than convinced.”

Velet schooled her features to hardness. “I have faith in the Matron’s judgment. She understands what’s at stake here. Our right to have a say in our children’s future. To be paid adequately to support our families, with enough time free to spend with them. To improve medical care for female children, so they can grow up healthy and strong.”

“How will you have time for your families if you overthrow the patriarchy? Running a planet is a great deal of work.”

The women exchanged looks of surprise and amusement. “We have no wish to overthrow them,” Velet said.

“Certainly not,” said a bronze-haired woman, Gezel. “Ronzel, yes, but not the patriarchy. Let the males play their silly games of politics and war. We’re too busy with what really matters. With family. Home. Community.”

“We take care of the world,” Velet said. “Keep it clean, keep it orderly, keep it livable. We take care of our males like the children they so often are—making sure they have a safe and healthy home to return to when they come back from their games.”

“All we want,” Gezel went on, “is for Ronzel’s regime to stop interfering with our efforts to do that. He’s got this idea in his head that the government should dictate all economic decisions, even the ones that affect home and family, things that are our responsibility.”

“He’s taxing us dry in order to fund space fleets and offworld alliances,” a third woman added.

“Wait a minute,” Crusher said. “You’ve got an offworld ally of your own, this Dezinor. If you’re not interested in overthrowing the government, in replacing it with one friendly to the Typhon Pact, then why are the Tzenkethi backing you? What do they get out of it?”

“Dezinor is . . . a philanthropist,” Velet said, sounding unconvinced. “She saw our plight and wished to help us achieve our goals.”

“By becoming more militant? Poisoning the heads of state, taking hostages? Does that seem philanthropic to you?” Crusher shook her head. “As a rule, Tzenkethi don’t take much interest in anything beyond their own territory. They’re driven by a deep-rooted fear and hostility toward outsiders.”

“No,” Gezel cried. “Dezinor is beautiful and gentle!”

“It’s that very beauty and fragility that made the Tzenkethi victims for a long time, exploited as novelties and slaves by other races. It was how they became aware of alien life, and it shaped their view of the universe. Eventually they learned to fight back, and became ruthless about defending their interests.” At least, that was the best theory that Federation anthropologists had been able to construct about the insular race. “And part of that is regulating their own genes and behavior to cull what they see as weaknesses. Any philanthropic leanings toward aliens would most likely be edited out of their genomes. They only help others if it helps themselves somehow. So what do the Tzenkethi get out of helping you fight the government, take us prisoner?”

“And why target Doctor Crusher?” Jono asked. “Dirin ordered you to take her specifically. Why?”

“To show the Starfleet captain we were serious. Make him listen.”

Beverly remembered her thoughts from minutes ago. “Don’t you understand? I’m the captain’s wife. The mother of his son. He was perfectly willing to listen before, but now . . . Oh, my God.”

Jono met her gaze, his own eyes widening. “Endar and Ronzel will demand that Starfleet help him rescue us and put down the rebels. My father will want to do whatever it takes to rescue me.”

“And Jean-Luc would move heaven and earth to find me,” Beverly said, remembering the lengths to which he’d gone to find her on Kevratas even after being told she was dead. “He might actually agree to send in Starfleet forces.”

“Don’t you understand?” Jono told Velet and the others. “The Tzenkethi is setting you up as sacrifices!”

Crusher strode forward and clutched Velet’s arm. “You’ve got to let me contact the Enterprise. It’s the only hope for all of us.”

5

JANALWA
STARDATE 59909.0

The Breen attack had taken a serious toll on the protesters. Yeffir had been wounded and taken prisoner, and though the proclamations from the Episcopate alleged that she was alive and well, many feared the elderly Kinshaya had been killed, or would soon die under torture. The Devotionalists had suffered eight fatalities, and the Unificationists had lost two, including Senis, the young Romulan who had teased T’Ryssa about Lorrav. Many more had been seriously injured by the Breen disruptor fire. Choudhury had lent her aid to the treatment of the wounded where she could, but she had little knowledge of Kinshaya anatomy.

But the cost to the Devotionalists was greater than that. The government had seized control of the Holy Order’s public information network, ensuring that only the state’s spin on events in Rashtag would be known, and their version of the protest footage was edited to make it appear that the Devotionalists had mounted a violent, terroristic uprising and that the Breen, the Kinshaya’s brave cohorts in the Typhon Pact, had lent their aid in restoring order. The Breen were patrolling the streets and catacombs now, enforcing a curfew, searching the homes of anyone suspected of Devotionalist sympathies, and driving the protesters to retreat to the outskirts of Rashtag, where the group now hid out in an unfinished creche complex, abandoned years ago when Pontifex Ykredna had redirected infrastructure funding to renewed warfare against the Kreel and Klingons—or as Ykredna had explained it, “securing a buffer against demonic encroachment upon the realm of the Devout.”

“These Breen are the true demons,” Nagrom now snarled as he paced before the protest leaders and their Romulan advisors (and two who only looked Romulan). “We must rally the people to fight back—drive them from our homeland, and their puppets in the Episcopate along with them!”

“And what would that gain?” Vranien countered.

“Victory!” the Kinshaya crowed, flourishing his wings for emphasis.

“What would be won? If we make their violence a part of ourselves, does it not then defeat us? And is that not what they wish? If we make ourselves as cruel and hateful as they say we are, it lets them claim to be the ones in the right.”

Off to the side, apart from the rest, Choudhury turned to T’Ryssa. “He’s right, you know,” she said, filled with anger and frustration and hating herself for it. “By fighting back, we gave them an excuse.”

“They would’ve found some excuse anyway.”

“But not with our complicity. This is what I meant about standing one’s ground. By letting myself—ourselves—be moved away from our place of nonviolence, we allowed the state to push us into the position they wanted. We lost control of the situation because we lost control of ourselves.” She struggled to control her tone. She knew it all intellectually, but if she couldn’t feel it in her heart, it would mean nothing. She spoke to convince herself as much as Trys.

“We lost control because they were shooting at us!”

“‘Nobody can hurt me without my permission.’ So said Gandhi—a human,” she added, aware that there were Romulans within earshot. “We only lose what we allow others to take from us.”

“Tell that to Senis. Did she let them take her life?”

Lorrav came up beside T’Ryssa, taking her hand. “She chose to offer it in service of peace, Janil. She gave it freely. But she did not let them take her conscience or her beliefs.”

“You think that’s what I did by fighting? I was acting on my conscience! I was trying to protect her, to protect other people!”

He stroked her shoulder comfortingly. “Then no one can fault the purity of your actions.”

“But did it work?” Choudhury countered. “Did we really help the Devotionalists, or did we make things worse for them?”

T’Ryssa stared at her. “How can you, of all people, advocate standing by and doing nothing when people are in danger?”

Jasminder chose her words carefully, mindful of Lorrav’s attention. “Imagine you’re the security officer aboard a starship. Yes, it’s your duty to protect your crewmates. But when they choose to go into combat, you respect their right to put their lives on the line for the mission. You don’t try to stop them. Because you understand, as they do, that there are causes more important than individual safety. So how can I do any less for the Devotionalists?”

She took a slow, deep breath, gathering herself. “Another human, Cesar Chavez, said, ‘Nonviolence is not inaction. It is not discussion. It is not for the timid or weak.’ There’s nothing passive about it, Janil. It takes great strength, great . . . aggression, in a way, to stand up against someone who hates you and refuse to hate them back. To reject the validity of their choice to employ violence and assail them with understanding and compassion instead. Nonviolence is a way of fighting—but instead of fighting the people, attacking their bodies, it’s fighting the very ideas and assumptions that drive them to violence, trying to free them from those assumptions. By the same token, what we fight to defend is not our individual lives, but the ideas of justice and conscience.

“That’s how we need to wage this battle. By using the courage of our conscience as our weapon, knocking down the lies that blind their own consciences. By refusing to back down from our principles, no matter the provocation.”

“She is right,” came Vranien’s voice, and Choudhury was startled to realize that the whole group had been listening to her. “We truly win by making our foes better people, not making ourselves worse. The Episcopate gains its legitimacy by claiming to serve that which is right. We must have the commitment to show them what that truly means . . . so that they may see for themselves that they need to change their ways.”

Jasminder bowed her head to him respectfully. “And if you and the Devotionalists are willing to put your lives on the line to change the minds of those in power, then I, for one, cannot deny you that act of courage.”

Vranien smiled. “Courage is merely the recognition of what needs to be done and the concentration to do it.”

“Yes,” she breathed, seeing what was in his eyes. “You intend to stage another march, don’t you?”

“We all stand together now,” Vranien replied, “joined in blood. Yes, we will march with the Devotionalists.”

“You can’t!” T’Ryssa cried. “The Breen won’t care about your principles or your courage. They’ll just burn you down.”

Vranien met her gaze evenly. “Then we will win. Because the people will see the injustice of it and their own consciences will be stirred. They will see that we did not give way in the face of tyranny, and their own fires of resistance will be stirred.

“Ykredna’s regime and her Breen enforcers can only inspire fear—a narrow, selfish urge, fleeting in its effect. Nonviolent resistance can inspire hope, courage, and determination—inspirations that can grow and spread throughout an entire populace. By making a statement that justice is stronger than fear, by having the boldness to make that statement with our lives, we will plant the seeds of victory for our cause.”

Jasminder drank in his words, his calm assurance, and she began to sense something within herself that she thought she’d lost. That inner certainty, that unshaken core of commitment, unswayed by ephemeralities like fear and anger and desire. It was there, almost within reach. But only if she truly, fully committed herself. Her orders from Starfleet Intelligence were to stay behind the scenes, to observe, not to interfere except very subtly and indirectly if it became necessary. But Vranien was right: she had become a part of this. She had to act according to her conscience, unstintingly and without compromise, or she would be no use to Starfleet or anyone else. “Then I can do no less than to stand with you,” she told him.

T’Ryssa’s dark eyes went wide, gazing at her for a long moment, then at Vranien . . . then within herself for a moment. “If you’re going to do that,” she said softly, “it won’t do much good unless . . . unless the people can really see the truth. No government lies, no censorship. Everything that happens will have to be documented, broadcast, so people will know.” She took a shuddering breath. “If someone can get me access to a communications center, I can try to—I can override the state’s uploading restrictions. Make sure everyone sees . . . what happens.”

Vranien thanked her, as did Jasminder with a wordless look. Lorrav took Trys’s hands to ease their trembling, and they went off together, talking earnestly. Jasminder knew this night with Lorrav would mean far more to T’Ryssa than the last one.

Tepesor, Vicar General of Janalwa, jerked her elaborately tattooed wings outward in alarm at the sheer size of the gathering in Niamlar Circle. Where before there had been under a thousand protesters, now nearly twenty thousand had converged within the plaza before the Inquisitors had been able to blockade the entry points. “How can this be?” she asked. “The first demonstration should have deterred further troublemaking.”

“ ’Aya, Vicar,” replied Grand Inquisitor Rasec, whose own tattoos marked him as a bishop a grade above her in caste, though of course the male held no authority over her except in matters of enforcement. “The preacher Yeffir has a strange hold over them. Some demonic enchantment, I wager. But worry not. The leaders are still pacifists—cowards. They’ll break soon enough, and the rabble will follow.” He stepped forward, activated the amplifier around his throat, and addressed the crowd. “ ’Aya! This gathering is heretical! You are ordered to disperse at once!”

As he spoke, the contingent of Breen shock troops under Ghoc Reyd’s command emerged from the Inquisitorial Palace at the western compass point of the circle and from within the Cathedral of State behind Tepesor and Rasec. The massive, faceless bipeds loomed over the crowd, taking up positions on the steps of both edifices and brandishing their disruptor rifles. Reyd himself came forth to stand beside Rasec, nodding wordlessly at him. “ ’Aya,” said Rasec. “That should put the fear of divine justice in them.”

Tepesor shuddered. “It certainly does for me.”

“ ’Aya?” Rasec asked, peering at her. “Do you have cause to fear justice, Vicar?”

“You know I could not hold my post were I not pure, Bishop.”

“ ’Aya—but you still owe me sixty-four noreg, Vicar. Yeffir has not yet broken. You had late last night in the pool.” Reyd’s snouted helmet turned to stare at her.

She ignored the Breen, refusing to let herself be judged by a heretic, even a tolerated one. “And would you care to wager on whether this crowd will break? ’Aya—I see more anger than fear in their stances.”

“Even better,” the Grand Inquisitor said. “If we goad the rabble into another riot, it will justify whatever action we take in the name of order—and expose the Devotionalists’ talk of peace for the lie it is.”

But no riot seemed forthcoming. The lead orators, including Yeffir’s second, a bronze-furred male named Hycneb (shameful, the way the lower classes commingled with no regard for gender or creche origin), and the shaven-headed leader of the Romulan delegation, now openly displaying his collusion, spoke calmingly to the crowd, urging them to stand their ground. “We are here to deliver a message,” Hycneb proclaimed. “We will stand with our brethren in the Episcopate if they will stand with us. We have the right on our side, and we cannot budge from it if we wish to persuade them to join us there!”

Tepesor had heard the same rhetoric from Yeffir, the same calm certainty sustaining her in her cause despite hour after hour of torture. She had felt some degree of admiration for Yeffir’s unwavering commitment to her beliefs—and perhaps a degree of envy as well. But she had striven to persuade herself it was a mere aberration, the convincing façade of a lunatic. Now, though, seeing that same conviction resonate from others, inspiring them to stand calm and unarmed in the face of both Inquisitors and Breen, Tepesor had to wonder if there could truly be some solid core of strength underlying their heresy of peace.

Rasec, though, would have none of it. “ ’Aya, they will lose their courage soon enough. Ghoc Reyd?”

The brigadier issued a command to his troops in that chattering static that passed for Breen communication. The troops stepped forward, brandishing their weapons and aiming into the crowd. “ ’ Aya, a feint,” Rasec told her. “The crowd is on edge. It will not take much to panic them and give us our riot.” He activated his amplifier again. “ ’Aya! Heresy will not be tolerated! Disperse at once or you will be fired upon!”

But Hycneb, the Romulan, and the others continued rallying the crowd to stand their ground. Even Nagrom stood in support of them, though members of his faction had clashed violently with the Inquisitors more than once since the previous rally. They led a chant calling for the Pontifex to step down, and soon the entire crowd was joining in.

Rasec nodded to Ghoc Reyd again, authorizing him to ramp up the provocation to the next level. The Breen fired at the feet of the crowd. Still they held their ground and continued the chant. “ ’Aya! This is your final warning, heretics!”

Tepesor stared at him. “You won’t really go through with it? Fire without provocation?”

Reyd chattered, and Tepesor’s translator interpreted it in an impersonal, mechanical voice: “Their defiance is provocation enough. An example must be made.”

“ ’Aya, wait for my order!” Rasec told him. The crowd continued to hold firm, only chanting louder. Finally he sighed, bowing his wings at the weighty burden of his next order. “Fire at the leaders.”

Reyd gave the order, and the Breen opened fire. Lethal beams arrowed toward the rebellious preachers, but the sea of bodies had closed around them, shielding them. Maybe a dozen Kinshaya fell dead.

“Ineffectual,” Reyd buzzed.

Rasec’s muzzle pulled back in anger now, anger at what the heretics were forcing him to do. “ ’Aya. Resume fire until they get the message and disperse.” Tepesor folded her wings and breathed a prayer for strength.

•   •   •

“No!” T’Ryssa screamed as the Breen began firing indiscriminately into the heart of the crowd. Many of the protesters broke and ran, but the exits were still blockaded; even if the Inquisitorial troops there were trying to remove the blockades, they were too slow and the entrances were soon jammed with bodies. Some tried leaping into the air, hoping to clear the fences, but with little room to run or spread their wings, they could get no lift.

But the core group, Devotionalists and Unificationists, stood their ground and called to the crowd for calm, hoping to prevent a stampede. “Show no fear!” Vranien cried. “Let them look us in the eyes! Let them face what they are doing!”

The Breen, however, didn’t seem to care whose eyes they looked into. The fire continued unabated, mowing down protesters, those who stood and those who ran alike. “It’s not fair!” T’Ryssa screamed, sobbing like a child. “They didn’t do anything! They just stood there and talked! How can we let this happen, Jazz? How can we not fight back?”

Choudhury pulled the young lieutenant into her arms. “We are fighting back the way the others wish us to, my friend. Your anger is just. I feel it too. But there are more constructive ways to channel it than violence. Thanks to your computer skills, the people will see this injustice. The state won’t be able to hide it from them. All Kinshaya will see that Ykredna’s regime does not stand for righteousness and truth. They’ll see that their bishops are so corrupt that they would slaughter unarmed civilians. They will share our anger, our righteous anger, and they will stand with our cause. The state will no longer have power over them. And the bishops . . . well, maybe many of them will begin to ask if they can truly live with what they have become.”

She held on to T’Ryssa as the disruptor bolts drew closer. She took her anger and her fear and she channeled them into stillness, used them as motivation to stand her ground. She accepted what was, and knew peace within herself. No matter what the universe threw at her, she would not be moved from that place of stillness. Nobody can hurt me without my permission, she thought once more, and this time she truly knew it.

Beside her, T’Ryssa gathered herself, straightened, and resumed standing on her own, though her hand still clung to Jasminder’s. Together, they faced the onslaught with calm acceptance.

•   •   •

“That’s enough!” Vicar Tepesor cried as more and more unresisting bodies fell before the Breen bombardment. The death toll was surely in the hundreds now, not only from disruptor fire but from trampling by the panicked members of the crowd. It was as if the tales of damnation from the holy writ were coming to life before her eyes. “ ’Aya, stop it, Rasec! The point has been made!”

But the Grand Inquisitor was listening to a report by a subordinate. “Oh, no,” Rasec moaned. “Somehow our upload restrictions have been subverted. This is being broadcast live across the Holy Order!” He bounded forward to intercept Ghoc Reyd. “Cease fire! ’Aya, cease fire!” It appalled Tepesor that he seemed more concerned about bad publicity than the lives of so many Kinshaya. Even heretics did not deserve this. But she would accept his petty motivations so long as the bloodshed ended.

Reyd’s cold visor turned toward Rasec. “The order was to fire until the crowd dispersed,” the Breen brigadier droned.

“Until they began to disperse!”

“Half-measures were not effective last time. They would simply gather again as they did before. We must end this resistance once and for all.” Reyd turned back to his troops. “Continue fire until your energy cells are exhausted!”

Tepesor leapt forward to confront him. “No! That is not acceptable! Rasec, order him to stop!”

Rasec started to bristle at the presumption of a female issuing a military order, but he recognized that the situation had gone beyond that into matters of policy. He turned to Reyd. “Ghoc Reyd, I command you to stand down your troops!” He made a semaphore gesture to his own Inquisitorial forces with his colorful wings, and in moments, dozens of Kinshaya had their weapons brought to bear upon the Breen troops.

“You would turn against your allies in the Typhon Pact?” Reyd challenged.

“ ’Aya! You have perpetrated a massacre against your allies!” Rasec cried. “I think it is the Breen who will have to answer to the Pact. Stand. Down.”

Reyd simply stared at him for a moment more, but then Rasec raised his wings again and the Inquisitors cocked their weapons. Finally, making an untranslatable gurgle, Reyd gestured to his troops and the deadly barrage ceased.

“ ’Aya, take them into custody,” Rasec ordered his Inquisitors. “We must save face while we can,” he went on to Tepesor as his subordinates complied. “With the right image presentation, we can salvage this, pin all the blame on the offworlders and make the Inquisitors the heroes. We’ll have to soften our rhetoric toward the Devotionalists, but they’re probably too decimated to constitute a real threat anymore . . .”

Tepesor doubted he was right. Hundreds of these protesters were dead, but she knew that many thousands more had just been created. The state had been faced by people who did nothing more than stand and talk, and had felt so threatened that it had responded with mass murder. But the protesters had been so firm in their conviction, so devout in their faith, that nothing could budge them, not even death. It was suddenly clear to Tepesor who the true cowards were. And she no longer wished to be one of them.

•   •   •

Jasminder Choudhury made her way through the plaza looking for survivors, tending to the wounded where she could. The scene in Niamlar Circle was ghastly, and she would mourn later, but now she had a duty to those who lived, just as she did after a battle on the Enterprise. She took comfort knowing that, despite the losses, the protesters had emerged victorious. They had convinced the Kinshaya leaders to see the wrongness of their actions and renounce them. All right, so the leaders had still used the threat of force against the Breen, but it was a start. Choudhury certainly had no objection in principle to the judicious use of force for the greater good. She admired those with the courage to use nonviolence as their weapon, but sadly it was not always the right or the only weapon to use.

The people of the Holy Order had seen the current Episcopate—and the Breen—for what they truly were. The state’s legitimacy was lost. Moreover, it had been Yeffir’s nonviolence that had won the day, and even Nagrom had followed her lead. It did not guarantee that the more militant voices of protest would continue to be outvoted in the future, but it was a good sign.

Most of all, Jasminder had been victorious within herself. She had found her center again, and her anger and fears, though still a part of her, would no longer master her.

But then Jasminder saw T’Ryssa Chen. The young contact specialist was crumpled across the tiles of the plaza . . . weeping inconsolably as she clutched Lorrav’s burned and lifeless body in her arms. In that key moment, Trys had been willing to stand firm and do nothing to save her own life—but this was different. She had stood by and watched while Lorrav was mowed down. Even knowing it was his choice, it would be hard for her to live with that. The sight was a reminder for Choudhury that this victory had come at a great cost.

T’Ryssa saw her and held her gaze. “I want to hate them,” she said. “I want to damn them all to Hell with a side trip through Gre’thor. But he wouldn’t have wanted that.” She sniffled. “And he wouldn’t have wanted me to hate myself either. So what’s left for me to do?”

Jasminder clasped her shoulder. “Hate is only fear turned outward. You mastered your fear today. You knew, when it counted, that your fear was meaningless. And you let it go, because you had something better to fill your heart with. Hate is no different.

“Don’t dwell on the harm that others did. Dwell on the good that you can do.”

After a long moment gazing down at Lorrav’s remains, T’Ryssa nodded and rose to her feet. “Let’s go,” she said. “There are still wounded who need our help.”

6

TALAR SYSTEM
STARDATE 59910.1

Dezinor Nen Fel-A was growing concerned as she monitored the activity of the Talarian females. This had been a delicate operation from the start, convincing the protesters to accept Tzenkethi assistance when one of their primary issues with the government was its dealings with offworlders. Luckily she had been able to appeal to them by using the same logic that had led the Tzenkethi to cooperate in the Typhon Pact in the first place: that they shared a common interest in countering Federation imperialism. The Federation used its rhetoric of unity and cooperation to justify pressuring and bribing other civilizations to submit to its might and its irrational democratic values, so what better response than to foment a more genuine, decentralized cooperation among those who had not yet been assimilated and thereby give them the strength to resist?

So long as that “ decentralized” coalition is ultimately managed from Ab-Tzenketh, Dezinor added. That was where Fel-echelon problem-solvers like herself came in, acting to ensure that the decisions made on other worlds, while appearing to originate from within and serve those worlds’ interests, nonetheless accorded with the needs of the Tzenkethi Coalition. Too many times over the past millennium, Tzenkethi had been taken screaming from their ancestral caverns and burrows by aliens who sought to exploit and possess them because of their superior beauty as a race. Of necessity, the Tzenkethi had learned two things: to ensure they controlled their environment and maintained a protective territorial buffer around it, and to keep a low profile while they did so. They had learned the offworlders’ arts and tools of warfare and never hesitated to wield them when necessary, for that was the only language the barbarians truly understood. But the subtler, more surgical methods of the Fel were far preferable.

Still, pulling off a complex gambit like this one was tricky. It had been a delicate balance, finding a leader for the female resistance who would be fanatical or embittered enough to be willing to employ violent methods against the state, yet rational enough not to alienate a hitherto nonviolent movement whose members were primarily concerned with the safety of their children and the stability of their community. It had taken some judicious assassinations here and there to leave Matron Dirin as the most viable surviving candidate to lead the movement, and some carefully planted hints of scandal to ensure that Velet, the most popular alternate candidate, would not pose a serious threat to Dirin’s victory—while not completely destroying her reputation, because her intelligence, passion, and skill were useful tools. Here, Dezinor may have miscalculated somewhat, for being second-in-command had kept Velet closer to the rank and file of the movement, winning their respect through her words and actions, while Dirin had largely remained cooped up with Dezinor, making plans. Luckily, Dirin’s ambition had motivated her to undermine Velet’s authority as much as she could, without Dezinor having to lift a finger.

But now, Velet had been in that storage room with the prisoners for a substantial span of time, and the number of other resistance members joining her had been on the rise. Dezinor cursed herself for her oversight in not bugging that room. Her monitors in the main chamber could pick up conversation from within, but could not decipher it. But it was clear that the voice doing most of the speaking was male.

Dezinor summoned Dirin into her chamber and called her attention to the fact. “Go,” she said. “Find out what Velet is up to.” The matron needed no further persuasion.

But once Dirin entered the storage room, what began as a heated exchange of two voices was soon quelled as more female voices spoke in mollifying tones . . . and then the male voice joined in as well. Over the ensuing moments, the voices grew more urgent and cajoling, while the voice she recognized as Dirin’s became more uncertain.

But when Dirin came into camera view again and strode toward Dezinor’s chamber, her expression was resolute. Dezinor rose fluidly to her feet as the matron threw open the door.

“Dezinor . . . we need to talk.”

•   •   •

Picard had no sooner entered sickbay than Ronzel and Endar crowded around him. “Well?” Ronzel demanded. “Have you finally decided to act and help us crush this rebellion?”

“There will be no need for that,” Picard said, smiling as he stepped aside and let Jono enter the room.

“My son!” Endar cried, pulling the younger man into an embrace. Picard felt a surge of warmth at the sight of the reunion, reminding him of his own reunion with Beverly mere minutes ago. He had wanted her to be here too, but she had rushed to their quarters to be with René, a choice he could not help but agree with. “Are you well?” Endar went on. “How did you get free?”

“The females released us,” Jono told his father, taking in Ronzel as well. “Once Doctor Crusher and I persuaded them that they were being used by the Tzenkethi.”

“Used?” Ronzel repeated. “You mean to overthrow the state, become their puppets.”

“No,” Jono said. “They have no wish to overthrow the state.” He chuckled. “They find men’s work as far beneath their dignity as we find theirs. I think we have forgotten that. All they want is for their voices to be heard, for us to stop usurping control over matters that should be their responsibility.”

“That makes no sense,” Ronzel said. “If that were all they desired, then why would the Tzenkethi help them?”

“Because they were the bait,” answered Picard. “The Tzenkethi were setting them up as sacrificial victims. A Tzenkethi agent maneuvered their more militant members into leadership positions, goaded them to more violent tactics to coincide with our visit. Your son, Ambassador, and my wife were specifically targeted for abduction in order to impel us to rash action. Their poison attack on you was merely the setup for the abduction. It ensured that Jono would remain part of the negotiations and that Doctor Crusher would be present for their next attack.”

“But to what end?” the ambassador asked, one arm still around Jono’s shoulders.

“They know,” Picard told him and Ronzel, “that the Federation is weakened. We have just lost one of our founding members. They know that we are desperate to avoid any further setbacks, that we would feel compelled to take whatever action was necessary to ensure our alliance with you did not fail. They wanted to goad us into a situation where we would compromise our own principles for the sake of political expediency.”

“Compromise your principles? How?” Ronzel challenged. “By helping to restore peace and order? Is that not what you stand for?”

Jono gave the answer. “Not when it comes at the expense of individual rights. The Typhon Pact would have denounced the move, saying the Federation was using military force to crush a populist movement standing up against an oppressive regime.” Ronzel scoffed, but Jono added, “And they would not have been wrong.” Picard was glad Jono had said it. He would have said the same himself, but the diplomatic consequences would have been grave. “I have spoken with their leaders,” Jono continued. “Well . . . their new leaders. The matron the Tzenkethi used as their dupe has agreed to step down and accept the consequences of her actions, provided that we enter into negotiations with them in good faith. I told their new leader, Matron Velet, that I would encourage you to accept, Commander Ronzel. I have heard their wishes, and there is nothing in them we cannot reasonably grant—not if we are truly men, truly dedicated to keeping Talar safe and strong.”

“I would listen to him if I were you, Commander,” Picard said. “In our anger and fear, we almost made a terrible mistake. The Tzenkethi exploited our fears to make us both compromise our principles: the Talarians’ dedication to treating their females with chivalry and honor, and the Federation’s dedication to the right of free speech and dissent. Had we succumbed to their ploy and used Starfleet force to crack down on a movement that sought only to protect its rights, then we would have proven the Federation to be the hypocrites that the Typhon Pact insists we are. The propaganda victory would have been theirs—and our own defeat would have been something far more profound than loss of face.”

Ronzel pondered their words. “I will consider this. Jono, come. Tell me what you have learned of their goals, their demands.”

As the commander-in-chief and the ambassador’s aide moved aside to confer, Endar came closer to Picard. “Tell me one thing, Captain. Had you decided whether to intervene to rescue your mate and my son?”

Picard gave a sheepish smile. “I had a team on full alert, ready to beam down the minute we got a sensor lock. I knew the political risks, the ethical quandaries . . . but this was family.”

Endar nodded. “Then I am satisfied. Your motives were pure.” He sighed. “But your admirals who authorized you to act . . . they only saw the politics.”

“I fear so,” Picard said with a sigh. “In their defense, that is their job. But it has brought them to the point of moral compromise before, perhaps too often in recent years.”

“And they were as aware of the compromise as you, Picard.”

“Yes.”

Endar took his time before speaking. “The Federation would have used us as pawns in their great game, just as the Pact tried to do.” Picard could not honestly refute it, so he said nothing. “I trust you, Captain, but I do not think Talar can trust the Federation at this time. Not until they learn to listen to men like you. For now, I think it is best that we turn our attention to putting our own house in order. I will recommend to Commander Ronzel that we decline membership in the Khitomer Alliance.”

Picard let out a slow breath, absorbing his words. “I regret that choice, Ambassador. But I understand it, and the Federation will respect it.”

“We will remember,” Endar assured him. “Had you chosen to intervene now, I think probably it would have made the Talarian people fear you more in the long run. Perhaps by leaving us to solve our own problems today, you have laid the foundation for a stronger, more equal relationship between our peoples in the future.”

Endar extended a gloved hand, and he and Picard clasped each other’s forearms firmly. “Thank you, Ambassador. Now I think I should leave you to be with your son.”

Endar smiled. “Go, Picard. Go be with your son . . . and his mother.”

7

JANALWA
STARDATE 59920.1

The Niamlar Massacre sent ripples of shock through the Holy Order of the Kinshaya. Outrage toward the Episcopate and the Breen had sparked civil unrest throughout the worlds of the Order, and the fiats of the church were no longer sufficient to quell dissent. The Matriarchs issued public statements reasserting the divine infallibility of the Pontifex. But a movement within the priestly government, led by Vicar General Tepesor of Janalwa, was pushing for a reformation, openly questioning whether the current regime’s interpretation of divine will had become overzealous. The Vicar General had openly defied the Episcopate by ordering the Inquisitors to halt persecution of heterodox Kinshaya, releasing Yeffir from prison, and offering to participate in negotiating an orderly transition to a more populist government.

Pontifex Ykredna and her entrenched Matriarchs and Patriarchs promised to resist any such efforts, and some of Nagrom’s militants seemed ready to attempt a coup if they didn’t get results quickly. But the Romulans, Gorn, and Tzenkethi had issued statements condemning the massacre, and though the Tholians remained noncommittal on that point, they joined the others in emphatically asserting the importance of internal cooperation and stability within the Typhon Pact. Reading between the lines, Jasminder Choudhury recognized that the Pontifex would be under considerable diplomatic and economic pressure from her allies to step down so as not to further undermine the legitimacy of the Pact. As for the Breen, they merely claimed that Ghoc Reyd was a loose cannon who had gone beyond his authority in ordering the massacre, and left him to the mercies of the Kinshaya judicial system. Soon thereafter, it was reported that Reyd had somehow self-immolated in his cell, leaving only ashes and fragments of armor behind.

“Are you sure you must go?” Vranien asked Jasminder Choudhury—“Del’oda”—as she and T’Ryssa Chen packed their belongings. “There is still much work to do, assisting in the transition.”

“And you will be a great example to them, Teacher. But I have found what I sought, thanks to you. Now I must follow my own path again.” Her eyes strayed to T’Ryssa, who packed with haste and unwonted silence. “And I fear my friend has endured more than I had hoped for when I brought her here. Best for her that she leave it behind.”

Vranien studied her. “I sense that you will not remain committed to the way of nonviolence.”

“Whenever I can, I shall. That has always been my calling. But there are foes who cannot be swayed by reason and compassion. And not everyone is as willing to sacrifice as you and yours are. Someone must protect them.”

“One must follow one’s conscience,” Vranien conceded, “wherever it may lead. I suppose if force must be used, it is well that it be at the hands of one with peace and mercy in her heart.” Vranien moved in closer and spoke in her ear. “Even deception may sometimes be wielded in service to a greater truth. Please give my compliments to whoever sculpted your ears. And my thanks to your superiors for their wise restraint in sending one such as you.”

With that, the tattooed Romulan elder departed, leaving Jasminder speechless—and smiling.

U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
STARDATE 59927.6

Picard was there to greet them in the transporter room when they met the Enterprise at Benecia. “Lieutenant Choudhury. Lieutenant Chen. Welcome back, both of you.” He peered at the top of Jasminder’s head. “That’s a new look for you.”

She rubbed the short hair emerging from her otherwise unadorned scalp. “Don’t worry, sir, it won’t last long. I’m using a follicular enhancer—it should be back to normal length in a few weeks.”

The captain furrowed his brow, but chose to defer his curiosity. He no doubt assumed that shaving her head had been a requirement of whatever spiritual exercise she had undertaken, a matter she might prefer to keep private. In fact, that wasn’t far from the truth.

“I got a haircut too, sir,” T’Ryssa piped up. “Just not as much. I have my limits.”

“I’m gratified to learn that. And I must say, it’s refreshing to see you actually looking well-groomed. Any chance it’s a permanent adjustment?”

“Don’t push your luck. Sir.”

Picard chuckled. “Oh, I missed you—though I can’t imagine why.”

The captain accompanied them into the corridor, somehow ending up carrying Trys’s rather heavy duffel bag for her and looking uncertain how it had happened. Jasminder smiled to herself. Although Picard was perhaps the only person in Starfleet whose authority T’Ryssa genuinely respected, he in turn let her get away with more than he would allow from almost anyone else—within limits. Jasminder was glad to see that the contact specialist’s recent experiences hadn’t affected her effervescent spirit too badly.

“So,” Picard said, “I hope you both found what you were looking for on your retreat.”

“I did, sir,” Jasminder told him. “I feel like myself again, and I’m ready to serve.”

“Grand. And you, T’Ryssa?”

The younger lieutenant fidgeted. “Not so much. But it was . . . meaningful.”

He studied her. “If you want to talk about it . . .”

“No! Sir. It’s personal.” She gave him a small smile. “But thanks for asking, Captain.”

In the turbolift, Picard broke the awkward silence by saying, “Well, I trust the past couple of weeks were quieter for you than for us. We could have used you both on Talar.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jasminder said. “But I hear Doctor Crusher managed very well on her own.”

Picard beamed with pride. “Indeed she did. And while the loss of Talar as a potential ally is a setback, at least there is new cause for hope. I trust you’ve heard the news about the Kinshaya.”

“Yes, sir,” Jasminder said before Trys could put her foot in her mouth.

“It’s remarkable,” the captain went on as they exited the lift. “We had no idea there even was such popular unrest among the Kinshaya. And now, suddenly, a dictatorial, militant regime that seemed completely entrenched has been brought down in weeks by a peaceful revolution. And all signs are pointing to the creation of an inclusive, politically moderate coalition to replace it.”

“Which would tip the balance of power in the Typhon Pact to the moderates,” T’Ryssa said, managing to keep most of the smugness from her voice.

“Indeed—particularly after the embarrassment the Breen have suffered. I doubt their voice will carry much weight in the Pact for a while.”

“I have . . . sources,” Jasminder replied, “who tell me there have even been uprisings among dissidents within the Breen Confederacy, inspired by the Kinshaya’s example.”

“Well, I wish them well,” Picard said. “Though the Breen regime is likely to be a far tougher nut to crack. I doubt they have the compassion to be swayed by nonviolence.”

“No one ever said nonviolence was easy,” T’Ryssa whispered.

Picard stared, but she said no more. “Well, if nothing more,” the captain went on as they arrived at T’Ryssa’s quarters, “at least the Pact is likely to be too preoccupied with internal matters to cause the Federation much trouble for a while. That’s something to be grateful for. And with luck, it may lead to a Pact that can truly be reasoned with—that stands for the well-being of its own members rather than merely opposition to the Federation. And to think,” he went on with a wistful look, “they achieved it with no intervention of any kind from us. It’s humbling to contemplate.”

Trys hastened to carry her bag into her quarters so Picard wouldn’t see her involuntary grin. “Yes, sir,” Jasminder said. “It truly is.”

A call from engineering summoned Picard away, and Jasminder followed T’Ryssa inside. “Don’t look so smug,” she said once she’d secured the room. “He wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t us that made this happen. We just helped them achieve what they chose to do on their own.”

“I know, I know. It’s like they teach us in Prime Directive 101: A cultural change doesn’t really take hold unless it comes from within.”

Jasminder smiled. “Nor does a personal one.”

“That’s what worries me.” T’Ryssa sank down into a chair, and Jasminder could see just how much of her good humor had been a brave front for Picard’s benefit. “Jazz . . . what we saw . . . I can’t stop seeing it. I mean, I saw horrors when the Borg invaded, but it was at a distance, and we were fighting back, and . . .” Jasminder simply stayed quiet and let her sort through it. “That sense of peace and certainty I felt there in Rashtag, it’s gone now, but the screams are still there. Can you help me? Teach me to meditate, try to get the screams out of my head?”

Jasminder came over and clasped her shoulder. “They will always be there. What I can try to do is help you make peace with them.”

T’Ryssa’s combadge signalled, and she answered. “Lieutenant,” came Taurik’s voice, “I wished to welcome you back, though matters in engineering do not permit me to greet you personally at this time. Perhaps we could meet for lunch in the Riding Club following my shift?”

“Umm, thanks, Taurik, but . . . rain check, okay? Or sandstorm check, or whatever Vulcans take. I’m just . . . exhausted after the trip, and . . .”

“Understood. I shall wait until you inform me that the . . . sandstorm has passed. Taurik out.”

Jasminder chuckled. “You know,” she began after a moment, “Vulcans are quite the masters of meditation themselves. Given that your neurology is half Vulcan, you may find their methods more effective for you than what I can offer.” She held T’Ryssa’s gaze. “And Vulcans are also very good at keeping secrets. Something to think about.”

“Hm,” Trys said after a moment. “I’ll do that. Think about it.”

“Good.” Jasminder made her farewells and left. The exchange reminded her that there was someone she needed to have a talk with soon.

And it wasn’t long before she faced Worf again, when she reported to him on the bridge, declaring herself ready to resume her duties. He acknowledged her report and requested that she join him in the observation lounge. He was perfectly professional on the bridge, but once they were alone, he hesitated. “I . . . like . . . your hair,” he began through clenched teeth.

“Don’t worry, I’m growing it out.”

“Oh.” He sighed in relief. She laughed, and it gave him the confidence to continue. “I wished to say . . . I will respect whatever decision you make, but I wanted you to know . . . I appreciate you just as much whether you join me in combat exercises or not. I do not require you to be aggressive to be of value to me. After all . . . it was the serene, spiritual Jasminder Choudhury who attracted me in the first place. I think I had failed to appreciate how much I missed that side of you. It allowed me to feel more connected to my spiritual side, something I can so rarely share with my human friends.” He sighed again. “I do not say this to cajole you into changing your mind. I merely wish to be clear about my own—”

“Worf.” She placed her fingers on his lips. “Say no more. I need to tell you that I was too hasty before. I was afraid my own aggressions were taking me over, and I felt your influence exacerbated things. But now I know where I stand again. I know nothing can drive me from that place unless I let it. And so I no longer feel any need to retreat from you.”

She kissed him gently—not passionately, not invitingly yet, but with kindness and love. “After all . . . finding common ground is what I do best.”

Acknowledgments

The Struggle Within draws on the four novels of the Star Trek: Typhon Pact miniseries: in approximate chronological order, Rough Beasts of Empire by David R. George III, Zero Sum Game by David Mack, Seize the Fire by Michael A. Martin, and Paths of Disharmony by Dayton Ward. Jasminder Choudhury’s character arc herein is an outgrowth of the events of Paths of Disharmony and is also informed by the events of Star Trek: Destiny by David Mack and Star Trek: The Next Generation: Losing the Peace by William Leisner. Rough Beasts of Empire provided background on the Romulans and the Tzenkethi.

All of us who’ve contributed to the Typhon Pact miniseries owe a debt to Keith R.A. DeCandido and Marco Palmieri, who conceived the Typhon Pact. Keith’s Star Trek: A Singular Destiny introduced the Pact, suggested the idea of an expansion to the Khitomer Accords, and gave us our first look at the Kinshaya, a species mentioned in passing in John M. Ford’s classic novel Star Trek: The Final Reflection. I’m grateful to Keith for sharing his background notes on the Kinshaya and helping me flesh out their portrayal.

Jono (Chad Allen), Endar (Sherman Howard), and the Talarian Republic are from the Star Trek: The Next Generation episode “Suddenly Human,” teleplay by John Whelpley and Jeri Taylor, story by Ralph Phillips. The name Talar for the Talarian capital planet is from Star Trek Star Charts by Geoffrey Mandel.

The idea that the shaved heads and tattoos of the Romulans seen in the 2009 Star Trek feature film represent a Romulan mourning ritual was suggested in the miniseries Star Trek: Countdown from IDW Comics, written by Mike Johnson and Tim Jones from a story by Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman.

This novella is inspired by and dedicated to the courageous resistance movement in Egypt, whose members proved that nonviolent action can achieve what violence cannot, and to all kindred spirits throughout the world who share their commitment.

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