Star Trek: The Fall: A Ceremony of Losses

by David Mack

  “The only reason the Meta-Genome became a political issue on Andor was because we’d hidden the data, and then the Tholians called us on it. Since then, the Tholians have capitalized on their monopoly over the Meta-Genome data, and they’ve been using it to pull Andor farther from our political influence and deeper into their own. But if we share the cure with them, freely and without condition—”

  “We’d be handing the Typhon Pact a blueprint of the full Meta-Genome, something we’re not sure the Tholians actually have.”

  “No, sir, we wouldn’t. The cure contains only the tiniest fraction of the complete Meta-Genome. And now that my team and I have isolated the segments needed for the cure, we’ve already deleted the remainder of the Meta-Genome data from our drives.” Bashir paused for a few seconds as Ishan looked to someone off-screen for confirmation of that fact. “The cure would not reveal any of the other countless secrets of the Meta-Genome. Nor can I or my team.”

  “I and many other people genuinely appreciate the efforts you’ve made to contain the damage from your little misadventure, Doctor. But that doesn’t change the fact that you put the safety of the Federation itself at risk for the benefit of a planet that’s no longer a member.”

  Bashir deliberately mimicked Ishan’s earlier choice of words. “Well, correct me if I’m wrong, sir, but it’s my understanding that there are still nearly forty-one million Andorians who hold Federation citizenship on worlds other than Andor, and nearly a hundred thousand Andorians still serving loyally in Starfleet. Don’t they deserve this cure?”

  The president pro tem’s face reddened as his brow knitted with anger. “This isn’t some semantic game, Doctor. If we let this cure out into the galaxy at large, it’s only a matter of time before it makes its way back to Andor.”

  “Then why not send it there ourselves and take credit for it? Beat the Typhon Pact at its own game! If we let the Tholians guide the Andorians to this cure, I guarantee we’ll lose Andor and its people to the Typhon Pact—for at least a generation, if not forever. Is that an outcome you’re ready to risk? A wager you’re willing to make when the lives of the Andorian people are the stakes?”

  “I won’t be seen as weak, Doctor. Not by the people of the Federation, not by our allies, and certainly not by the Typhon Pact.”

  His intransigence baffled Bashir. “Weak? What about coldhearted? Or vindictive?”

  “Those can be seen as virtues during an election.”

  “That’s what this is? Posturing for the special election? You’re shining up your foreign-policy credentials with the blood of the Andorians?” The ruthlessness of Ishan’s political calculation made Bashir sick. “If this is an example of how you plan to use power, I think it’s an excellent argument for why you should never be allowed to wield it.”

  “I’ve been lectured by nobler men than you, Doctor. But they’re dead, and I’m still here. History is written by the winners. Remember that.” He raised his voice. “Captain Ro?”

  Ro stepped in from the room’s periphery to stand beside Bashir. “Sir?”

  “Take the good doctor into custody, as I’d originally ordered.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And make sure no one interrogates him or his associates. They’re all to be transferred to a secure facility as soon as we can make arrangements for their transport.”

  “We could use the Defiant—”

  “No, thank you, Captain. For reasons of operational security, I’m afraid the ultimate location of the doctors’ incarceration will have to be kept on a need-to-know basis.”

  A chastised nod. “Understood, sir.”

  Ishan terminated the transmission without the courtesy of a simple farewell. The screen changed to the Federation emblem for a moment before fading to black.

  No one said a word, but Blackmer wasted no time drawing his phaser and aiming it at Bashir. “Sorry, sir. It’s protocol.”

  “I understand. No hard feelings.”

  Blackmer looked at Ro. “Orders?”

  “Hold him and the others in the empty conference room down the hall. After I beam up to the Defiant with the away team and the computers, have Douglas take Bashir back to the station in the Rio Grande, and you take the others back in the Tiber.”

  He seemed uncomfortable with her decision. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir?”

  She threw a look at Bashir. For a moment, he thought he caught a glimmer of amusement on her face. “Something tells me they’ll have a lot to talk about on the way home.”

  • • •

  It never failed to impress Bashir how quickly a place one thought of as a refuge could become a prison. Ensign Liizsk and Petty Officer Damrose from Deep Space 9’s security division ushered him down the conference center corridor. They stayed a few paces behind him, a respectable distance, phasers drawn and aimed squarely at the center of his back.

  Liizsk hissed, “Stop.” The broad-shouldered, long-limbed Saurian stepped past Bashir and unlocked the door to the lounge. As the portal slid open with a hushed sigh, Bashir saw his confederates gathered inside the room. Then, from behind him, came Damrose’s gruff voice: “In.” The square-jawed Iotian seemed impervious to Bashir’s reproachfully arched eyebrow, so the doctor did as he was told and stepped inside the lounge without complaint. The Saurian entered commands on the door’s keypad, closing and locking the room’s only exit.

  Bashir met his peers with good humor. “And how are all of you holding up?”

  Lense gestured toward the transparasteel windows. “We’re great. It’s a beautiful day, and we have a lovely view of your friends from the station carting off all our work.”

  Pulaski took a less confrontational tack. “How was your talk with Ishan?”

  “It could have been better.” His façade slipped, betraying some of his frustration. “I can’t tell if he’s driven more by spite or by ambition. With one breath he talks about punishing the Andorians for betraying the Federation, with the next he talks about denying them the cure just so he won’t look weak before the election. He’s playing dice with the fate of an entire species!”

  A fleeting hint of cold contempt slipped past Tovak’s stoic façade. “The president pro tem appears to be a most disagreeable individual. To prioritize politics over the preservation of sentient life is illogical and amoral.”

  Lemdock honored Tovak by bowing his head. “Well-said, Doctor.” He gesticulated with his webbed hands at the parade of security officers and technicians visible through the window. “But it does nothing to address the fact that our work is being confiscated. What happens now?”

  A low, mirthless chortle from Lense. “Now we get lawyers.”

  Bashir saw the truth in her black humor. “She’s right. My advice to all of you would be to refuse to answer any questions without your JAG counsels present, and to collectively point the finger at me. Deny any knowledge of the true nature or origin of the Meta-Genome.”

  His suggestion was met by Lense with anger and confusion. “How the hell are we supposed to do that? And who’d believe us if we did?”

  “It’s all about plausible deniability,” Bashir said. “As long as you all tell the same story, you’ll be fine. Tell your counsels that I lied to you, that I told you we were working with a synthetic genome I’d found in the Gamma Quadrant.”

  Now it was Pulaski’s turn to voice her doubts. “Why would they believe us?”

  “Because that’s the story I’m going to tell them: that none of you knew you were breaking the law—only I knew.”

  Tovak shook his head. “They will not believe it.”

  “But they won’t be able to prove otherwise.” He lifted his hands to forestall their protests. “Trust me. You’ve all risked more, and done more, than I ever could have hoped. There’s no reason your careers should have to end with mine. Please, trust me on this.”

  Lemdock slumped into a chair, despondent. “While we’re busy saving ourselves, who’s going to save the Andorians? What happens to our wor
k?”

  Pulaski rested a consoling hand on the Benzite’s shoulder. “There’s still a chance the Andorians could find the cure on their own. If we did, maybe they can, too.”

  “Unlikely, I fear,” Tovak said, further dashing Lemdock’s feeble hopes for a happy conclusion to their medical odyssey. “Based on the research notes that came with the classified data, the sequences that helped Doctor Bashir craft a stable Andorian matrix are exclusive to Starfleet’s record of the Meta-Genome. It is possible even the Tholians do not have all the sequences we used. If they lack even one of them, they will not be able to create this cure.”

  All the bad news drove Lense to bury her face in her hands. “So that’s it? It’s over?”

  “Not quite,” Bashir said. That snared the others’ full attention. “Starfleet impounded our computers and storage media, but they haven’t secured all copies of the Andorian cure. Yet.”

  His suggestion put a gleam of mischief in Pulaski’s eyes. “Explain, Doctor.”

  “The Andorian cure is a tailored retrovirus, one that remains stable but inert until introduced into an Andorian’s bloodstream. As such it poses no risk to other species.” A sly tilt of his head. “Such as humans, for instance.”

  Eyes wide, Lense leaped to her feet and grabbed Bashir’s shoulders. “You injected yourself with the retrovirus? It’s dormant in your bloodstream right now?” Her look of shock brightened into glee. She grasped the sides of his head and planted a firm, fast kiss on his lips, an act not of passion but of gratitude and congratulations. “You magnificent bastard!”

  “All part of the service.”

  The others gathered around him, slapped his back, shook his hand, and patted his shoulders in commendation. Pulaski was the first to gather her wits and get back to business. “So, now what? You’ve got the cure, but you’re still a prisoner. How do we get it to Andor?”

  “Let’s just say I expected something like this would happen.” Bashir stepped clear of the group’s adoration and moved toward the door. “Consequently, preparations have been made.”

  Lemdock looked fearful. “Such as?”

  “In the interest of preserving your plausible deniability, let’s just say, I have a plan.”

  The door opened behind Bashir. He turned to see Sarina Douglas standing in the doorway with her hand resting on her sidearm phaser. “Julian? I have orders to take you to the stockade complex on Deep Space Nine and place you in solitary confinement, effective immediately.” She beckoned him with a tilt of her head. “Shall we?”

  Bashir bade his fellow physicians farewell with a small nod. “If you’ll pardon me . . . I believe my chariot awaits.”

  Seventeen

  Outside the climate-controlled conference center, the midday air was sultry and rich with scents of the forest and the sea. It was a short walk from the main entrance to the waiting Rio Grande, but Bashir felt beads of perspiration forming on his forehead by the time he and Douglas had descended the steps and crossed the walkway to traverse the lawn. The grass and soil were pleasantly elastic under his feet, a welcome change from walking on hard surfaces.

  Douglas kept a firm grip on Bashir’s left elbow as she led him toward the runabout. Her lips barely moved as she spoke, and her voice was almost a whisper. “Last chance to back out.”

  “We didn’t come this far to give up,” he mumbled back, casting surreptitious glances around the area to see if they were being observed with more than casual attention.

  “Defying executive orders isn’t run-of-the-mill insubordination, Julian. The plan was for you to go AWOL, not become public enemy number one.”

  “The facts on the ground have changed. We have to roll with it.”

  “You could have injected me. I—”

  “There wasn’t time.” He paused as a pair of security officers passed them, walking in the opposite direction. As soon as they moved out of earshot, he continued. “I dosed myself as soon as I was sure the genome was stable. If I’d waited for you, I’d have missed my chance.”

  They walked in troubled silence for a few moments, and the runabout loomed larger in Bashir’s field of view. Douglas’s voice trembled with anxiety. “Are you sure you want to do this? Once it’s done, there’s nothing more I can do to help you.”

  “I don’t see that I have a choice, do you? If I surrender, either the Andorians die as a species for no good reason, or, worse, Ishan steals the cure and uses it to blackmail them.”

  “Let’s not start embracing insane conspiracy theories,” Douglas warned.

  “Why not? Ishan’s willing to risk letting them die so he can win an election. If he’ll do that, what’s to stop him from leveraging the cure after he’s elected? From using it to force concessions from them? Or bully them back into the Federation? What then?”

  “Don’t obsess over what-ifs. There’s no point getting worked up over crimes nobody’s committed yet. Stick to what we know: the Andorians are dying.”

  As usual, Douglas’s advice was sound. Bashir focused himself on the here and now. “Fine. That’s still more than enough reason, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Me, too.” A worried look. “You know they’ll crucify you for this. They’ll take your rank, your medical license. And they’ll smear your name. They’ll have to, to save face.”

  He weighed those sacrifices against his sins on Salavat. “A small price to pay.”

  They were only a dozen meters from the Rio Grande. Its side hatch stood open, and its engines hummed in preflight mode. Douglas took a deep breath. “I wish I was going with you.”

  “So do I. But I need your cover intact so you can bring me inside Thirty-one.”

  She chuckled softly. “Another harebrained plan—but I guess we should see if you survive this lunatic scheme before I start breaking your balls about the next one.”

  “Too kind.” He stopped and faced her, and she mirrored him as he leaned closer. Part of him feared this might be the last time he saw her. “Don’t forget to deliver my messages.”

  She pressed her forehead to his. Her blond hair tickled his face. “I won’t.”

  He kissed her, and he looked into her blue eyes. “I apologize for this, by the way.”

  “It’s okay. My career depends on it, so make it look good.”

  They stepped apart to regard each other—and then he coldcocked her with a punishing right cross to her jaw. The punch snapped her head sharply to the side, a perfect knockout blow. She collapsed onto the grass, and Bashir made no effort to catch her because he was already sprinting flat out for the runabout, hoping he reached cover inside it before someone opened fire.

  Panicked shouts filled the noonday air, and as he ducked through the port-side hatch of the Rio Grande, a stun-level phaser beam caromed off the small starship’s hull, leaving a dull gray scorch. He slapped the CLOSE EMERGENCY HATCH panel on his way in and pivoted left into the cockpit. As promised, the ship was warmed up and ready for flight.

  First things first. He pried open the main control panel, reached inside its optronic viscera, and extracted the ship’s transponder circuit with surgical precision. Can’t have them seizing remote control of my ship. As the yelling from outside grew louder and more bellicose, the Rio Grande shuddered under a barrage of small-arms fire.

  Bashir dropped into the pilot’s seat and activated the antigrav coils to lift the ship off the ground. As it made a smooth and level vertical ascent, he armed the ship’s forward phaser cannons. Working the helm with his right hand and the weapons controls with his left, he pivoted the runabout in a slow 120-degree turn and crippled the engines of his colleagues’ shuttlecraft with three pinpoint shots. Then he pointed the ship’s nose upward and punched in the impulse drive. Blue sky faded within seconds to the black vault of space and its treasure of stars.

  Voices crackled from the overhead comm—commands from the Bajor Planetary Operations Center, or BPOC, to correct his flight path overlapped with orders from the Defiant in orbit and the Tiber below him to stand
down and surrender his vessel. He ignored them all, raised the Rio Grande’s shields, and set his course for Andor at maximum warp.

  His hand hovered over the warp drive controls. I hope Sarina’s okay.

  An explosion buffeted the runabout—it was a warning shot from the Defiant. Over the comm, Captain Ro was saying something, but her message was garbled by crosstalk from BPOC.

  As the Rio Grande jumped to warp, the last thing Bashir heard was Ro swearing.

  • • •

  It happened so quickly that Jefferson Blackmer almost missed it.

  Only a few moments earlier, the security chief had been sitting in the cockpit of the Tiber, conducting a routine preflight check. He had looked up through the forward viewport and made a mental note of Lieutenant Commander Douglas walking Bashir toward the Rio Grande. He had turned away for only a few seconds, just long enough to bring the impulse core online, when angry shrieks of phaser fire turned his head. Outside, Douglas was down, Bashir was running toward the Rio Grande, and someone was shooting at him from a distance.

  What the hell just happened?

  Bashir scrambled inside the Rio Grande and closed its hatch. Security officers sprinted toward the small starship and peppered it with stun-level phaser blasts.

  Blackmer opened a ship-to-ship channel to the other runabout. “Tiber to Rio Grande! Don’t do anything stupid, Doctor! There’s nowhere to run!” He saw the telltale glow of charging warp coils inside the Rio Grande’s nacelles. He tapped a panel to close the Tiber’s open hatch. “Doctor! Can you hear me? Stand down and surrender the Rio Grande immediately!”

  The Rio Grande rose from the ground as its antigrav system engaged, and it pivoted while firing phasers on the other grounded shuttlecraft’s engines. Blackmer reached for the Tiber’s helm console to power up the engines. “This is your last warning, Doctor! Don’t make me chase you down.” There was no reply as the Rio Grande pointed its nose skyward. Cursing under his breath, Blackmer charged the Tiber’s antigrav circuits to prepare the ship for takeoff. His runabout lifted off the ground like an air bubble floating to the surface of a pool—and then Blackmer was surprised by a split-second sensation of free fall, followed by a jarring impact.