Star Trek: 24th Century Crossover - 018 - Section 31 - Disavowed Read online

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  Dedicated to Ira Steven Behr, who conceived of Section 31, and to Bradley Thompson and David Weddle, who brought it to life

  Historian’s Note

  This story takes place in January 2386, a few months after newly elected Federation president Kellessar zh’Tarash pardoned Doctor Julian Bashir for the actions he undertook to save the Andorian people from extinction (Star Trek: The Fall, Book III: A Ceremony of Losses). Events in the alternate universe occur approximately seven years after the founding of the Galactic Commonwealth by former members of the ultimately victorious Terran Rebellion (Star Trek Mirror Universe: Rise Like Lions).

  The true way to be deceived is to think oneself more knowing than others.

  —François de La Rochefoucauld, Maxims

  One

  All that stood between Thot Tran and salvation was unrequited love and the edge of the universe.

  In recent years his scientific career had been marred by one failure after another. Despite grievous setbacks, he had retained his position as the director of the Special Research Division, one of the loftiest posts in the Breen Confederacy, but one more failure would be the end of him. Domo Pran, the leader of the Confederacy, had made that grim fact abundantly clear. Now Tran’s entire career hinged upon proving a mad hypothesis before Pran’s patience expired.

  To make matters worse, his only hope of success lay in the eccentric genius of his Tzenkethi collaborator, Choska Ves Fel-AA. The humanoid outworlder was strangely beautiful to Tran’s eyes. Lithe and silver skinned, Choska was blessed with coppery tresses that fell past her elegant shoulders, and the irises of her ovoid eyes glittered like gold. Upon first meeting her, Tran had shaken her delicate hand—and even through his uniform’s insulated glove his flesh had prickled from an electric tingle. Though he’d been warned ahead of time that Tzenkethi could impart such an effect upon contact, he had been unprepared for the thrill it had given him. Every detail of Choska’s being was rapturous. Her voice was melodic, like the ringing of chimes incapable of striking a false note. Her movements were grace incarnate. Even her most outlandish ideas and outrageous theories possessed a strange elegance.

  Tran’s life and career both hung by a slender thread, and all he could think about was the fact that, against all reason, he had fallen in love with an alien who would never love him back.

  Not that he hadn’t set limits. When Choska had suggested they convert their shared laboratory space aboard Ikkuna Station into a gravity envelope enclosure, so that all its surfaces—the walls and ceiling, as well as the deck—could be utilized as operational space, Tran had invoked his privilege as project’s director to keep their lab securely on the floor. After all, Ikkuna Station had been built by, and was run by, the Breen, just inside Confederate space, and converting the bulkheads and overheads to serve the same functions as the deck would have been quite tedious and time-consuming. Which had made it all the more shameful, in his opinion, that for a moment he actually had considered granting her request before he’d vetoed it.

  Since then, her already inscrutable façade had become impenetrable, hardened against his searching gaze by what he could only presume was resentment. The only discourse that passed between them now was the cold, dry jargon of the laboratory.

  Choska spoke without shifting her eyes from the master console in front of her. “The generator is at full power. Membrane penetration anticipated in twenty seconds.”

  “Noted. Increase power to the threshold stabilizer on my mark.”

  The beguiling Tzenkethi physicist adjusted the settings. “Ready.”

  Their shared project was plagued by so many variables, so many unknown factors, that Tran had no idea if his proposal would work when translated from theory to practical application. All he could do was hope that the unrealized potential he had seen in the Tzenkethi’s designs for an artificial wormhole generator had not been misguided—or, worse, a delusion.

  The latter scenario was all too real a possibility for him to ignore. He had been the chief architect of the Confederacy’s recent failed plan to salvage from Federation space a wormhole-propulsion starship that hailed from an alternate universe. That botched mission had squandered billions of sakto, not to mention many lives and several years of research and development. The operation had imploded just shy of success, making its collapse a bitter pill for Tran to swallow. He had been certain the new domo, Pran, would have him killed as an example to others.

  Instead, Pran had allowed Tran to retain his post as the director of the Special Research Division, and he had even authorized a substantial budget for Tran’s project to seek out a passage to the alternate universe. Tran had proposed the project to Pran as a means of salvaging some value from their lost investment in the recovery of the wormhole ship, which he was certain had originated in a close parallel dimension, a nearby quantum reality much like the one they inhabited. Although there were decades of theoretical research supporting parallel universes, many Breen scientists continued to scoff at the notion such realms could possibly exist in anything resembling stable configurations.

  Tran was gambling his last measure of credibility on proving them wrong.

  To do it, he needed the artificial wormhole generator developed by the Tzenkethi. It had not lived up to their expectations when it was first deployed a few years earlier. It had depended upon the existing subspatial geometry of the Bajoran wormhole to give it shape, and it had proved disastrously vulnerable to sabotage and attack. Regardless, it had constituted a major scientific breakthrough—one that Tran now intended to exploit to its fullest advantage.

  He switched the master console’s main display to an exterior view focused on the generator’s projection zone. “Initiate phase shift. Start at point zero three and increase slowly.”

  “Starting.” Choska entered more commands on the console. She stopped when an alert flashed beneath her fingertips. “We’re picking up severe gravimetric distortion.”

  “That’s expected. Keep increasing the phase shift. I’ll stabilize the threshold.” On the viewscreen, a broad swath of space trembled. Subsonic vibrations traveled through the deck beneath Tran’s booted feet. Steady tremors from Ikkuna Station’s antimatter generator shook his bones, a tangible manifestation of excitement. “We’re almost there. Get ready to launch the recon ship.”

  Choska remained all business. “Recon One at standby.”

  Then it happened. All of Tran’s predictions came true.

  Space-time ripped itself apart outside Ikkuna Station, and a rift in the invisible barrier between quantum realities was revealed. It was a wound in the skin of the universe. Brutishly cut, its edges glowed with energies beyond measure or definition. The ragged, irregular aperture dilated, revealing another cosmos: one populated by the same stars, all at once entirely familiar and yet undeniably foreign.

  The Breen scientist gathered data from his sensor panel. “The quantum signature matches the ship we found on Tirana Three. That’s definitely its universe of origin. Launch the recon ship.”

  “It’s away. Crossing the threshold now.”

  Tran knew his teary-eyed, hopeful gaze was safe behind his snout-shaped mask—the ubiquitous identity-erasing uniform of Breen society. And if his voice should quaver with e
motion, he could trust his mask’s vocoder to strip it bare and garble it into meaningless machine-speak. How can I ever reveal myself to Choska while I remain a prisoner in my own flesh? How can I show her that I’m more than just a cog in the Confederacy’s machine when I can’t even tell her my real name?

  His maudlin reflections were banished as the rift contracted without warning, shredding the reconnaissance vessel into a cloud of sparking debris. He activated a review of the sensor logs even as he vented his frustration at Choska. “What happened?”

  “As I warned, the passage between quantum universes is intrinsically unstable. Based on sensor readings from the moment of collapse, I would postulate that ambient energy emissions from the reconnaissance vessel destabilized the throat of the wormhole between the universes.”

  “Fortunate, then, that the reconnaissance vessel was an automated ship with no crew.”

  “Yes, that was a prudent precaution on your part, Thot Tran.” Choska adjusted some settings on her side of the master console. “It will take several days to analyze the data and devise a plan for shielding vessels that need to pass through the quantum rift.”

  Tran knew of no politic way to explain to Choska that they might not have that much time. Domo Pran was eager for results—and he had made it understood that any failure to deliver them would be met with the harshest of punishments. “Do whatever you can to expedite your analysis, Doctor. The sooner we complete this phase of the project, the better.”

  “I will do my best.” She downloaded the sensor data to a padd and left the control center—most likely to review the results in the privacy of her office.

  Tran watched her leave, knowing he should start his own independent review of the failed recon deployment. But all he could think about was escaping through the rift, with Choska at his side—and cursing the Confederacy, the Typhon Pact, and the Tzenkethi Coalition as he and the magnificent object of his affections left them all behind.

  Two

  Few environments had ever mesmerized Julian Bashir to the same degree as the interior of Laenishul. The sprawling, multilevel restaurant was situated more than a hundred meters below Andor’s storm-tossed East La’Vor Sea. It was sheltered beneath a hemisphere of transparent aluminum that stood more than forty meters tall at its apex. An external layer of light-amplifying crystal extended the visibility and clarity of the restaurant’s view of the surrounding ocean realm.

  Laenishul’s floors also were composed of the same see-through metal, enabling its patrons to gaze into a yawning aquatic abyss beneath the restaurant. The deep chasm was lit from far below by bioluminescent algae and other self-illuminating life-forms. Inside the dome’s pressurized oasis, hovering orbs cast dim amber light on each table. Faint glowing lines etched into the floor marked the pathways that connected the various seating areas, their staircases and lift platforms, the kitchen and back offices, and the refresher facilities.

  Access to the restaurant was limited to a single turbolift from its hovering outpost above the surface. In calm weather, the platform was quite stable; shuttlecraft and other small personal vehicles came and went, picking up and discharging passengers in a well-choreographed dance. During the region’s rougher seasons, the platform retracted the turbolift umbilical from the restaurant and served instead as a transporter signal relay, to help coordinate traffic from the capital as well as from ships in orbit.

  One detail of Laenishul struck Bashir as ironic. Because the undersea bistro had been financed in part by the New Imperial Andorian Aquarium, its menu was devoid of seafood. Not even replicated versions of thalassic victuals were to be found on its extensive bill of fare.

  He put down his menu and looked across the table at his inamorata, Sarina Douglas. “Does it seem odd to you that I have a sudden hankering for sashimi?”

  “Not at all.” The slender, late-thirtyish blonde continued to peruse her menu. “Men always want what they can’t have.”

  He took her playful verbal jab in stride. “I think it’s a generally human failing.”

  She skewered him with a narrowed stare. “Really? You think you can trump my sexism with your racism? Color me appalled, Julian.” She resumed her study of the menu. “Normally, a filet mignon would sound good to me, but I’ve yet to find a place on this planet that can cook one properly.” An elegantly arched eyebrow telegraphed her query. “What’re you having?”

  “Some kind of midlife crisis, I suspect.”

  “Well, make sure you get a salad with that. It’ll help your digestion.”

  Bashir was about to parry her bon mot with a cutting quip, but he swallowed his retort when he saw the Andorian maître d’ escort their dinner guest across the dining room to their table. He caught Sarina’s eye and directed her with a subtle lift of his chin to look to her right.

  She glanced quickly—just long enough to recognize the stylishly dressed, fair-skinned, dark-haired woman approaching them as Ozla Graniv, an award-winning journalist for the Trill-based newsmagazine Seeker. Graniv appeared to be in her early forties, but Bashir recalled from a bio he’d read that she was actually in her early fifties. She had a square chin, prominent cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and a piercing stare behind which burned the light of a fierce intellect. Graniv thanked the maître d’ quietly and dismissed him with a nod. As he turned away, the journalist sat down with Bashir and Sarina and met their apprehensive stares with a smile. “Thanks for agreeing to talk with me. I know you haven’t been keen on granting interviews since your return to civilian life.” She nodded at the menu Bashir held. “What’re you having?”

  “Second thoughts.”

  “I see.” She averted her eyes and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her right ear, revealing her species’ trademark pale brown spots, which ran in a narrow band from her temple, past her ear, and down the side of her neck under her collar. She adopted an air of humility and looked Bashir in the eye. “Say the word, and I’ll go.”

  He was about to accept Graniv’s gracious offer of a painless exit when Sarina put her hand on top of his. She gave him a reassuring look. “It’ll be all right, Julian.”

  Bashir calmed his frazzled nerves and nodded. “All right. Let’s get on with it.”

  “Thank you.” Graniv took a small recording device from her pocket, switched it on, and set it on the table. “For the record, this is Ozla Graniv, interviewing Doctor Julian Bashir on Andor. Today is January seventh, 2386. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor.”

  “Likewise.”

  She rested her arms on the table and leaned forward. “Just to set your mind at ease, I’m not here to make you rehash the actions you took on Bajor, or here on Andor, to deliver your cure for the Andorian fertility crisis. All of that is a matter of record, thanks to the redacted but still enlightening transcripts of your Starfleet court-martial.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, but I feel compelled to correct you already. The retroviral gene therapy I brought to the Andorian people was not, strictly speaking, my creation. Most of the research and work had been done by Professor Marthrossi zh’Thiin and Thirishar ch’Thane before I became involved. In fact, I’d say the work was ninety-nine-point-five percent done before I was asked to pitch in. I’d also had considerable help from several prominent medical scientists, and my mission would have failed if not for the courage of civilian pilot Emerson Harris, who gave his life to make sure both I and the cure reached Andor.”

  Sarina let slip a low harrumph. “So much for not rehashing your actions.”

  Graniv ignored her and pushed on with the interview. “What I’m more interested in, Doctor, is your life after the court-martial. The Federation government tried to downplay the importance of your pardon by President zh’Tarash and the strings her administration pulled to have your Starfleet discharge amended from dishonorable to honorable. Can you tell me—”

  “Excuse me.” A young Andorian shen stepped up to the table from behind Graniv. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to say thank you, Doctor.�
� She pressed Bashir’s left hand between her blue palms, lifted it, and kissed his fingertips. “My name is Jessala sh’Lero, and my bond group and I are expecting our first child thanks to your miracle cure.”

  “You’re very welcome.” Bashir tried to withdraw his hand. The shen tightened her grip.

  “May Uzaveh the Infinite and Mother Stars watch over you, all the days of your life.”

  He pulled back a bit harder than he would have liked and freed his hand. “Too kind.”

  The overwrought shen continued to utter blessings and thanks as the maître d’ and a pair of servers ushered her out of the dining room and into the turbolift. Graniv watched the retreating spectacle with a glimmer of cynical amusement. “Does that happen a lot?”

  “Not too often.” Bashir shrugged. “Ten, maybe twelve times a day. But only when I make the mistake of leaving my house.” He took a sip of his Altair water. “You were saying?”

  “I was going to ask what your life as a civilian has been like since the pardon, but I think I just saw all I need to know.”

  Bashir and Sarina traded weary, knowing looks. She answered for him. “Not entirely. For all the Andorians who want to kiss Julian’s hand, there are more than a few who’d love to cave in his skull with a brick for tampering with the purity of the Andorian genome.”

  That revelation surprised Graniv. She looked at Bashir. “Is that true?”

  “As my old pal Vic Fontaine would say, ‘Andor is a tough room.’ ”

  The journalist nodded, then turned her attention toward Sarina. “It’s my understanding that you resigned from Starfleet after Doctor Bashir’s court-martial.”

  Sarina looked and sounded defensive. “That’s right.”

  “Can you tell me what your billet was before you resigned?”