Star Trek: The Fall: A Ceremony of Losses

by David Mack

  Less than three meters around the turn was the edge of another fall. As the kayak shot out into open air, Tenmei leaned back to raise the craft’s front end—a technique known in the sport as “boofing,” an onomatopoeic term derived from the sound kayaks in such postures made when landing in the churning surf beneath the fall. Her boat did not disappoint her; it made a deep and satisfying splash as it landed, and she executed a fast forward sweep to navigate the next turn, which led to a wider and less steep channel through the canyons.

  Despite the shallower grade, her kayak maintained a swift forward momentum thanks to the simulation’s faithful depiction of Izar’s slightly heavier-than-Earth gravity. She was grateful for the extra speed, because her experiences on the real Kingman Rapids had taught her what to expect in deep, slower water such as this. Drawing a deep breath to slow her staccato pulse and calm her pounding heart, she remembered why the blades on Izar paddles were made of a supple but extremely resilient titanium alloy and sharpened like katanas.

  On her left, a serpentine shape lunged from the dark water. Tenmei swung her paddle even as she leaned backward farther than she would have believed possible. One of her paddle blades cut a fearsome gash through the aquatic predator’s neck, and her return stroke severed the beast’s head with the paddle’s other blade.

  Two more heads shot up from the water on her right. Her wild slash at the closer monster missed but was enough to make the creature duck back beneath the surface. The other snapped forward like a cobra, its dull yellow fangs bared and open wide enough to engulf Tenmei’s head. There was no time to position her paddle for another swing, so she thrust the nearest blade upward, into the mouth of the river snake—a kajiano, as the locals called it.

  Its jaws clamped around the end of her paddle, and as the current towed Tenmei and her boat downstream, the kajiano did all it could to anchor them in the shallows. Fearing she might be pulled from the kayak, or that more of the creatures might swarm to feast on what they would perceive as trapped prey, she twisted the paddle’s handle, turning the sharpened blades inside the beast’s mouth like a drill bit.

  Fangs snapped and blood sprayed, and the kajiano’s mouth stretched open as it brayed a deafening screech of pain that echoed through the canyons. Her paddle free, Tenmei let the river carry her away from the wounded creature, whose copious bleeding would in a matter of moments make it the focus of its companions’ hunger.

  She guided her boat around another bend, down another wild stretch of hair-thin rapids, and past a formation of rocks that signaled she had reached one of the program’s major checkpoints. Her muscles ached in a satisfying way, a pain that had been earned and would soon fade, leaving her that much leaner, that much tougher, that much stronger. Paddling in smooth, slow strokes, she guided her craft ashore and pulled herself out, one leg at a time.

  Because she had rented this holosuite for seventy-two consecutive hours, she had come prepared for a full weekend of solo recreation, far away from the day-to-day responsibilities of her post as the Defiant’s senior flight controller and second officer. She had nowhere to be and no agenda inside the simulation other than to follow the Kingman River all the way to the open water of the Kadri Sea. The only equipment she had brought into the holosuite was her wetsuit; the rest of the experience, including her kayak, her paddle, and the fish she was catching from the river, were all being either simulated or replicated—and, in the case of her fresh-fish dinner, both. The live fish she would catch would be simulations; at some point between when she caught and cleaned the holographic fish—whose guts felt and smelled more than real enough for her enjoyment—and when she finally took its cooked flesh from her frying pan, the holosuite would replace the illusory fish with a replicated fried-fish dinner.

  Time in these new holosuites isn’t cheap, but it’s worth every credit.

  She unpacked her gear from the beached kayak, set up her fishing line, and was about to head into the surrounding forest to gather dry wood for a fire when she realized that she wasn’t alone in her holoprogram built for one. Lurking out in the trees was a humanoid form, a shadow that appeared to be watching her every move. Not sure what to expect, she dived toward her kayak, somersaulted over the pebble-covered beach, and rolled to her feet with her lethally sharp-bladed paddle in her hands. Facing the intruder, she shouted, “Who’s there?”

  Twigs snapped beneath the feet of the approaching interloper. As the shadow drew closer, Tenmei was able to see that it was a woman, one a bit taller than she and in excellent physical condition. Only as the figure emerged from the trees into the dying light of day did Tenmei recognize her. She lowered her paddle and sighed with relief. “Sarina? What the hell are you doing in my holosuite program?”

  “Sorry. I need to speak with you—privately.” Douglas motioned to some nearby rocks. “We should sit. This is gonna take a while to explain.”

  • • •

  Had anyone ever asked Jyri Sarpantha what was the worst part of being a spy—not that anyone had ever asked, nor was anyone ever likely to do so—she would have told them that it was not the long stretches of time away from the comforts and conveniences of home, or the alienation that came with living as an interloper in a foreign culture, or the paranoia produced by the omnipresent fear of exposure; it was the indignity of being surgically altered.

  Sarpantha had taken pride in her Silwaan heritage. At least, as much as she could, living behind the anonymizing mask and uniform imposed by the Breen Confederacy upon her people, and on countless others, all in the name of equality. In private, she had reveled in her dark caramel complexion, her amber-colored eyes, her luxurious mane of snow-white hair. Her family, friends, lovers, and even a few strangers who’d had the privilege of seeing her unmasked had told her on numerous occasions that she had been, unequivocally, beautiful.

  Then, in the name of duty and country, she had let some butcher with a medical license transform her into the semblance of a Bajoran. Her beautiful ivory locks had been shorn close to her pate and dyed black, and the follicles had been genetically altered to keep her hair that color. Her eyes had been turned a mud brown. And her nose—her elegant, delicate, perfect nose—had been vandalized with grotesque ridges over its bridge, with subtle lines that radiated into her fine snowy eyebrows—which also had been dyed black. The surgeons had even changed her fingerprints, “to match patterns consistent with Bajoran ancestry,” and they had altered her voice and retinal patterns. Even my own mother wouldn’t recognize me now, she lamented.

  This was the cost of victory. This was the price she had pledged to pay.

  Night fell as she crept through the Bestri Woods, following the prompts on her scanning device. The leads from her handler indicated that a handful of prominent Federation and Starfleet medical experts were convening in an unpublicized conference on Bajor. Though the official invitations had been intercepted and suggested nothing of import, the guest list implied otherwise: five of the quadrant’s most accomplished experts in genomic medicine. The Breen Intelligence Directorate had decided that it was of vital importance that Sarpantha learn the true nature of the topic that had brought those minds together.

  Sarpantha was half a kilometer from the Bement Center when a silent alert vibrated the scanner in her hand, and she stopped. The device had detected several overlapping, high-energy fields surrounding the secluded conference center where the doctors had gathered. It was encircled by an intruder-detection grid, and just inside that was a scrambling field that prevented her from gathering intelligence about the interior or occupants of the enormous building.

  The Breen spy hunkered down behind a fallen tree that rested at an angle, with one end elevated where it met its ragged stump. She shrugged off her backpack and took out the components for a sniper rifle. As she assembled the compact magnetic-coil projectile weapon, the evening song of the forest became deafening. Buzzing and droning insects, whooping birds, howling mammals, croaking amphibians—they all were in competition to be the most distr
acting noise in the world. Tune them out, she told herself. Focus on the mission. Obey your training.

  In less than a minute she had assembled the rifle and activated its holographic scope. Because it operated strictly on enhanced optics, it would not be affected by the center’s scrambling fields. It was Sarpantha’s best chance of reconnoitering the doctors’ activities from a distance without being detected. Lying prone in a gap beneath the fallen tree and its trunk, she trained her rifle’s scope on the Bement Center and methodically surveyed its windows.

  All of them were dark and curtained, though there were signs of light and activity on the far side of the X-shaped structure, in the wing opposite the one Sarpantha had approached. It would take time to circle around the center’s wide defensive perimeter to scout its other sections, but since there was clearly nothing worth observing from this vantage point, she saw no better alternative. Moving with precision and care, she packed up her rifle, cinched shut her backpack, and stole away into the deepening shadows to find a more favorable angle.

  Sooner or later she would get a clear line of sight to whatever was happening inside the rustic forest retreat. Only then would she know whether this mission was as vital as her superiors had insisted, or, as she suspected, a complete waste of time.

  • • •

  “In summary, I’m asking you to join me in risking prosecution, incarceration, and the premature end of our medical careers, for a chance to solve the most dire medical crisis of our time.”

  Bashir searched the faces of his guests to gauge their reactions, but no one was looking at him. Their attention was unanimously glued to the holographic display of the Meta-Genome that he had projected above the conference table at the beginning of his spiel. Tovak’s face was a classic Vulcan cipher, while Lemdock was wide-eyed, like a child admiring a new toy. Pulaski stood in awe of the slowly turning double helix, but Lense’s reaction surprised Bashir: her face was pallid with fear, as if the projection might come to life and kill them all.

  He stepped in front of the projection, in the hope that he might recapture the group’s focus. “Are there any questions? Comments?”

  Lense continued to gape at the projection. “Is that what I think it is?”

  He had avoided calling the Meta-Genome by name during his presentation, to preserve his guests’ plausible deniability. “It might be best if we refer to it as simply, ‘the Pattern.’ ”

  His verbal evasion earned him a scathing look from Pulaski. “Oh, come now, Doctor. We all keep up with current events, and we all know what we’re looking at. That’s the Shedai Meta-Genome. The more pressing question is, how did you get your hands on it?”

  “How I acquired it is irrelevant. Regardless of its source, the mere fact that I possess it means I can be convicted of espionage and treason. Now, that’s a chance I’m willing to take to save the Andorian people. But I can’t do this alone, not in the limited time I’ll have before someone learns the real reason for this conference. So I’m asking all of you for your help.”

  Tovak steepled his fingers and pressed his hands against his chest as he considered the matter. When he spoke, his voice was as dry as Vulcan’s deserts, and his tone conveyed neither condemnation nor approval. “What will you do if one or more of us refuses your request?”

  It was a fair question, and Bashir had resolved to answer it honestly when it came up. “If any of you is unable or unwilling to be part of this, for whatever reason, I’ll respect that. You’ll be free to leave—and for your own protection, I’ll advise you to report this meeting as soon as possible to Starfleet and the Federation Security Agency. I’d also advise the rest of you to do the same, and to make any legal arrangements necessary to immunize yourselves from prosecution.”

  Lense’s suspicion turned to concern. “You want us to throw you to the wolves?”

  “I’d prefer it didn’t come to that, but if this benign conspiracy of ours is doomed to die aborning, it seems unfair that any of you should suffer for a crime that so far is mine alone.”

  Lemdock tore himself away from the Meta-Genome projection and looked at Bashir. “Doctor, in your professional opinion, how likely is it that we could find a solution to a syndrome as complex as the Andorian fertility crisis before this conference disbands?”

  “I don’t know that I’d use the term likely. But I think it’s highly possible.”

  Pulaski’s doubt grew more pronounced. “Based on what evidence?”

  Bashir entered commands on a padd to replace the Meta-Genome model with a new three-dimensional projection of modified strands of Andorian DNA. “This is the latest work from Professor zh’Thiin and her team on Andor. For the past three years, they’ve been splicing isolated fragments of the Meta-Genome data into the mutated segments of their DNA that are believed to be interfering with successful fertilizations and embryo transfers.” He pointed out a number of chromosomes that had been rebuilt with new, synthetic proteins. “As you can see, they’ve made tremendous progress . . . but not enough. They believe that someone involved in the relay of the Meta-Genome data—either in their own government, or in the Tholian Assembly—is withholding critical strings of data, most likely for political purposes. Since the only other source of a near-complete copy of the Meta-Genome is the Starfleet Archives, Professor zh’Thiin and her team sent us a secret request for help.”

  The Vulcan physician leaned close to the projection and eyed its intricate details. “Fascinating. They have completely redesigned the protein structure of a thaan’s gamete. And if I am not mistaken, several key sequences in this shen’s alleles have been altered, as have the telomeres in the chan’s fertilizing cells.” He straightened and faced the group. “One can see why opinion regarding this treatment is divided among the Andorians. Professor zh’Thiin and her peers are proposing significant revisions to the Andorian genome.” He lifted one eyebrow. “Andorians who undergo changes so radical might become, in effect, a new species, as different from their forebears as primitive hominids are from their modern descendants.”

  “True,” Pulaski replied, “but at least they won’t be extinct.”

  “Assuming they survive the treatment,” Lense said. “Changes on this large a scale give rise to all kinds of cellular replication errors. This ‘cure’ could be the thing that wipes them out.”

  “Which is why it’s vital that they have as much information at their disposal as possible,” Bashir said. “But since we can’t just send them the Meta-Genome data, it’s up to us to continue their work here—to build on the progress they’ve already made, and finish what they’ve started.”

  Tovak maintained an air of resistance. “You said the primary obstacle to zh’Thiin and her team acquiring this information appears to be political. That would make it an internal issue for the Andorians. Would it not be more prudent to wait and let the matter correct itself?”

  “I’m not sure the Andorians can afford to wait,” Bashir said. “And my former crewmate Thirishar ch’Thane, who now works as Professor zh’Thiin’s research assistant, believes the delays are part of a plan to enhance the power of the Treishya, a faction that’s not just hostile to the Federation, but at risk of aligning Andor with the Typhon Pact.”

  Lense acted as if the whole situation finally made sense. “So this isn’t just about the medical needs of the Andorians. It’s political. We want to find the cure and be the good guys for Andor so that they don’t sign on the dotted line with the Typhon Pact.”

  Though it offended Bashir to have his altruism tainted by realpolitik, he knew there was no point in ducking the truth. “That’s right. It was one of the reasons Shar contacted me. There are a lot of Andorians who are looking for a reason to change their minds about secession, and he thinks this is the issue that can make it happen. But whether we get credit or not, whether this brings Andor back into the Federation or not, this is still the right thing to do.” He turned off the holographic projection and stood tall. “It’s time to decide. Do we help the Andorians?
Or do the four of you walk out of here and call Starfleet to take me into custody?”

  Lemdock lifted his chin and mimicked Bashir’s stance. “If they arrest you, Doctor, they can arrest me, as well.”

  Pulaski smiled. “I’ve always enjoyed a good fight. Count me in, too.”

  Tovak folded his hands together. “Your proposal is sound, Doctor. If criminal culpability and public shame are the price I pay to save a sapient species from imminent extinction, that is a more than equitable outcome. The good of the many must outweigh the good of the few.”

  That left only one voice to be heard, one opinion that would decide all their fates. Bashir shot a hopeful look at his former Starfleet Medical School classmate. “Doctor Lense?”

  She heaved an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes. “I think you’re all crazy. But then, so am I.” With a hint of mischief in her eye, she shook Bashir’s hand. “Let’s get to work.”

  Twelve

  Nothing made the capital feel so dangerous to Shar as knowing he had no friends left in it. Walking alone down darkened lanes, the soft-spoken chan tugged on the cowl of his cloak to hide his face from the city’s network of surveillance cameras, many of which fed their signals to facial-recognition programs running on mainframes at the Ministry of Security.

  It’s insane that I have to hide like a criminal. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve broken no laws. The more he reminded himself of his innocence, the angrier he became. Now that extremists were in control of his homeworld, he had come to feel like an outcast. Andor was turning into a police state; there was no way to be sure who he could trust anymore. Casual acquaintances might betray him to the Treishya simply to curry favor and deflect suspicion from themselves. No one was safe living under the shadow of constant suspicion and scrutiny.

  Were those footsteps behind him? He looked back but saw no one there. That doesn’t mean anything. Two weeks ago I didn’t see the sentinels until they were almost on top of me. He ducked through an open gate into a service passage that dipped below street level as it passed between two decrepit residential buildings. A battalion of rodents feeding on mounds of rotting food scattered in a chittering frenzy as he hurried through the narrow space. Some of the braver ones nipped at his feet and ankles until he kicked them away, never breaking stride.