by David Mack
Jack stepped in front of Lauren, figuratively stealing the spotlight, as he said, “Pay attention, this is important: there is no such thing as Breen physiology because Breen is not a species. Breen is an arbitrary social construct.” He looked almost giddy in the wake of his revelation, as if he were expecting applause or perhaps the serenade of a celestial choir, and then his glee turned to a tantrum in the making when he was rewarded with naught but silence. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“We heard you perfectly, Jack,” Sarina said. “It’s just taking us all a moment to catch up to you. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Jack said with a curt nod. “I forget sometimes how slow you all are compared to me.” Lauren cleared her throat, and Jack rolled his eyes as he added with a bitter note of mild contrition, “To us.”
Commander Erdona walked over to the companel on the wall, studied its data, and asked, “How many species do we think the Breen comprise?”
“At least a dozen,” Patrick said. “Maybe more.”
“All appear to be essentially humanoid in form,” Lauren said. “But even while wearing all that armor and speaking through those ridiculous vocoders, they exhibit subtle variations in their body language.”
Jack was pacing again. “Preferred distance while speaking to a subordinate, reactions to the presence of superiors, the way they shift their weight while at rest—all dead giveaways. Plain as day, really. Can’t believe you missed it, Julian.”
“Indeed,” Bashir deadpanned. “I’m mortified.”
“Ignore him, Doctor,” Lauren said. “Even though you spent weeks as a prisoner of the Breen, you wouldn’t have seen any differences. The Breen segregate their starship crews and base personnel. We saw the differences only after we compared dozens of recordings made over a span of decades.”
“The real giveaway is that not all Breen armor has working coolant packs,” Jack said. “Ninety percent of them are just for show.”
Sarina looked at Bashir and Erdona. “This is our way in,” she said. “If the Breen use those suits and helmets to mask their identities even from one another, we can modify two sets of armor and practically walk right in.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Jack interjected. “They’re ripe for infiltration.”
“Modify the helmets’ translators to turn your voices into Breen noise, and vice versa,” Lauren said. “Even in a crowd of Breen, no one would know.”
Patrick said, “Plus, the suits are made to mask the wearer’s vital signs!”
Erdona nodded. “SI could even hide some gadgets in the armor—vacuum support, tools, compact rations, medicine, that kind of thing.”
Bashir got up, stepped away from the others, and turned to look back at them. “Have you all lost your minds? You call yourselves ‘the smartest people in the galaxy,’ but the best plan you can come up with is to put on a pair of stolen Breen uniforms and try to walk in the front door of a secret military installation?”
Affecting an indignant pose, Jack replied, “Do you have a better idea?”
“A much better one,” Bashir said, heading for the door. “I’m out.”
A few minutes after Bashir had returned to his quarters, the door signal buzzed. He turned away from the view of stars outside his windows and said, “Come in.”
The door slid open, and Sarina stepped inside. “That was a dramatic exit.”
“Call it a bookend to your dramatic entrance,” Bashir replied. She moved toward him, and Bashir stepped away from the windows and met her in the middle of the room. “This isn’t quite how I’d imagined our reunion.”
“So, you have imagined our reunion,” Sarina said.
“At least a thousand times.”
She grinned. “I can picture it. You’d come to the Corgal Institute to give some keynote speech, and between applause lines you’d sweep me off my feet. And I, having pined and pined for you, would swoon and fall into your arms.”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
Her grin widened. “Yes, I am.” She leaned forward and hugged him. He wrapped his arms around her, grateful that she was really there. Resting her head against his, she said, “I missed you, too, Julian.”
“That’s nice to hear,” he said, admiring the subtle fragrance of jasmine in her hair and basking in the gentle warmth of her body. “But is it true?”
She let go of him and stepped back to arm’s length. “You don’t believe me?”
“Let’s just say that I know you had a lot of other things on your mind.”
“My mind can handle a lot of things at once,” she said, flashing a crooked smile. Turning serious, she continued. “I know that six years ago, I wasn’t able to be the woman you wanted me to be. And I’m sorry for that.”
Bashir shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who should apologize to you. I was your doctor. No matter how strongly I was attracted to you, I should have restrained myself. I should have realized that you weren’t ready for a romantic relationship…. I put my feelings ahead of your needs.”
“Only for a moment.” Sarina stepped forward and caressed his face. “I remember every second of our time together with perfect clarity, Julian. I’ve replayed those moments over and over, and …” Her voice faltered, and her eyes glistened with tears. “And I realize how much it must have hurt you to let me go. I didn’t understand then how deep your feelings were. I couldn’t comprehend it. Now I do.” Tears rolled from her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
It was a struggle for Bashir to retain even a modicum of composure. Though his time with Sarina years earlier had been brief, it also had been the most intense connection he had ever felt with another person. No other woman with whom he had ever been involved—not Melora, not Leeta, not even Ezri—had been so effortlessly brilliant, so innately attuned to his way of seeing the world as Sarina was. As he had confided to Miles O’Brien during his first blush of attraction to Sarina, she was the woman whom Bashir had waited his entire life to find.
And there she stood, right in front of him, her blue eyes looking into his as he gently stroked the tears from her cheeks with the back of his hand.
“So,” he said, pausing to collect his thoughts, “what now?”
“That’s up to you. I’m going to Salavat with or without you, but I’d rather it be with you.”
He let go of her and backed up a step. “You can’t be serious! You’d actually risk your life on Jack’s harebrained costume ploy?”
“First, it’s not as bad a plan as you think it is. Second, there’s more to it than just slipping on two sets of armor and ringing the Breen’s doorbell.” Leaning forward, she said with a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes, “Trust me.”
He crossed his arms. “I’ll need more to go on than that.”
“Such as … ?”
“Such as why you’re working with Starfleet Intelligence in the first place.”
Sarina nodded. “I knew that would come up.”
“Of course you did, you’re a supergenius.”
“So are you. And I know you’ve done intelligence work before. So why are you so against it? Did the Sindorin mission sour you?”
Bashir waved his hands. “I asked why you were working with Starfleet Intelligence. Last I heard, you’d been granted a research fellowship at the Corgal Institute.”
She sighed. “That was six years ago, Julian. And the fact is, I exhausted my possibilities at Corgal about a year after that. They had neither the staff nor the facilities to support my work.”
“What about the Daystrom Institute? Or the Vulcan Science Academy?”
“Both were interested in my work and had the infrastructure to pursue it,” she said with a nod, “but neither offered me a position. Basically, I got the same reception from them as I did from the handful of people who showed any romantic interest in me during the last six years: curiosity at first, followed by fear when they found out that I had been genetically enhanced.” She continued as she took a curving
path around Bashir. “About four years ago, I was approached by an officer from Starfleet Intelligence. He—”
“What was his name?” interrupted Bashir, fearing that Sarina might have been approached by Section 31 agent Cole, who had tried to recruit Bashir.
“Darwyn Friel. Is that important?”
“No. Sorry. Go on.”
Standing in front of the replicator, she said, “Chai, hot.” As her drink materialized, she continued. “Friel made a good case for why people like us ought to join SI. Our enhanced skills and reflexes make us better suited to field operations than most other members of Starfleet—human or otherwise.” She took her tea from the replicator and carried it toward the sofa. “We can go places and do things that others can’t, and make better tactical decisions in less time.”
“Just because we can do a thing—”
“—doesn’t mean we should do a thing. I know that. But I believe we have an obligation to use our superior abilities in the manner that best serves our society and our principles. Tucked away in some lab or toiling on some space station, there’s only so much you and I can do.” She sat down on the sofa.
Bashir shook his head. “No, that’s not true. I’ve made major contributions from here and aboard the Defiant. As a scientist, you could cure diseases, develop new energy sources, invent technologies never even dreamed of—”
“And as an SI operative, I might prevent a war that kills billions, stop a coup that would condemn a world to generations of political oppression, or help the Federation keep its rivals in check without resorting to bloodshed. As elite field agents, we have a chance to make a real difference in a time of crisis, for Starfleet and the Federation. Besides”—she sipped her tea—“I thought you’d want in on this mission for its exploration value alone. Think about it: we’d be getting an inside look at the Breen—not as prisoners but moving among them. As far as we know, they’ve never allowed outsiders to visit one of their planets, not like this. All they’ve ever permitted was a handful of diplomats and trade negotiators in a few isolation facilities on their ice cube of a capital.”
It was tempting; Bashir admitted that much to himself. The promise of adventure certainly appealed to him. Coupled with the prospect of spending an extended period of time in close company with Sarina, it was all but irresistible.
He asked, “It would be a temporary assignment?”
“That’s my understanding,” Sarina said.
“And how, exactly, are we to infiltrate this hidden Breen shipyard?”
Sarina lifted one shoulder in a coy shrug. “If you want to find that out, you’ll have to commit to the mission. Operational security. I’m sure you understand.”
I’m going to regret this, Bashir thought.
“All right,” he said, “I’m in. Let’s go get fitted for some armor.”
5
Thot Keer stood on a scaffold beneath the bow of his half-assembled fast-attack cruiser prototype and gazed into a firefall of sparks. Glowing motes rained down from a team of hull welders working high above him. The torrent cascaded over his shoulders and ricocheted off his armored chest and the snout of his helmet.
My masterpiece will need a name, Keer realized. Something fitting.
An electronically processed voice squawked inside his helmet. “Command to Thot Keer. Do you read me, sir?”
“Yes, Trez. What is it?”
“Our visiting dignitaries insist on meeting with you. I told them you were busy, but they were quite adamant.”
Masking his annoyance with boredom, Keer asked, “Where are they now?”
“In your office, sir. Should I have them escorted back to their quarters?”
Keer began the slow walk back to the airlock. “Not necessary, Trez. Tell them I will be there momentarily. Keer out.” As he crossed the catwalk, Keer was thankful for the magnetic pads in the soles of his boots. They kept his footing solid as he traversed the microgravity environment that surrounded his work in progress.
Massive floodlamps focused blinding light on the dart-like starship, the reflection from which illuminated the rough-hewn stone interior of the classified shipyard. The rocky walls were reddish-brown and studded with shimmering hunks of crystal and glittering patches of metallic ore. There had been times during Keer’s years of service to the Confederacy when he had envied starship designers who worked in open space beneath a curtain of starlight; this was not one of those times. As claustrophobic as this wholly enclosed drydock had seemed to him when he’d first arrived, he had to admit that he also found it beautiful in a peculiar way that so far he had been unable to describe to anyone else.
At the end of the catwalk, he keyed his security code into the panel beside the airlock door, which slid open. As soon as he stepped inside, he felt the pull of normal gravity, and the magnets in his boots automatically disengaged. The outer door closed behind him, the chamber pressurized in seconds, and the inner door opened, permitting him ingress to the command center for the shipyard. It was a short walk to the lift, and a few minutes later he was standing in the doorway of his office, facing the two newest impediments to his success.
“Thank you for seeing us,” said General Valnor, a Romulan who had come on behalf of the Tal Shiar—the intelligence apparatus of the Romulan Star Empire—to monitor Keer’s progress. Valnor nodded in the direction of his companion, a high-ranking Gorn military officer known as an ozuk. “Ezgog and I trust you and your team are making swift progress on the prototype.”
“Yes,” said Thot Keer. “Thank you for your confidence.” He hoped that adopting a dismissive attitude toward his unwelcome visitors might cut the meeting short, but his experience with Romulans kept him from being optimistic.
Valnor narrowed his eyes. Despite being middle-aged, he sported a full head of jet-black hair and an intense demeanor. “My people took a great risk to extract your field operative from the Federation’s shipyard,” he said. “We also honored your requests for his privacy while we ferried him here. I should think our actions would serve as evidence of our good faith in this joint endeavor.”
“Your people have honored the terms of our agreement to the letter,” said Keer. “So have mine. We provided an operative who could and did access the plans, and we are constructing the prototype, as agreed.”
Ezgog’s voice was as rough as his fangs were sharp. “But you have not been sharing your prototype’s test data,” said the Gorn archosaur.
“Because that was not part of our agreement,” Keer replied. “You pledged to provide us with the requisite rare ores and finished components. We promised you six operational cruisers in return.”
“The imperator insists that you share your research into the slipstream drive, so that we may begin training crews to operate it,” Ezgog said.
“Unfortunate, then, that your imperator failed to specify such terms when the parameters of our partnership were set.”
The Romulan stepped between Keer and the Gorn. “Friends, there is no need for us to argue—or to be bound by the unnecessarily narrow language of politicians. I’m certain that if we discuss this in a rational manner, we can arrive at a mutually beneficial arrangement that allows for greater cooperation.”
“Our arrangement is already one of mutual benefit,” Keer said. “If you wish to see it changed, that is a job for diplomats. I am an engineer and a soldier. Amending treaties is not part of my job description.”
“Forgive me,” Valnor said, “but you are being most unreasonable. My people and Ezgog’s are both skilled shipwrights. If you would share the design schematics and your latest notes, our engineers could help you. It might shave days or even weeks off the schedule.” Adding a touch of soft menace, he said, “Time is a factor for this project, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Keer resented Valnor’s insinuation that he and his crew were unequal to the task of finishing the prototype. “I have not forgotten,” he said. “And I am on schedule—assuming we end this meeting now so I can return to work.”
Valnor walked away, and Keer pressed a button to close and lock the door, just in case the Romulan or his reptilian pet decided to come back. He blamed politics for this state of affairs. In the past, Keer knew, he would have been free to spend a few years developing slipstream technology without drawing the attention of the Confederacy’s galactic neighbors. But now the Breen were yoked to the Romulans’ paranoia, the Gorn’s ambition, and the Tholians’ xenophobia.
All I ever wanted to do was build great starships, Keer reflected. If I had known it would mean dealing with politicians, I would have become a chef.
6
“Energizing,” said the Defiant’s transporter operator, whose name Bashir had not had time to learn during the ship’s four-day, high-warp jaunt to the edge of Breen territory. With a sidelong glance at Sarina, Bashir muttered, “Here we go.”
Seconds later they stood cocooned in luminous columns of whirling particles. The cramped transporter bay of the Defiant faded to white and, as if between synaptic pulses, gave way to a state-of-the-art transporter room aboard the Vesta-class slipstream starship U.S.S. Aventine. Three people stood facing the platform. Two were familiar to Bashir; he had never before met the third.
“Welcome aboard,” Captain Ezri Dax said as Bashir and Sarina stepped off the platform. “It’s good to see you again.” To Sarina she added, “Both of you.” She gestured toward her first officer, a tall human man with brown skin and a broad smile. “Miss Douglas, I don’t think you’ve met my XO, Commander Sam Bowers.” Bowers shook Sarina’s hand. Nodding at a dark-haired Takaran woman with delicately scaled green skin and a lieutenant’s rank insignia, she added, “This is Lieutenant Lonnoc Kedair, my chief of security. Lonnoc, this is Doctor Bashir of Deep Space 9 and Sarina Douglas of Starfleet Intelligence.” Kedair seemed content to acknowledge Bashir and Sarina with a half nod.
