Star Trek: The Fall: A Ceremony of Losses

by David Mack

  It was approximately four hundred twenty-five meters from her sniper’s blind to the runabout. Over open ground, Sarpantha could sprint that distance in just over a minute, but in thick forest such as this, even with the benefit of her naturally superior night vision, it would take her closer to ninety seconds to reach her target. If the conference center’s sensors were fooled by her biometric spoof-circuit, the alarm might not sound at all; otherwise, it would probably alert the doctors to her approach within ten seconds. Still, they were all asleep, and their first instinct might be to check the center’s security system before seeking a visual confirmation in the dark. By the time any of them got as far as opening a curtain, she could be back beyond the tree line.

  Worth a shot, she decided, shrugging off her backpack.

  Wind kissed her face as she sprinted toward the clearing, the explosive charge gripped in one white-knuckled fist. Trees blurred past, silver lines in the haze of night, and her footfalls crunched and thudded over the hard ground. Sarpantha dashed out onto the broad greensward that encircled the conference center. Around her the night was cool and still. There was no whoop of alarms from the center; its windows all stood dark.

  Moving with grace and silence, she scaled the side of the runabout, using its warp nacelle as a step to its curved pylon. Crouched atop the small vessel, she tucked the explosive into a narrow gap between the two antideuterium pods attached to its dorsal hull. Its magnetic clamp locked it into place with a soft thump. Then she armed its detonator and set its timer for two hours—more than enough time for her to fall back to the exfiltration site and call in to request a prioritized extraction. A final check verified that the timer had started its countdown.

  Her steps were soft as she stole away, down the side of the runabout—and then she froze at the sight of a blond human woman in a Starfleet uniform aiming a phaser at her.

  “Open your hands and raise them over your head. You’re under arrest.”

  Where had she come from? Had she been there all along? Sarpantha had no time to seek answers to those questions, only a moment in which to act. Looking the human in the eye, the Breen field agent made a desperate reach for the detonator’s override switch.

  Then she was blinded by a flash of orange light—from the phaser.

  • • •

  Few things stripped the shine off a new day for Ro Laren like having to referee a jurisdictional dispute between Starfleet and the Bajoran Militia.

  A golden shimmer and a semi-musical wash of sound lingered as the transporter effect faded, revealing the Bement Center, its encircling clearing, and the towering dark majesty of the Bestri Woods that surrounded the site. Shafts of late-morning sunlight angled through the trees, and the warm air was heavy with the fragrance of flowers and the scent of wet earth. The once-secluded redoubt of vedeks seeking inner peace now was swarmed by armed people in uniforms. Members of the Bajoran Militia outnumbered the Starfleet personnel nearly two to one, but the Starfleet teams had come bearing combat weapons and high-tech forensic gear that both were at least a decade more advanced than anything available to the Bajoran troops.

  Starfleet security officers surrounded the Tiber, while inside their protective cordon a forensic investigation unit worked on top of and around the runabout. The militia troops remained at a discreet distance, but they watched the Starfleet teams as if they were invaders.

  Everywhere that Ro looked, the two forces acted like oil and water, moving around each other but never really mixing. Outside the center’s entrance was a tense but hushed confrontation between Lieutenant Commander Douglas and a male Bajoran Militia officer wearing a major’s rank. Their eyes were ablaze with anger, and fingers were being pointed for emphasis.

  I’d better step in before Douglas sparks another secession from the Federation.

  There was no subtle way to separate the arguing duo. Ro shouldered her way between them, favoring neither and forcing them to step apart to let her in. “What’s the problem?”

  “Your deputy chief of security is interfering in my investigation.”

  Douglas looked ready to rip out the man’s jugular. “This site is under Starfleet authority.”

  “Your authority ends where Bajor’s atmosphere begins.”

  Ro spread her arms to force the pair even farther apart. “Enough! First of all, who am I speaking to, Major . . . ?”

  “Honn,” the officer said. “Major Honn Kero, adjutant commander, Rakantha Province.”

  “All right, Major Honn. I signed the orders authorizing this conference, and I have orders from your superiors, including the First Minister, loaning us the center and its grounds.”

  “I’m aware of that, Captain.”

  “Then you should also be aware that the agreement cedes authority for securing the site to Starfleet. Did you miss that part of the briefing?”

  “No, sir. But we have reports that a Breen spy was apprehended on Bajoran soil. That makes this a matter for the Bajoran Militia.”

  Douglas had the taut quality of a coiled spring. “The hell it does. Captain, that spy didn’t come here looking to steal Bajor’s recipe for perfect hasperat. She was sent here to kill five of the Federation’s most accomplished medical scientists. This was a military operation, and it deserves a military response.” Stepping forward to challenge Honn, she added, “And since I was the one who caught her, I plan on being the first one to interrogate her.”

  The situation was not cooling as quickly as Ro had hoped. “Where’s the spy now?”

  “On a shuttle,” Douglas said. “Being taken to Deep Space Nine under armed guard.”

  “Understood, Commander. I’ll see you inside.” She staved off Douglas’s protest with a sharp look, and the human woman withdrew to the conference center while Ro faced off with Honn. “We’re both soldiers, so let’s cut the crap. You’re not getting the Breen spy. You could ask Bajor’s delegate to the Federation Council to file an extradition request, but I think you’d have better luck gambling your life’s savings in Quark’s Bar. Do yourself a favor and go home.”

  Honn stewed in his resentment but kept his mouth shut as Ro followed Douglas inside the conference center. As she entered the building, a wash of cool air greeted her. The deputy chief of security stood in the foyer, awaiting her next order. Ro gave it to her. “Take me to Bashir.”

  “This way, Captain.” Douglas led her down one long corridor of the X-shaped conference center, past meeting rooms littered with dirty plates, half-filled glasses, and stacks of padds. The chaotic clutter reminded Ro of the cadet lounges at Starfleet Academy during exams weeks.

  Slumped in a chair in a long meeting room at the end of the corridor, Bashir looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, and his general aura of musky funk suggested it had been at least a couple of days since he had showered. The subtle strands of gray in his tousled black hair were made more obvious by its greasy sheen, and his uniform echoed his disheveled state. He welcomed Ro with a weary lifting of his head. “Good morning, Captain.”

  Ro looked over her shoulder at Douglas. “Give us the room.” The security officer slipped out, and the door closed. Staring at Bashir made Ro so furious that her voice became at once hard but quiet, a knife-edged whisper. “What are you really working on down here, Doctor?”

  “As my sabbatical request said, a new therapeutic regimen—”

  “Stop lying to me. I’m not stupid. The Typhon Pact might’ve sent a spy to see what you and your friends were up to, but if it had no strategic importance, they wouldn’t have tried to vaporize half of Rakantha Province to put a stop to it.” She leaned forward and planted her hands on the arms of Bashir’s chair, trapping him. “You’re up to something. Something huge. And if it’s this important, I need to know about it.”

  A pained grimace. “I don’t think that would benefit either of us.”

  Her nose was barely a hair away from his. “Let me be the judge of that. I’m giving you a direct order: Tell me what you and your conference guests are workin
g on.”

  “We’re trying to rescue the people of Andor from extinction.”

  “And why can’t you do that on the station?”

  He sighed. “Because it involves applying classified information that Starfleet and the Federation government have, in their infinite wisdom, declared forbidden. Information, I might add, that our rivals the Tholians have been all too eager to share with the Andorians.”

  Memories of classified reports and security briefings came back to Ro, and she stepped back as the magnitude of Bashir’s latest misadventure became clear to her. “Tell me you haven’t been working with the . . . I’m sorry, what was it called?”

  “The Meta-Genome.”

  “Right. Tell me you—”

  “We have. And we’re making incredible progress.”

  She covered her eyes to mask her frustration and fury. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Quite the contrary. If we can isolate a few more critical sequences, we—”

  “Stop talking.” Ro turned in a tight circle, suddenly feeling trapped by her circumstances. “You know me, Julian. You know I’m not above bending rules to get things done. But this isn’t the kind of regulation you can bend. This kind of thing only ends one way, and you know it: with a court-martial and a fast-track to solitary confinement.”

  “I’d assumed as much from the start. I’d hoped to keep my efforts a secret so that no one but me would have to take the fall for this . . . but I seem to attract accomplices.”

  Ro eyed the viewscreen on the wall beside the door and found herself impressed by the simultaneous elegance and complexity of the virtual gene sequences Bashir and his team had designed. She was no medical expert, but even she could see that something amazing was taking shape inside the conference center. Something too big for one person to judge.

  She looked at Bashir. “How much more time do you need?”

  “It’s hard to say. It might be days, or it could be weeks. The key—”

  “I’ll buy you as much time as I can.” Her declaration shocked Bashir into silence. “If anyone asks, you and I never had this conversation. I don’t know what you’re working on.”

  “Understood.”

  “But know this, Doctor: If the Typhon Pact was smart enough to know your little meeting was worth checking out, it’s a good bet somebody at Starfleet Command is doing the same. Which means it’s only a matter of time before your mercy mission gets shut down for good.” She opened the door and tossed her parting words over her shoulder as she left. “Work quickly.”

  Fourteen

  It’s too quiet, Tenmei thought as she stepped onto the Defiant’s bridge. Having served on the ship’s overnight watch as a junior officer, she had been prepared to find the bridge’s ambience subdued during Gamma Shift, but this was a different degree of quiet. It was creepy, like an empty library or a crypt. It’s because we’re docked at Deep Space 9, she reminded herself. That was why all the duty stations were dark and unoccupied except for the center seat.

  Thanks to the bridge’s padded and carpeted deck, the ensign in the command chair didn’t hear Tenmei until she was all but on top of her. Catching sight of the lieutenant out of the corner of her eye, the magenta-haired young woman blurted “Ack!” as she leaped to her feet.

  Tenmei extended one hand in apology. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “No worries, sir,” the ensign said with a soft southern accent. “What can I do for you?”

  “Actually, I’m here to do something for you. What’s your name?”

  “Crosswhite, sir. Ensign Rhylie Crosswhite.”

  She took Crosswhite by one shoulder and led her aft, away from the command chair. “Ensign, I’m here to relieve you for the rest of the shift.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll stand the overnight watch for you.”

  “But I have orders—”

  “—from Colonel Cenn to man the conn until you’re properly relieved. That’s what I’m doing, Ensign. Relieving you and assuming responsibility for the conn.”

  Crosswhite’s face scrunched with confusion at Tenmei’s charitable offer. “Sir? Isn’t Gamma port watch when junior officers pay dues and malcontents draw punishment detail?”

  “What’s your point, Ensign? Are you suggesting I’m here for breaking regs?”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t—”

  “You think I haven’t paid my dues? I’ve been on this boat for nine years.”

  “Of course, sir! It’s just— I mean, I only transferred over last month, so why—”

  “Ensign, one of the most important things you need to learn is to not ask ‘why’ when senior officers give you orders that do you favors. The correct response is to say, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and then get gone before they change their minds. Do I make myself clear, Ensign?”

  “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” Still perplexed but also smiling, Crosswhite hurried out the aft port hatchway and made haste aft toward the nearest turbolift.

  Oh, to be so young again, Tenmei mused as she sealed the bridge hatches and locked them with her command code. Then she turned and walked forward to the wraparound console that served as the ship’s combined helm and operations post. A few gingerly taps on its glossy black surface brought the interface panel to colorful life and filled the bridge with the gentle thrumming of power and the soft music of feedback tones.

  She circled around the console and kneeled in front of it, then fished an all-purpose sonic tool from a pocket inside her uniform jacket. The device made quick work of removing the access panel on the forward side of the helm-operations console, revealing its inner maze of isolinear chips, ODN cables, plasma relay capacitors, and command circuits.

  Sonic tool in hand, she turned her torso sideways and snaked her arm through a narrow gap in the tightly packed machinery, to reach a junction tucked deep inside the console. Probing by touch memory using only her little finger, she found the node she was looking for. In slow, precise motions she positioned the tool. It activated with a pleasant, steady buzzing.

  And away we go. . . .

  • • •

  Pulaski looked at the window and half imagined she could see the forest outside the Bement Center, but night had long since fallen and all she saw was her soft-edged reflection. She wasn’t tired—no, that wasn’t true; she was alert but exhausted. The anasomazine she’d injected into her carotid artery a few hours earlier had left her senses sharp and canceled out the neurochemical effects of her sleep deprivation, which had just entered its one-hundred-seventh hour. From a medical point of view, she did not need to sleep. But from a practical point of view, she needed to do anything else but work. She and the others had been staring at the Meta-Genome for nearly a week, and it was all beginning to look the same. The noise was occluding the pattern.

  Doctor Lense trudged through an open doorway into the commissary. Pulaski watched the younger woman’s reflection as she plodded to the replicator and thumped her head against the wall above it. “Club soda with a slice of orange, cold.” The carbonated beverage appeared in a flurry of light, with a sound like a miniature calliope being switched quickly on and off. Lense picked up the glass, whose faceted surface glistened with condensation, and carried it to the seat next to Pulaski’s. She groaned as she sank into the thick-cushioned armchair. “If I spend one more second thinking about the goddamn Meta-Genome, I’ll go insane.” She tilted her head back and fixed her blank stare on the ceiling for several seconds. “There. I’m insane now.”

  “Is that all it takes? If so, I’m pretty sure I had a psychotic break sometime on Tuesday.”

  “Today is Tuesday.”

  Days bled together when one spent this long awake, so Pulaski took her word for it. She shifted to face Lense. “How are you holding up?”

  “At least I know what day it is.” She was quick to soften the verbal jab. “Just kidding. Truth is, I’m not sure I can see straight. My thinking feels clear, but my eyes feel shot.”

 
; “I sympathize.” Quiet desperation turned her head toward the replicator. “Maybe I should punch up a drink with electrolytes and antioxidants. Try to jump-start my body. . . . Again.”

  Lense sipped her soda. “Might as well. There’ll be plenty of time to sleep once we’re all in custody.” She blinked slowly at their imperfect reflection. “Are we doing something dumb? It all sounded so heroic when we started, but I can’t remember anymore.”

  The older woman shook her head. “No idea. I’d like to think we’re taking a stand for . . . something important. Ethics? The Andorians? Science? Whatever it is, I hope it’s worth it.”

  “I just worry that once politics gets involved, no one’ll be listening to us and our big ideas and our fancy words. It’ll all come down to talking heads shouting, ‘Treason!’ Once that happens, people tend to tune out, which means the last thing they’ll hear is the accusation.”

  “That’s how the universe works. I know I came here with the best of intentions, and I’m sure all the rest of us did, too. What scares me is the possibility that no one will care. If Bashir’s right and we make this work, Starfleet Command and the Federation Council might want to pin medals on us—right up until the moment they find out how we did it. That’s when they’ll turn on us. That’s when it’ll get ugly.”

  Anxious silence yawned between them. Lense was pensive. “What if it all goes as planned? I mean, say we find the cure, and Bashir sneaks it to his friends on Andor. It’ll be one of the biggest news stories of the century. Do we really think no one’s ever going to figure out we were part of it? What happens if it comes out years from now and looks like a cover-up?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” All-new worst-case scenarios spun themselves whole from the gray wool of Pulaski’s beleaguered imagination. “The conspiracy-minded would accuse us of running a covert Starfleet operation for no better reason than to influence Andorian politics.”