Lesser Evil

by Robert Simpson

  “This is it. This is the source of the transponder signal,” Vaughn said quietly, his eyes never leaving the tricorder, as if he feared missing some vital detail.

  No, it’s more than that, Bowers realized. He’s trying not to look directly at the drone.

  “You mean…this was once a Starfleet officer?” Nog asked.

  “Most of these drones were,” Vaughn said absently. “Though only DNA scans will tell us for sure. This one, however, I can confirm without a scan.” Vaughn snapped his tricorder closed and tapped his combadge. “Vaughn to Defiant.”

  “Defiant. Dax here,” came the reply. “Commander, where are you? Your signal is weak.”

  “We’ve found what we were looking for, Lieutenant. But we need Dr. Bashir. Have Chief Chao home in on my signal and beam him to these coordinates immediately.”

  “Acknowledged,” Dax said. “Anything else?”

  “Stand by. Vaughn out.” Turning to Nog, he said, “Lieutenant, begin a tricorder sweep of the ship. I want to know if there’s any indication of active subspace links to the collective. Then start scanning this alcove—its construction, its operation, its power source, everything. I need you to become an expert on Borg technology as quickly as possible.”

  Nog’s mouth dropped open, but all he could get out were the words “Aye, sir” as he reset his tricorder and went to work.

  When the call came from the bridge, Bashir allowed himself a private sigh of relief at the knowledge that the big mystery of the last few days was about to end. And none too soon. Separating his desire to know what was going on from his personal relationship to the ship’s fully informed first officer had been difficult enough. On the one hand, he knew better than to ask Ezri about any ship’s business that Vaughn didn’t see fit to loop him into. That was Vaughn’s prerogative as ship’s captain, and Bashir wasn’t about to make Ezri’s role as X.O. harder by attempting to draw the information out of her. He wouldn’t have succeeded anyway; Ezri took her transfer to command too seriously to let anyone undermine it, least of all Julian.

  On the other hand, as Defiant’ s chief medical officer, being asked to operate in an information vacuum was a sure way to put lives at risk. He couldn’t prepare for something if he didn’t know what he was likely to face. The fact that knowledge capable of minimizing the risk to the crew was being withheld from him was troubling enough, but it didn’t take a genetically enhanced mind to know that the continuing secrecy was itself contributing to a notable rise in anxiety among his shipmates. And that, Bashir knew, was dangerous. Anxious people made mistakes.

  And although Bashir had only a rough idea about conditions on the surface, just knowing that answers awaited him on the other side of the transporter beam gave him a burst of energy that had him nearly running into the bay. He ignored the raised eyebrow Chief Chao shot at him as he bounded onto the platform and gave her the order to energize—ready, he believed, for whatever lay ahead.

  Of all the settings he had imagined beaming into, the heart of a Borg ship wasn’t one of them.

  Though his mind intuited immediately that the danger must be minimal or the commander wouldn’t have ordered him to beam down, nevertheless he experienced an instant of cold fear when his eyes focused on the distinctive technology surrounding him. Lit only by the away team’s wrist lights, the ship took on an extra dimension of terror. Bashir had never encountered the Borg before, but he’d read enough reports, and attended enough briefings and medical conferences about them, to hope he would never have to.

  Still, Julian’s irrepressible curiosity had been piqued the instant Vaughn had started explaining the detection of the transponder signal, the away team’s mission, and what they had learned so far. Bashir hung on every word, the whole time running calculations in his mind about the effect this knowledge would have back home. Even after several small-scale attempts to invade the Federation had failed, the Borg remained a cause for serious concern. If they ever got it into their collective mind to attack en masse, it was all over. Fighting off a single Borg cube had consistently proven costly; fighting off a full scale assault might not even be possible, especially if it happened now, with so much of the Alpha Quadrant still rebuilding its forces in the aftermath of the Dominion war.

  Why the Borg had thus far attacked with only one ship at a time remained a mystery, one that had many of Starfleet’s top strategists baffled and worried, Bashir knew. Some speculated that the advance ships were simply collecting data on the Alpha Quadrant’s ability to respond to, withstand, and recover from their incursions, adding new twists such as time travel to each assault as a way of gauging the Federation’s inventiveness. Add to that the Borg intelligence that Starfleet was amassing courtesy of Project Pathfinder, and an increasingly complex picture of the Borg was slowly emerging, one that differed considerably from Starfleet’s initial assumptions about the collective, and that necessitated constant reevaluation. And that was precisely what had Starfleet worried: an unpredictable enemy was dangerous, but one they still couldn’t comprehend was terrifying.

  But a Borg encroachment of the Gamma Quadrant…that’s a new twist. Bashir thought he was beginning to understand Vaughn’s decision to keep the information contained among as few people as possible until all the facts were in. What puzzled Bashir now, however, was the revelation that he’d been summoned specifically to assess the condition of a drone.

  Thirty minutes later, together with Bowers and Nog, Bashir found Vaughn a short distance away, sitting on the catwalk, knees up, hands resting on top of them. The commander’s eyes were closed, but Bashir could tell he wasn’t asleep; his forehead was creased in concentration, as if his mind were searching for something that was eluding him. Fatigue, Bashir suspected. He was about to pass his scanner over Vaughn when the commander spoke. “Report, Doctor,” he said without opening his eyes.

  “I’ve completed my medical scan,” Bashir said. “The drone is a human female, age indeterminate. Approximately sixty-eight percent of its body has been replaced by Borg technology, including most of the left hemisphere of the brain. Its condition is critical, but stable. The alcove is acting like a life support system, trickling just enough power to keep the drone alive. But that’s it. In its current condition, the drone can’t function, and it can’t survive outside the alcove.”

  “Sir,” Nog said to Vaughn, “I’ve finished my scans as well. There’s no evidence of any subspace transmissions beyond the Starfleet signal coming from the drone. Any connection to the Borg collective was probably severed when the ship crashed.”

  Vaughn listened to the reports silently, then opened his eyes. He looked, Bashir thought, as if he was struggling with a decision. Finally he said, “Doctor…Lieutenant Nog…you’re both to begin work immediately on extracting the drone from her alcove without killing her. Then you’re going to beam her up to the Defiant, where you, Julian, are going to reverse the assimilation and restore the drone’s humanity.”

  Bashir looked at Nog, who stared back at him, stunned. Wanting to restore a Borg drone to its original state was a laudible goal, but under these circumstances…

  “Respectfully, sir,” Bowers said, uncharacteristically agitated, “do you think it’s wise to expose the ship to the presence of functional Borg technology? What if—?”

  “I’ve made my decision, Sam,” Vaughn said, rising to his feet.

  Bowers frowned. “Yes, sir. But the safety of the ship—”

  “Is my responsibility,” Vaughn said quietly. “And you’ll do damn well to remember that, Lieutenant.”

  Bashir held his breath. What in the world is going on here?

  Vaughn met the gazes of all three officers and said, “Until further notice, restoring the drone is the Defiant’ s top priority. All other mission directives are suspended. Security is to be maintained, both for the protection of the ship and in order to keep this from as many of the crew as possible. Am I understood?”

  Not quite all at once, Bashir, Bowers, and Nog responded with �
��Aye, sir.”

  “Doctor,” Vaughn went on, “You’ll find the drone’s medical records in a subsection of Ensign Tenmei’s medical file.”

  Bashir understood then, his eyes widening. “I see…. Thank you, Commander. We’ll begin work at once.”

  “Keep me posted,” Vaughn said. He contacted the Defiant and ordered Ezri to beam him up.

  After he dematerialized, Bashir went back to the alcove, Nog and Bowers following close behind. “What was all that about?” Nog said almost immediately.

  Bowers shook his head. “I’ve never seen him like this. Ever since he found out about the transponder signal, he’s acted as if nothing else matters.”

  “And why would the drone’s medical records be in Prynn’s file?” Nog asked.

  Arriving at the alcove once again, Bashir looked into the still, pale face of the drone with a new understanding of what was driving Vaughn’s decisions. The knowledge made Julian feel as if he’s just beamed directly into the middle of a mine field. All he could do now was hope that when one of them finally went off, as he felt certain it must, the damage could be kept to a minimum.

  “Because, apparently,” he said in answer to Nog’s question, “this poor woman is Commander Ruriko Tenmei. Prynn’s mother.”

  8

  Ro flexed her fingers on the grip of her phaser as she surveyed the room. Seven duty personnel at stations, plus Akaar and Lenaris in the pit. This would go a lot easier if I’d been able to lock those two in the station commander’s office when I implemented the security override. Nothing’s ever easy….

  Ro tapped her combadge. “Taran’atar.”

  “Here.”

  “I’m in ops. Raise shields.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “Lieutenant,” Lenaris began. “You’d better have a damn good explanation for this.”

  Ro ignored him and scanned the ceiling with her eyes. Four dual-support pylons radiated from a central hub suspended over the situation table, obscuring her view of the ceiling above. I don’t spend enough time up here, she thought. I never really noticed the ceiling before. This is gonna be tricky….

  “Have the room cleared, General,” Ro said.

  “I don’t take orders from you, Lieutenant,” Lenaris said dangerously. “Relinquish control of the station and restore power to ops immediately.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you might try to stop me.”

  “Stop you from what?” Lenaris asked. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to capture Minister Shakaar’s assassin,” Ro said, marching past the station commander’s officer as she sought a better view of the ceiling. “He’s right above your heads.”

  Everyone’s eyes went up. The ceiling, of course, seemed peaceful.

  “For your own safety, clear the room,” Ro warned again. “Now. This is going to get very messy very quickly.”

  “Lieutenant Costello!” Akaar’s voice boomed. “Place Lieutenant Ro under arrest.”

  You predictable son of a—

  “Belay that,” Lenaris said suddenly. “Stand down, Lieutenant Costello. All personnel, evacuate the operations center.”

  “General, what are you doing?” Akaar said.

  Ro looked at Lenaris. The general was facing Akaar squarely, refusing to be intimidated by the admiral’s superior height. “I’m giving the station’s chief of security a little latitude, Admiral,” he said evenly. “Unless you intend to challenge my authority as acting commander of Deep Space 9?”

  Akaar said nothing, but Ro could imagine his teeth clenching. He might really believe she was untrustworthy, insubordinate, and criminally reckless, but he was still wise enough not to make the situation worse with a power grab over her.

  Finally Akaar turned to the ops crew, who stood frozen at their stations. “Well? You heard the general. Clear the room.”

  As the officers and crew exited in the turbolifts, Akaar turned back to Lenaris, who clearly intended to remain behind. “I am staying as well,” the admiral said, his tone making it clear that nothing, not even if Bajor announced it was joining the Dominion, would change that.

  “Suit yourselves,” Ro muttered. She finally found a clear line of sight that afforded her a decent degree of cover: the column next to the operations station. She slapped her combadge again. “Taran’atar, I’m in position. Can you verify the target?”

  A moment of silence, then, “Negative. Security sensors still do not register the presence of a life-form beneath the array.”

  “I’m running the risk of blowing a hole in ops big enough to send the station spinning out of the system! I need verification!”

  “I have none to give. You will have to trust your instincts,” Taran’atar said. “Or make a leap of faith.”

  Ro shook her head, muttering, “You and I are gonna have to have a long talk when all this is over.” She quickly adjusted the setting on her phaser. “Gentlemen, if I were you,” she said to Lenaris and Akaar, who were still in the pit, “I’d find some place else to stand.”

  As the admiral and the general took positions roughly equidistant from Ro along the uppermost level of ops, Ro raised her arm, pointed her phaser directly at the central ceiling plates and fired. Something flared—maybe a circuit bank or a power conduit—and Ro held her breath, waiting for the pull of escaping air that signaled a hull breach. But nothing was blown out into space. Instead, metal plating and subspace tranceiver components showered ops. Crashes and sparking equipment resounded through the chamber, some of the debris bouncing off the ceiling pylons and spinning in new directions. Akaar, the biggest humanoid in the room, had to dive and roll to one side to avoid being hit by shrapnel.

  Silence fell. Smoke wafted from the opening Ro had made, and she strained to see through it. Gradually it thinned. Blackened machinery and the intact outer hull of the station was all she saw.

  No…

  She searched the transceiver compartment and the overhanging pylons with her eyes. There was nothing, no sign that a humanoid had ever been up there. “Do you see anything?” she called to Lenaris, standing by the transporter stage. The general shook his head.

  “Lieutenant,” Taran’atar said through her combadge. “What happened?”

  Ro couldn’t speak. She stood openmouthed, staring at the ceiling, unable to believe how completely wrong she’d been. Again…

  “Akaar to security,” the admiral growled, picking himself up off the deck. “Send a team to ops immediately.”

  Still staring at the damage she’d done, Ro let her phaser drop to the deck. There was a crash—

  Something smashed into the situation table, shattering the surface and leaving a large depression. The impact made Ro flinch, and for a moment she thought one of the pylons had given way. But there was nothing there. It was as if the table had simply caved in on itself.

  Or something invisible had struck it…

  Ro retrieved her phaser and advanced toward the pit, stopping short when she was halfway down the steps, unwilling to believe her eyes.

  Something flickered atop the shattered situation table. Then whatever mechanism had been in operation finally gave out, and Ro found herself staring at the unmoving form of a humanoid, covered completely in a loose-fitting red environmental suit.

  Ro trained her phaser on the figure as she looked up at Akaar. “Well, this just got a little more complicated, didn’t it, Admiral?” she asked.

  Lenaris looked at Akaar, who was staring intently at the figure splayed over the situation table as he made his way toward the pit.

  “What is it?” Lenaris asked. “Is it Gard?”

  “Oh, it’s him,” Ro confirmed, looking at the unconscious face through the suit’s visor. “But what’s really interesting is his choice in attire.” She gestured with her weapon at the red garment. “This, General, is an isolation suit. It provides the wearer limited life support and generates a very localized cloaking field, small enough to hide a man. The p
roblem here is that Gard could only obtain such a suit from the manufacturer.”

  “Who?” Lenaris asked.

  Akaar bent over to study Gard’s prostrate form more closely. “The Federation.”

  9

  This will work, Vaughn told himself. It has to.

  He stood in the center of the medical bay, watching Bashir and his assistants begin the slow, complex task of disengaging sections of Borg technology from Ruriko’s body. Nog had solved the problem of separating her from the regeneration alcove by connecting it to a second, portable energy supply. After that, it was simply a matter of beaming Ruriko, alcove and all, directly to Defiant’ s medical bay. Nog continued to monitor his makeshift generator, which provided Ruriko with uninterrupted life support while Bashir and his med-techs, Richter and Juarez, went to work. Ruriko had yet to open her eyes.

  Bowers stood by with phaser in hand, prepared to take action if the circumstances warranted it. Sam had remained unhappy about beaming Ruriko on board, and with good reason. Vaughn was taking a huge gamble.

  From the moment Vaughn recognized Ruriko’s transponder signal, he dreaded making the choice he’d faced inside the wreckage of the Valkyrie. Until he’d actually set eyes on her, he’d manged to convince himself he had the luxury of time. But really, he never doubted for an instant that Ruriko was alive; special ops transponders were wetwired into the nervous systems of their operatives. They self-destructed immediately upon brain death. For Ruriko’s to be working seven years after she’d been lost could only mean one thing: she’d survived.

  That Ruriko had succeeded in neutralizing Veruda’s A.I. before it interfaced with the Borg had never been in question, nor what the outcome would be. She and Vaughn had both understood the necessity of his order to take the Valkyrie and pursue the Borg ship, just as they’d both known that the mission would cost Ruriko her life.

  But she beat the odds. She made it off the Borg ship and back onto the Valkyrie. What neither of them had counted on was the Borg’s apparent success in assimilating Valkyrie, and all hands aboard her.