by David Mack
The fleet admiral delegated his reply to Admiral Alynna Nechayev with a single glance. The aquiline-featured woman, who had earned the respect and fear of most everyone in Starfleet, turned her withering glower toward Sarai. “Commander, that was a lot of words to express the thought, ‘I have no concrete evidence to support my theory.’ Perhaps you should withdraw your report and concentrate on the assignments given to you, rather than inventing your own.”
Headstrong but not career-suicidal, Sarai backed down. “Understood, Admiral.”
Akaar took a last gander around the room. “Anything else?” No one spoke. “I’ll see department heads at nineteen hundred. We’re adjourned.” He pushed back from the table and made a fast exit, with Batanides and Nechayev close behind him.
Sarai turned off her padd and vowed this was the last time she would be ignored and humiliated. If Admiral Akaar won’t listen to me, I’ll find someone who will.
Thirteen
It had been years since Bashir had stayed awake so long without pharmaceutical assistance that he’d started to suffer double vision. The most recent instance that he recalled had occurred in the Dominion War, during the siege of AR-558, when, in the face of an imminent Jem’Hadar attack, the luxury of sleep had come to seem tantamount to suicide. Before that, the last time he could remember had been during his final year of training at Starfleet Medical School, balancing the demands of full-time classes with his residency and the rigors of basic training for officers.
Which explains why I just knocked espresso all over the countertop. He set down his mug on the nearby table and chastised himself in softly spoken curses as he found a spare cloth with which to wipe up his spill. I’d forgotten how easy it is to lose track of time, working on something as immersive as this. He sopped up the last traces of the java puddle, wrung out the cloth in the commissary’s sink, and then draped the rag over the faucet to dry.
He poured enough cream into his drink to turn it a pale shade of beige, then added a shot of simple syrup to make it go down just that much easier. His first long sip restored only the slightest fraction of his clarity; he hoped the rest of the beverage would prove more restorative. Mug in hand, he plodded out of the commissary and down the wing’s main corridor to meet with his colleagues, each of whom had spent most of the last twenty-four hours sequestered in separate rooms, tasked with investigating specific aspects of the Meta-Genome and how its encoded information could be applied to reversing the decline in Andorian fertility.
The others were waiting for him in the main conference room. He saluted them with his mug. “Hello, again. I’ve made a few discoveries since last we spoke; I hope all of you have progress to report, as well. Would one of you like to start? Or shall I?”
Pulaski and Lense both tried to deflect Bashir’s invitation with glances at each other, only to both wind up gazing blankly into space, wide-eyed with fatigue. A shrug from Lemdock led Tovak to cross his arms and suggest to Bashir, “Perhaps you should start us off, Doctor.”
“Very well.” Bashir used the interface beside the wall-mounted display screen to access the work he’d saved to the computer core aboard the Tiber, which was serving as the group’s shared computer. A slideshow of images—some static, some moving—played across the screen. “As you can see from these animated simulations, I’ve isolated the segments of the Andorian ova that Professor zh’Thiin and her team have identified as having suffered harmful mutations over the past five hundred generations. The Andorians’ research identified a few sequences in the Meta-Genome that appeared promising in reversing the damage to the ova, but all of the combinations they’ve tried so far have rendered the ova either sterile or incompatible with other Andorian cells.” He halted the presentation playback on a split screen that showed two different flow charts. “This suggests there are two ways to address this issue. The first is to seek out a sequence that enables us to restore the ova to a stable form while preserving its compatibility with existing Andorian genotypes. The second is to focus on developing the most stable and robust form of ova possible with sequences spliced from the Meta-Genome, and to then re-engineer the fertilizing cells of the thaan and chan genotypes, as well as the placental chemistry of the Andorian zhen, to render them compatible with this new genetic morphology.” He turned to face the others. “Thoughts? Anyone?”
Pulaski eyed the screen with guarded optimism. “I have to admit, it sounds extremely promising. I suspect the Andorians would prefer your first approach to the material—fitting the Meta-Genome to them, rather than reshaping them to fit it.”
“I think you’re right about that, though it might not be the most successful approach.”
Lense adopted a more dubious stance. “Politics aside, I think that the more we tamper with the Andorian genome, the greater the risk that we’ll end up destroying it in order to save it. If the goal is to come up with a solution the Andorian people will actually accept, I’d suggest approaching it with an eye toward minimizing the alterations to their core biology.”
Bashir affirmed her suggestion with a nod. “Yes, that’s reasonable. However, that’s the method zh’Thiin and her team have been pursuing for years, with no success. I don’t want to rule out any avenue of discovery on the basis of politics, ideology, or emotion. We need to focus on what will work, regardless of how popular, or infamous, it might ultimately prove to be.”
“A noble sentiment,” Tovak replied. “If logic were the only criterion on which our work would be judged, I would agree without reservation. However, your colleagues raise valid points. If we propose a solution that would alter the Andorian people so profoundly at the genetic level that they might no longer be able to claim true kinship with their immediate ancestors, then it would be difficult to imagine them embracing such a cure, even in the face of extinction.”
“I admit it’s a radical idea, but right now we can’t afford to rule anything out. But your points are all well-taken. We’ll postpone exploring that option until we’ve exhausted all the less-invasive approaches to retroviral resequencing.” Shifting the group’s focus by turning himself squarely toward Pulaski, he changed the topic. “What findings can you report, Doctor?”
The elderly human woman stood. “I’m glad you asked. Though I’ve not yet isolated any sequences specific to the Andorian reproductive problem, I saw that the Meta-Genome contains several sequences that could point to new anti-aging therapies. One sequence in particular seems designed to rebuild other genes’ telomeres, thereby prolonging vitality and postponing cellular senescence. I also have reason to believe there is a variant of this sequence that serves to restore the telomeres on the first sequence, which means the two would be mutually restorative. If I can isolate that second sequence, it might be possible to develop a vaccine against aging—in effect, a recipe for permanent biological youth without decay. Immortality.”
Bashir’s jaw slackened. He forced himself back into a semblance of composure. “That’s a most impressive discovery, Doctor. But how does it help us deal with the Andorian crisis?”
“Well, it doesn’t—not directly. But as I’m sure you know, research sometimes takes us in unexpected directions, and those can—”
“Doctor,” Bashir cut in. “I’m not belittling your discovery. But we’ve gathered for a specific purpose. As promising as this new lead might be, I must ask you to postpone its exploration for another time. Do I make myself clear?” He noted Pulaski’s embarrassed nod and took it as his cue to continue. “Very well. I would be most grateful if you could begin analyzing the J chromosomes in the fertilizing cells of the thaan genotype and see if any sequences in the Meta-Genome can restabilize them without compromising their compatibility with the repaired shen ova.” He turned to Doctor Tovak, who met his inquiry with cool reserve. “Doctor? Did your investigation yield any actionable data?”
The Vulcan activated his own presentation on the conference room’s viewscreen. “Indeed. As you will no doubt see here, the Meta-Genome sequence labeled Aleph-Tau-B
eta-Nine-Nine-Three-Eight-Sigma is an extremely versatile and opportunistic bit of genetic material. It bonds well with a number of receptors, and in most cases it enhances and strengthens those cells with which it fuses. It is most compatible with synaptic tissue, but it also has proved capable of mimicking and replacing memory engrams, a variety of ganglionic fibers, and several types of working tissues in the deep brain. Of note is its restorative quality with regard to damaged—”
Bashir lifted his hand to interrupt. “How does brain tissue regeneration relate to our work on the Andorian—”
“Not at all,” Tovak said, anticipating the end of Bashir’s question. “However, as my primary area of medical specialty is in the treatment of cognitive, mnemonic, and sensory issues related to neurobiology and neurochemistry, the sections of the Meta-Genome that I recognized first were those relevant to my expertise.” He switched to another, mostly blank slide in his presentation. “I made an effort to apply my findings to the fertilization cells contributed by the chan genotype, but as of yet I have made no progress in that area.”
Bashir grew annoyed, but not enough to engage a Vulcan in debate. He buried his bad mood and turned to face Doctor Lense. “Please tell me you have something relevant to report.”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“There’s an amazing chimeric sequence in the Meta-Genome that I think could be the key to a truly universal pan-immunity vaccine. And by universal, I mean a single vaccine that could render any individual of any species, carbon-based or otherwise, immune to any external organic pathogen, without risk of a self-destructive autoimmune response. If I could have a few more weeks to analyze the full Meta-Genome, I could—”
“—completely derail this entire project and condemn the Andorian species to extinction.” An angry sound, a cross between a sigh and a grumble, rolled deep inside Bashir’s throat. “Did any of you pay even the least bit of attention to my request?”
Doctor Lemdock raised one webbed manus. “I did, Doctor.”
Bashir was not ready to get his hopes up. Not without evidence. “Prove it.”
Exhaling a vaporous plume, the Benzite reached over to the table and activated his own report on the room’s viewscreen. “I focused my studies on the placental chemistry of the Andorian zhen. Because the zhen is the only Andorian gender that contributes no genetic material to the reproductive process, I speculated that Andorian biology evolved to make the genome of the zhen as universal as possible. Existing data supports this hypothesis.” He switched to a screen showing side-by-side comparisons of Andorian cells. “Of the four genders, the zhen is the least likely to suffer from autoimmune disorders or allergies. They also are the most likely to successfully receive transplanted tissues and organs, and transfused blood. The reason for this is their blood chemistry is the same species-wide, regardless of parentage. It is antigen-free, and their immune systems are programmed to accept all Andorian genetic material as friendly.” The Benzite updated the image on the screen to show damaged cells. “I concur with Professor zh’Thiin’s hypothesis that one of the root causes of her people’s fertility crisis is overactive immune-system responses that have inflicted genetic damage in utero. Based on these findings, I would suggest one tactic we might wish to explore would be to re-engineer the immune systems of the other three Andorian genotypes to match that of the zhen.”
Lense shook her head. “No, that’d be a disaster. The zhen have a better record for transplants and transfusions, but their infection rates are also much higher. Take away the other genders’ strong immune systems, and you could be looking at a species-wide die-off caused by viruses and bacteria instead of declining fertility.”
All at once, Bashir saw his peers’ research detours in a new light. “Hang on—could you tailor your hypothetical pan-immunity vaccine to be part of an antigen-resequencing therapy?”
The idea took root behind Lense’s wide-open eyes. “Yes. . . . Yes! We could put all four Andorian genders on equal footing while removing one of the root causes of their long-term genetic damage, which would prevent the syndrome from recurring in the future.”
“Something else to consider,” Pulaski interjected. “The telomere-repairing genes I’ve isolated could be repurposed to make the Andorian genome self-repairing.”
“Excellent. Now we’re getting somewhere. Why don’t we all take six hours to get some rest, and then we’ll reconvene to discuss our next steps.”
Tovak nodded his approval. “A sensible idea.”
Lemdock waved one webbed hand at Bashir. “I have a question, Doctor. I do hope you’ll forgive me, as I probably should have asked before we began our research, but . . . whose name will appear first on the paper when we publish our findings?”
As if they were all marionettes controlled by the same master, Bashir, Lense, Pulaski, and Tovak each raised one eyebrow as they regarded Lemdock with skeptical derision.
“You know we can’t publish our results,” Bashir said. “Our best-case scenario is that we find the cure, deliver it to the Andorians before anyone knows we’ve been working on it, let them claim they developed it on their own, and hope no one finds out it came from us.”
The Benzite shrank with disappointment. “So no one will ever know it was us.”
“Not unless we get caught,” Lense grumped.
Her moment of snark gave Lemdock back his optimism. “Then there is hope!” He hurried toward the door and paused at its threshold to look back at the others. “See you all in six hours!” Then he was out the door, on his way back to his guest room in the northwest wing.
Lense stood beside Bashir and stared daggers at the departing Benzite. Her voice was low and bitter. “He’s gonna get us all thrown in the stockade, isn’t he?”
“If we’re lucky.”
That drew a worried glance from Pulaski. “And if we’re not?”
Bashir pondered the true worst-case scenario—the nightmare that would descend upon them if Section 31 decided their work had become a danger to the Federation. He sighed.
“Trust me. You don’t even want to know.”
• • •
Day and night had come and gone, marching in their endless cycle while Jyri Sarpantha cowered under camouflage in the Bestri Woods. Several hours had passed since she had succeeded in making a long-range visual observation of a meeting between Bashir and his fellow physicians. She had made sure to document all she could about their work; there had been images of molecules, cells, and complicated chemical formulas. None of it had meant much to Sarpantha, but she knew her superiors would want as much raw intelligence as possible for analysis.
Nothing to do now but lurk in the dark, she brooded.
Sleep had proved elusive. It was impossible to get comfortable on the rocky ground, but even if she found the softest spot on the forest floor, it would make little difference. Her training had taught her to remain alert while on deployment; losing focus could be fatal during a forward recon assignment. Not only did she need to remain aware of all activity by her targets, she had to be watchful for any sign that she had been detected by counterintelligence agents.
There was also the very real danger posed by natural predators. Bajor was home to massive feline and canine species, either one of which was more than capable of rending an unwary humanoid into tartare within seconds. In a forest shrouded in moonless darkness, every snapping twig or rustled leaf jolted Sarpantha back to full alertness.
All the doctors still appeared to be in their guest suites, sleeping after a marathon session of work. Maybe I should eat something, before the sun comes up and they all start moving again. She didn’t need to open her pack to know what she had left. There were a few compact meals, dried and vacuum-packed; some dehydrated fruit; a few single-serving tubes of water that she could consume and discard, in order to avoid having her stealth profile compromised by half-full canteens or a too-full bladder; and a can of raktajino.
Sarpantha was still debating which field ration to te
ar open when her comm vibrated against her hip. She checked the device. The message on its screen was terse and unambiguous: TERMINATE CONFERENCE AND ALL PARTICIPANTS IMMEDIATELY, WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE.
So much for dinner.
The slender Silwaan-in-disguise tucked away the comm and opened her pack’s munitions pouch. She pulled out a brick of high-yield soft explosive with a molecular fuse. A quick check confirmed the detonator was functional; she set it to standby mode. Then she poked her head up from cover and surveyed the ground between her position and the conference center.
It was heavily wooded, mostly level terrain. There were a few gulches and dry creek beds that would be hard to see in the dark, but she had learned their locations on her numerous trips around the building, so she wasn’t concerned about falling into them; they would pose more danger to her pursuers than to her. Luckily, I don’t need to reach the center—just the runabout.
The small Starfleet ship sat beside other, smaller spacecraft in the wide clearing that flanked the conference center. As the vessel with the largest warp drive and antideuterium fuel payload, it offered the potential for the most devastating explosion. The dangerous part of planting the bomb for maximum effect was that she would need to place it directly adjacent to the antideuterium tanks, which were located on the top of the spacecraft, near its aft bulkhead.
Her only other concern would be triggering the conference center’s intruder alert once she entered its sensor perimeter. She had a biometric scrambler that could mask her life signs and fool the security system into thinking she was a large forest animal, but that ruse would work only so long as she wasn’t seen. I’ll have to reach the runabout, plant the bomb, and get back to cover before any of the doctors thinks to look out a window and check on their ships.
