by David Mack
Something—be it instinct, intuition, or common sense—told Picard this was what he had come to find. “Lock all sensors onto that reading. I want to know what we’re dealing with.”
“Aye, sir,” the security chief said as she kept working.
Next to Picard, Worf seemed ready to leap from his chair. It was obvious he would rather be on his feet, but since Picard was seated, so was he. “Helm,” he said, “time to orbit.”
Faur answered over her shoulder, “Twenty seconds.” On the viewscreen, Tirana III had expanded so that only half of its northern hemisphere was visible.
Low murmurings from the aft stations snared Picard’s attention, and he swiveled his chair so he could see Lieutenants Chen and Elfiki working together at the master systems display, which they had reconfigured as an all-purpose sensor analysis station. The two women conferred in excited whispers as they tapped commands into their respective panels. When they noticed that they had Picard’s attention, it was the half-Vulcan contact specialist who turned to report. “Sir, we’ve identified the source of the energy signals on the surface.” She relayed a set of schematics and technical information to the main viewscreen, where it appeared on the left side of a split screen. “It’s a Mardiff-class mining vessel, the S.S. Basirico, out of Ramatis.”
On the half of the screen opposite the schematics, the planet’s ruddy surface snapped into view, revealing a massive industrial vehicle—a vast agglomeration of pipes, reactors, smelting furnaces, refinery systems, and fuel pods, all topped by a comparatively tiny blister of crew accommodations.
Šmrhová looked up from her console. “There are no mining or refinery permits for any vessel named Basirico. Whatever that thing’s doing here, it’s illegal.”
Picard leaned forward, certain there was more to this than he was seeing. “Why would the Breen go to this much trouble to hide an illegal mining operation?”
Glinn Dygan turned his chair toward Picard and Worf. “Sirs, the Basirico isn’t engaged in standard mining or refining operations. They’re excavating something, and proceeding with extreme care—which suggests that whatever it is, it’s valuable—and fragile.”
“Keep scanning,” Picard said. “I want to know what they’re digging up.”
Behind him, Elfiki called out, “Sir? I think we have something. Something huge.”
Worf and the captain traded a look of alarm, then they got up and moved in tandem to stand behind Chen and Elfiki. Picard looked at the science officer. “Report, Lieutenant.”
“There’s a structure underneath the Basirico.” She called up enhanced sensor images on the large aft screen. “Most of the metallic composites are common to starship construction. What’s unusual is its quantum phase signature.” Pointing at an ancillary screen, she added, “It’s consistent with matter from a known close parallel universe.”
Chen cut in, “That’s not all, sirs. After we masked the Basirico from our sensors, we got a clear shot of some large-scale structures inside the buried ship.” She shifted the images in question to the main screen and enlarged them. “They’re a pretty close match for the singularity cores the Tzenkethi were using to generate artificial wormholes. Maybe an improved version.”
Worf’s eyes widened. “Self-contained wormhole propulsion? Is that possible?”
“Not for us.” Elfiki gestured at the screen. “But someone in the alternate universe thinks it is.” She looked at Worf and Picard. “But, seeing as they crashed in our universe, I think it’s safe to say they might not have worked out all the bugs yet.”
“I’ve seen enough,” Picard said. He turned and strode toward the center of the bridge. “Raise shields, arm all weapons. Glinn Dygan, hail the Basirico. Number One, prepare a boarding party. I want that ship seized and its crew arrested.”
Dygan made a few quick taps on his console. “Channel open, Captain.”
Picard raised his voice and invested it with authority. “Attention, mining vessel Basirico. This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard, commanding the Federation Starship Enterprise. I order you to cease operations, surrender, and prepare to be boarded. Acknowledge.”
Long moments passed without a response.
An alert warbled on Dygan’s console. “The Basirico is transmitting a distress call.”
Then Šmrhová called out, “Vessel uncloaking! Bearing one-eight-two mark one, range two hundred thousand kilometers.”
“On-screen,” Worf said.
The image on the main viewer switched to an aft angle, revealing the distorted shape of a Breen warship emerging as if from a desert mirage. Tactical data scrolled up the right-hand side of the screen, and Šmrhová announced, “Engine signature matches the Breen cruiser Mlotek.” She looked up, her countenance grim. “They’ve raised shields and locked weapons”—she shot a hateful stare at the vessel on the screen—“and they’re hailing us.”
“Put them on-screen, Lieutenant.” Picard turned to face his foe.
A view of the Mlotek’s bridge appeared on-screen, its angle so narrow as to reveal nothing except one snout-masked officer and a soft-focus blur in the background. “I am Thot Raas, commanding the Breen cruiser Mlotek. We come to answer the distress call of the vessel on the surface.”
It was such a brazen ploy that its sheer hubris almost took Picard by surprise. Then it made him angry. “Thot Raas, I find your humanitarian motives suspect, at best. How did your vessel come to be in Federation space? Much less in immediate proximity to the Basirico?”
“Such petty legal distinctions are irrelevant. We stand ready to defend the innocents on the planet’s surface from your unprovoked aggression.”
Picard wasn’t certain whether he or Worf was more mystified by the Breen commander’s irrational challenge. The two Starfleet officers exchanged stunned glances, then looked back at the Breen. “Thot Raas,” Picard said, “the vessel on the surface bears a Federation registry, and it’s engaged in unlicensed operations on a Federation world. Consequently, the Basirico and its crew fall incontrovertibly within our jurisdiction. As for your own ship, its presence here, under cloak, violates several laws and treaties, thereby nullifying your claim to be acting in good faith.”
The Breen appeared paralyzed for several seconds. Then he replied, “You will permit the Basirico and its crew to depart this system with its salvage, under our protection. If you continue to threaten them, you will be fired upon.”
“I don’t think so.” Picard couldn’t see the Breen’s eyes through that damnable mask, but he was certain that if he could, he would see fear in them. “Its salvage is illegal without a proper license. Furthermore, if its crew members are Federation citizens, they have nothing to fear from me. They’ll be afforded every protection available under the law. Unlike you and your vessel—which I will destroy if you don’t withdraw at warp speed, with your cloak down, in the next thirty seconds. Do I make myself clear, Thot Raas?”
“If you fire upon this ship, the Breen Confederacy will interpret that as an act of war.”
“Your presence here is already an act of war,” Picard shot back. “But for the sake of peace, that’s an error I’m offering you one last chance to correct.”
Thot Raas slowly tilted his head, like a wild enemy regarding its prey. “Do not interfere, Captain. The civilian vessel will leave with its salvage. This is your last warning.”
The transmission ended, reverting the viewscreen to the enlarged image of the Basirico on the surface. A spreading bloom of dust rose up around the mining vessel, all but obscuring it from the Enterprise’s visual sensors. Picard sensed the outcome of this crisis would be decided in the next few moments. “Lieutenant Elfiki! What’s happening down there?”
“They’ve snared the starship wreckage in some kind of a grappling frame,” she said. “It looks as if they plan to pull it free by lifting off.”
Worf confided, “Captain, if they rendezvous with the Breen ship—”
“Dygan,” Picard snapped, “order the Basirico to cut its engines at onc
e. Make clear that if they fail to comply, we will have no choice but to fire upon them.” He turned toward Šmrhová. “Lock forward torpedoes on the Basirico, phasers on the Mlotek.”
She keyed in the command, then looked up. “The Mlotek is hailing us.”
“On-screen,” Picard said as he faced forward.
The masked head of Thot Raas filled the screen once more. “Do not try to bluff me, Picard. You will not fire on an unarmed ship full of Federation civilians. Stand down.”
Picard imagined he could see the Breen’s desperation, even through that opaque mask. “I’ve had enough of your games. Enough lies and manipulations. This ends here, now.”
He cast a sidelong look at Šmrhová. She frowned. “The Basirico is still ascending.”
Then he looked at Thot Raas. He wanted the Breen commander to remember the look in his eyes at this moment. “Lieutenant Šmrhová . . . fire torpedoes.”
Soft feedback tones trilled from her console. Picard looked back toward the master systems display, whose center screen showed the crimson streaks of photon torpedoes tearing away at full impulse toward Tirana III. Then the five-warhead salvo slammed into the Basirico, which disappeared in a painfully bright flash of white fire. After the glow of the blast faded, all that remained of the mining ship and its excavated prize was a dark smear of ash and dust obscuring the planet’s cinnamon-hued surface.
His eyes cold and his mien adamant, Picard turned back to Thot Raas. “If, as I suspect, that ship was actually an asset of the Typhon Pact, conducting a military operation in Federation space, then its vessel was improperly marked, and its crew was out of uniform, making their presence here a crime of espionage—and an act of war.” He took a few slow steps forward as he continued. “On the other hand, if I just ordered the destruction of a legal private Federation vessel and murdered its crew of Federation citizens, I shall have to face a court-martial and answer for my actions to Starfleet and my government. But not before I take this opportunity to blast you and your ship to pieces.” He flashed a cold glare at the Breen. “Unless, of course, you wish to disavow your operatives on the surface—and retreat from our space while I’m still willing to permit it. In which case, all this could be excused as a . . . misunderstanding.”
The standoff lasted for several seconds of fraught silence.
Then, from the tactical console, Šmrhová declared, “The Mlotek has powered down its weapons and lowered its shields.”
Thot Raas tilted his head forward at an odd, conciliatory angle. “Our apologies, Captain. We seem to have involved ourselves in a matter that was not our concern. As it is now resolved, we will resume our course to Tzenkethi space, as permitted under interstellar law.”
“By all means, Thot Raas. And see that your cloak remains off line while you transit our space—as a demonstration of your goodwill. Enterprise out.”
Dygan cut the channel, and the main viewscreen showed the Mlotek reversing course and accelerating away, first at full impulse, and then leaping to warp in a flash of light and color.
Picard’s relief at the confrontation’s end was tempered by his need to confirm what they had just destroyed. “Number One, secure from Red Alert. Lieutenant Elfiki, send your scans of the parallel-universe wreck to Commander La Forge for analysis. If this is what the Breen thought was worth sacrificing so much to gain, I want to learn all that we can about it.”
29
It had been only a few days since Thot Tran had stood at the right hand of the domo, occupying a place of honor that presaged a future bright with possibility. Tonight he stood before Brex with his head bowed and his knee bent, a penitent summoned to face a storm of wrath.
“Do you have any idea what this failure has cost us? Not only within the Pact, but as a people? I placed my trust in you, Tran. And you’ve repaid me with disgrace.”
At the risk of worsening his predicament, Tran dared to speak in his own defense. “Lord Domo, Starfleet has no proof that the mining vessel was under our control, only suspicions it can never verify, thanks to its own violent intervention.”
Brex stepped forward and loomed above him. “It doesn’t matter. All of local space knows the Mlotek was hounded out of Federation territory like a frightened terlo cub.” The domo circled him as he continued, and as Tran listened, he wondered if Brex meant to kill him. “Billions of sakto wasted. An entire intelligence project sacrificed, along with two of our top cyberneticists. We’ve angered the Orions, enraged the Gorn, tipped our hand to the Romulans, and risked a war with the Federation.” He stepped back in front of Tran and towered over him. “And what do we have to show for all this blood and treasure? Nothing.”
“It might still be possible to turn this crisis to our advantage.”
The domo met Tran’s hopeful assertion with bitter skepticism. “How?”
Tran kept his tone neutral. “Before the Basirico was destroyed, its crew relayed their scans of the crashed starship to the Mlotek for analysis. A rudimentary study of its engines suggests the vessel was capable of creating artificial wormholes, as we suspected.”
“Are those scans detailed enough for us to replicate the wormhole drive?”
The accusatory tone of Brex’s question left Tran defensive and trepidatious. “No, my lord. There were sensor-blocking minerals in the planet’s soil, and it appears the vessel itself incorporated such compounds into its hull and spaceframe.”
“Then we know nothing more now than we did before we started.” The domo ascended the dais and returned to his elevated power position behind the audience chamber’s lectern. He asked with open mockery, “How do you propose we turn this to our advantage, Tran?”
In the silence before Tran’s answer, the arctic wind outside the domed chamber howled like sohii, the death omens of ancient Paclu legend. “What no one outside the SRD knows is that the crashed vessel’s quantum signature confirmed it was from a close parallel universe—one we suspect has been known to the Federation for some time. If we can find a way to reach this alternate universe, we could try to capture one of these vessels intact.”
His suggestion seemed to command the domo’s attention. After a moment, Brex asked, “What would be the cost to reach this alternate universe? In both time and money?”
“That’s difficult to predict, Domo. However, my initial proposal calls for an investment of half a billion sakto for a two-year research initiative.”
While the domo was still considering Tran’s request, the SRD director heard the door of the audience chamber’s sole turbolift open behind him. He turned to see Thot Pran and the Confederacy’s representative on the Typhon Pact’s board of governors, Delegate Gren, walking toward him and Brex. “Greetings,” Pran said, his amplified vocoder voice echoing around them. “How convenient to find you both here at this most auspicious moment.”
It rankled Tran to see Thot Pran stride into the domo’s sanctum as if he were a conqueror. By reflex, he positioned himself between the newcomers and Brex, even though Gren and Pran significantly outranked him in the Confederacy’s hierarchical meritocracy. “Explain yourselves.”
“I bring the same demand,” Gren replied, directing his words over Tran’s head at Brex. The delegate held up a data stick. “Domo, this is a formal summons from the Confederate Congress, requesting your appearance before them at midday tomorrow—to face a vote of no confidence.” He held out the data stick and waited, his cast defiant and proud.
To Tran’s surprise, Brex offered no argument. The domo stepped down from the dais and walked past Tran to face Gren. Then he took the data stick from the delegate’s hand. “I have received the summons and will honor my pledge to appear before the Congress.”
The leader’s acquiescence filled Tran with anxiety. A new domo would almost certainly want to break with the efforts of a predecessor, especially a project that had spawned so much fury in the highest ranks of the military and the government. “Domo . . .”
Brex cut him off with a raised hand, and Tran obeyed the signal fo
r silence.
Pran stepped forward and all but touched the front of his mask’s snout to Brex’s. “You have overreached for the last time, Domo Brex. Now you shall answer for your errors of judgment to those who appointed you. And after they strip you of your office . . . I shall look forward to replacing you.” He turned his head toward Tran. “And erasing your mistakes.”
The supreme commander of the Breen military marched out of the sanctum with Delegate Gren on his heels. They stepped into the turbolift. As the door slid shut, Tran realized he now had far more pressing concerns than his projects at the Special Research Division.
He needed to persuade the future Domo Pran not to have him killed.
• • •
“Of all the reasons I might have had to return to Cestus III, this is one I’d hoped I would never see.” Nanietta Bacco paused and squinted into the sunlight blazing through the ornate stained-glass windows behind the choir balcony, opposite the lectern. Before her, the pews of the Unitarian church were packed from the front row to the back with mourners of many species and many credos. What they had in common was that they had all loved the late Esperanza Piñiero. Must keep going, she told herself. Just as she struggled inwardly to hold fast to a shred of her composure, she clung to the sides of the lectern to keep herself from trembling. Pushing through her grief, she let the words on the padd in front of her carry her onward.
“Four years ago, Esperanza talked me into running for the office of President of the United Federation of Planets—a rhetorical feat for which I never truly forgave her.” A mild susurrus of restrained chuckling traveled through the congregation. “But that was her way: she knew what was right, and what had to be done, and one way or another, she made things happen.
“I knew her most of her life. When I first met her, she was just a little girl, living here with her family in Two Rivers. Even then, nothing mattered more to her than fairness. She never feared to stand up to bullies—or her teachers, or her parents. There were so many things to love about Esperanza that I could never name them all: her loyalty, her bravery, her intelligence, her energy. But if I had to name her greatest virtue, I’d say it was her compassion.”
