Star Trek: The Fall: A Ceremony of Losses Page 3

  Several strings of alien genetic material enlarged as Holo-Shar went on. “Over the past two and a half years, the Tholian Assembly has shared a significant quantity of its own intelligence about the Shedai Meta-Genome. But whether by chance or by design, they never provide us with the sequences we need to fix the flaws in our gene-therapy program. Of course, it might be that the Treishya—the party that currently controls our government—is embargoing critical data sequences from the Shedai genome, in order to slow down our research until they figure out how to take credit for it and solidify their own hold on power.

  “Either way, the program I run with Professor Marthrossi zh’Thiin isn’t getting the information we need. In the past, we’d have requested data on the Shedai genome sequences from Starfleet Medical or through the Federation Surgeon General, but since the Treishya whipped up a bare majority to back secession, we’re cut off from those databases. And that’s why we need your help, Julian. Because we’re dying . . . and we’re running out of time.”

  A long list of file names appeared on Bashir’s right. “To get you started, I’ve included on this chip all the research and raw data my team has amassed on the Shedai genome and its application to our fertility crisis. But I can already tell you there isn’t enough here to solve the problem. To finish what we’ve started, you or someone else with access to Starfleet’s secure medical archives will have to retrieve the intel that we can’t, figure out how to put it to use, and then find a way to get that data back to us.

  “I know I’m asking a lot, Julian. But I don’t know who else to trust.” The holographic Andorian gave a small half-shrug. “That’s my plea, in a nutshell. The rest . . . is up to you.” His appeal complete, he stood calmly, hands folded in front of him, waiting for Bashir to respond.

  Bashir considered the scope of the mess he had been invited to unleash. “Shar, unless I’m mistaken, the Shedai intelligence is still classified top secret by Starfleet, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I believe it is.”

  “Has anyone else in Starfleet seen it?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, until now only Doctor Beverly Crusher, chief medical officer of the Enterprise, has been privy to the Shedai data contained in our research.”

  That was something, at least. A place to start, a peer with whom Bashir might confer in confidence. But the urgency in Shar’s tone during the prerecorded message troubled him. “You said the Andorian people are running out of time. Have you and Professor zh’Thiin estimated how long the Andorian people have left before their population decline becomes irreversible?”

  “Factoring in the time necessary for a retroviral gene therapy to be disseminated to the entire population, the current mortality rates across all age groups, and the continuing decline in fertility rates, we estimate that unless a successful program is initiated within the next year, the Andorian people will be extinct by the end of the next century. We’re at the tipping point.”

  Weighed against such stakes, Bashir suddenly considered the notion of a court-martial to be of little consequence or concern. “I understand. I’ll get started as soon as I can. . . . Computer: End program.” The simulation dissolved, revealing the interior of the holosuite. Bashir collected the isolinear chip from the control panel and unlocked the door.

  He had awoken that day plagued with self-doubt and tormented by guilt. Now, all at once, he had a sudden clarity of purpose. Striding out of Quark’s and heading for his office in the station’s hospital complex, he felt imbued with a sense of mission. But he also knew this undertaking would present challenges greater than he could face alone. He would need help.

  Fortunately, he knew exactly who to contact.

  The tricky part would be not getting himself arrested in the process.

  Three

  Portered by a pair of sentinels as if he were a sack of refuse, Shar offered no resistance but also made no effort at compliance as he was hauled out of the capital city’s Hall of Detention. Dim pools of light blurred past behind half-closed doors as he was carried down a long dark corridor. Then, as they crossed over the Andorian imperial emblem set into the floor of the main atrium, his eyes fixed upon a blinding light directly ahead, outside the main entrance.

  Towering portals parted ahead of him, and then he was heaved without ceremony into the glare of the rising sun to face the day—and the media.

  In the seconds it took Shar to halt his stumbling, find his balance, and face the rabid gaggle, his eyes adjusted enough for him to realize he was surrounded on three sides. Reporters from every media outlet on Andor—as well as dozens of foreign correspondents from off-world news services—harangued him with barked demands for information, for answers, for a statement, for some hint of how he was feeling at that moment. Hundreds of voices shouted at once, a sonic barrage of stunning force and volume.

  Shar lifted his hands and descended into the media scrum. “Everyone, listen up! I’ve had a very long night, so if you don’t mind, I’d just like to—” Wild shouts cut him off.

  “Why were you arrested?”

  “Is it true the charges were dropped? Do you know why?”

  “Who secured your release? Did you call in political favors? Did Professor zh’Thiin?”

  “Did your arrest have anything to do with your research at the Science Institute?”

  “Is it true you were charged with espionage?”

  A dozen variations on each question flew at him, each louder than the last, and for a moment Shar wondered if it might be possible to ask the sentinels to take him back into protective custody. Spending the day incarcerated seemed infinitely preferable to weathering a public inquisition by muckrakers. If only I could punch a few of them, he lamented, knowing that as satisfying as that might feel in the moment, it would only worsen his predicament when the recording made its way onto the global comm network.

  Beyond the far edge of the press gauntlet he spied a personal transport whose markings he recognized. The tint on the rear side window faded for a few seconds, affording him a glimpse of his mentor and friend, Professor Marthrossi zh’Thiin. The middle-aged zhen reproved him from a distance with a shake of her head, then darkened the window to safeguard her privacy.

  With effort, Shar tuned out the cacophony of the journalists pressing in upon him and with brusque determination shouldered his way toward the street.

  Then the bystanders kicked into gear. Hoarse cries of “Traitor!” and “Butcher!” assailed Shar from his left, and when he looked for the source of the insults, he saw a mob of raging zealots, all wide-eyed and hungry for violence, held at bay by a handful of Imperial Sentinels in body armor. Opposite them, restrained by another line of stern-faced peace officers in battle dress, were equally fervid counter-protesters screaming at Shar’s detractors, “Shut up, scum! Lie down and die if that’s what you want, but don’t take us with you!”

  Nothing like being a celebrity to make life interesting.

  A rock flew past Shar’s head and struck a journalist in the face. As the wounded thaan collapsed, pandemonium erupted on the steps of the Hall of Detention. Shar ducked under the melee and made a frantic dash to the transport. The rear door lifted open with a hydraulic gasp. He leaped inside the vehicle, and as he landed on the floor between the front and back seats, he heard Professor zh’Thiin command her driver, “Go!”

  The hovercar ascended straight upward for a few seconds as the rear door closed, then the sleek craft lurched into motion and sped away from the fast-spreading free-for-all.

  Scuffed and abashed but otherwise unhurt, Shar climbed onto the seat beside zh’Thiin and dusted himself off. “Thanks for coming to pick me up.”

  “What in the name of Uzaveh were you thinking?”

  He feigned ignorance. “Excuse me?”

  The professor was seething. “After all the discussions we had. After I expressly told you—no, begged you—not to do it . . . you went and did it, didn’t you?”

  It was impossible for him to look her in the eye and
lie to her, so he faced straight ahead and expunged all emotion from his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Shar, we’re long past the point of worrying about plausible deniability for me, you, or anyone else. The news said you got picked up for espionage and treason.”

  What was he supposed to say? “It was mistaken identity.”

  “I sincerely doubt that. Dammit, Shar, you knew they had you under surveillance. They’ve been watching us all for years, ever since the secession. It was a stupid risk to take.” Her anger seemed on the verge of exploding, but then she looked away and drew a deep breath as she watched the capital’s architecture blur past outside her window. “What did they find?”

  After all the lies he had told, it was almost a relief to be able to answer a question with the truth. “Nothing. All I had was my ID, a credit chip, a comm, and the clothes on my back.”

  “Let’s be grateful for small mercies.”

  A silence stretched between them, and he ventured another look in her direction. Her stark white hair was tousled, as if she’d been roused from her sleep in the middle of the night, and her normally fastidious attire was disheveled. The delicate features of her middle-aged face looked careworn that morning, with dark circles under her kind, sky-blue eyes. Perhaps sensing his unspoken concern, she muttered, “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep much last night, knowing you were in custody.”

  “I’m sorry to have put you through that.”

  She patted the back of his hand, apparently resigning herself to their current situation. Then she lifted a small insulated beverage cup from the caddy between the seats in front of them and offered it to Shar. “Tea?” Noting his skepticism, she added, “It’s from my garden.”

  “I’ll need more than herbal broth to jolt my brain into gear.”

  “I used the petals from the black flowers. Trust me, it has a kick.”

  He accepted the cup, rotated open the drink slot on the lid, and took a sip. Hot, sweet, and soothing, it also cleared the cobwebs from his thoughts in a matter of seconds. “Nice.”

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  Shar took a few more sips of the tea and let its recuperative effects suffuse his body. When he felt like himself again, he looked up and noted that the driver’s route was carrying them not toward Shar’s home but toward the Science Institute. He shot a questioning look at zh’Thiin. “Guess I’m not going home for a change of clothes before heading in to the lab.”

  “You’re quick, Shar. That’s why I keep you on my payroll.”

  “This is payback for you having to pick me up today, isn’t it?”

  “Like I said: You’re quick.”

  The transport landed in front of the Science Institute as Shar finished the tea and put on his most optimistic demeanor. “So . . . what are we doing today, Professor?”

  “The same thing we do every day, Shar.” She opened her door and stepped outside, into the daylight. “Trying to save the world.”

  Four

  “Weapons locked, Captain. Phasers and torpedoes standing by.”

  “Noted.” Captain Ezri Dax acknowledged the report from security chief Lonnoc Kedair while maintaining eye contact with the civilian freighter commander on the Aventine’s main viewscreen. “Captain Valik, this is your final warning. Drop your shields or we will open fire.”

  The Rigellian’s tattooed face contorted with righteous fury. “You have no right—”

  “We both know that’s not true,” Dax cut in. “Your ship is off its registered flight plan and on a course for Andor, in violation of the embargo. Don’t make me cite chapter and verse.” Everything about the heavyset civilian’s body language suggested he was spoiling for a fight, but Dax hoped it was empty posturing. “You have five seconds, Captain.”

  Valik’s defiance bled away, supplanted by disgust. He gave a curt nod to someone offscreen, then turned his sour anger toward Dax. “You can commence your plundering.”

  The young Trill starship commander ignored the insult and made a tiny slashing gesture near her throat to signal her security chief to close the channel. The green-scaled Takaran woman cut the transmission, and then Dax issued a one-word directive to her first officer: “Go.”

  Commander Samaritan “Sam” Bowers snapped the crew into action with rapid-fire orders. “Mister Tharp, come about bearing seven five mark five, and put us ten kilometers off the Okemah’s bow. I don’t want them to even think of making a run for it. Mirren, have Chief Jebreal beam boarding parties to the Okemah’s bridge, engineering deck, and main cargo hold. Lieutenant Kedair, tell your people to set all weapons for stun and to keep them holstered unless attacked. Mister Helkara, monitor the Okemah’s comms. If there’s any suspicious chatter, or if they try to send any subspace signals, shut ’em down and alert me immediately.”

  Confirmations echoed back from all the senior officers, who set to work turning words into action. Satisfied the situation was well in hand, Dax pushed away her exhaustion by running one hand through her short-cropped black hair as she headed for her ready room. She cut off Bowers’s half-formed but not yet spoken objection to her departure. “Keep me posted.”

  The door to the ready room hushed closed, and Dax followed a well-trod path in the carpet to the chair behind her desk. She sank into the chair, which had come to know her curves. As much as she usually preferred to be on the bridge, engaged in the business of the moment, the Aventine’s current mission had left her frustrated and ill at ease, qualities she preferred to conceal from her crew for the sake of morale. It had been nearly four years since she had been promoted from second officer to the ship’s center seat after a battle with the Borg had killed her two direct superiors, and she had only just started to feel as if her crew was coming to accept that she belonged in command. She was determined not to jeopardize their hard-earned respect by letting them see her as anything less than fully committed to their current mission . . . no matter how pointless, spiteful, and misguided their orders from Starfleet Command might be.

  Minutes passed without any new alerts being sounded, giving Dax reason to hope the boarding operation was proceeding without incident. Then her door signal buzzed, and she sighed, knowing who it would be, and what was in the offing. “Come in.”

  She watched the portal slide open with a soft hiss, and Bowers walked in clutching a padd in one hand. The lanky, brown-skinned, shaved-headed human stopped in front of her desk. “All boarding teams have reported in. The Okemah’s cargo matched its manifest—medical supplies and pharmaceuticals, bound for Andor. We’ve started beaming over the contraband cargo. Chief Jebreal estimates we’ll be finished with cargo transfer in ten minutes. The freighter’s crew hasn’t offered any resistance.”

  He hadn’t glanced at the padd, making Dax wonder why he had brought it with him. She pointed at the data tablet. “Is that for me?”

  “Yes, sir.” Bowers set it on her desk, then stepped back. “It’s an independent report by the Foundation for Interstellar Medicine, documenting the spread of communicable diseases on Andor. I’d recommend against it as bedtime reading.”

  Dax gave her first officer credit; he had become much more subtle and oblique in his criticism of her command decisions. “Any particular reason you’re sharing this, Sam?”

  “I know how much you like to remain aware of the big picture, Captain.”

  “Knock it off, Sam. ‘Coy’ isn’t a good color on you.”

  The by-the-book XO took the admonishment in stride. “I’m sorry if it’s inconvenient to be reminded that our actions are hurting real people.”

  “I don’t need to be reminded, Sam.” She rolled her eyes and drew a sharp breath, both as part of her fight to retain her composure. “You think I can’t see these orders for what they are?” She stood and paced to the narrow pane of transparasteel behind her desk. “I don’t like being used as a political pawn any more than you do.”

  Bowers’s frustration spilled out. “Then why don’t we speak up? Everyone
knows that Ishan’s manipulating policy to score points for an election. Let’s call him on it.”

  “It’s not our place, Sam. You swore an oath—just as I did—to serve and obey the lawful civilian government. No matter what we think of his politics, Ishan is the one in charge. We don’t have to agree with his rationales, but we’re bound by law to obey his orders.”

  “But a full embargo against Andor? Food, medicine, commerce, even communications? This is ridiculous. They were a founding member of the Federation!”

  “And last year an Andorian separatist colluded in a plot to steal the designs for slipstream drive and helped Typhon Pact agents destroy the original Deep Space Nine.” Dax turned and held up one open hand. “Stop. We’re not having this debate again. It’s a waste of time.”

  Her peremptory stifling of the discussion darkened Bowers’s already dour mood. “Opposing injustice is never a waste of time. . . . Sir.”

  “Let me know when the cargo transfer is complete and our boarding teams are back aboard.” She looked up as if she were surprised he was still there. “Dismissed.”

  “Aye, sir.” He turned on his heel and left the ready room.

  Dax sank back into the chair her body had spent years shaping to her contours . . . but now, no matter how she shifted her weight or posture, she could no longer get comfortable.

  • • •

  It was the faintest of sounds, barely a sigh above the white noise of the Aventine’s ventilation system, but it was enough to rouse Doctor Simon Tarses. He shuddered awake and cursed the sensitivity of his pointed ears, then he blinked and rolled onto his side to find his lover, Nerathyla sh’Pash, sitting up in bed beside him, staring off into space. Perhaps sensing the motion from his side of the bed, she turned her head and looked down at him. “Did I wake you?”