Star Trek: The Fall: A Ceremony of Losses

by David Mack

  My part’s done, she told herself. The rest is up to Julian.

  Twenty-one

  Status lights along the bridge bulkheads flashed amber at long intervals, a steady reminder that the Aventine was at Yellow Alert as it closed in on the Rio Grande. All around Dax her crew worked with keen efficiency, sharing data and coordinating their efforts, while she sat in her command chair, her focus keen on the image of the runabout on the main viewer.

  A flurry of ionized particles jetted from the runabout’s starboard warp nacelle as it veered to port at high warp speed. At the helm, Lieutenant Tharp adjusted the Aventine’s heading to match. “Another course change, Captain. Compensating.” The Bolian flight control officer checked his instruments. “Speed constant at warp seven-point-eight.”

  Seated at the console to Tharp’s left was Lieutenant Oliana Mirren, the senior operations officer. She monitored the sensor readings that were being routed to her console. “The Rio Grande’s shields are still up, Captain.” The lithe, dark-haired human woman looked back at Dax. “Should I send another hail to Doctor Bashir, sir?”

  “Repeat our last.”

  Mirren acknowledged the order and pressed a key to transmit a recording of the message they had sent to the Rio Grande four times already: a direct order to Bashir to stand down, drop to impulse, surrender his vessel, and prepare to be boarded. She waited several seconds, then shook her head. “No reply, Captain.”

  Dax leaned forward and watched the runabout begin another series of sloppy evasive maneuvers. Intercepting the little ship had been easy for the Aventine. With its slipstream drive and pinpoint-precise navigation, the Vesta-class explorer had catapulted nearly two dozen light-years in a matter of minutes once the Rio Grande had been identified. And now that the runabout was in the Aventine’s sights, it was only a matter of time until the smaller ship was captured. So why was Bashir prolonging the inevitable? Dax was baffled. He must know he has no chance of outrunning us or outgunning us. So what the hell is he doing?

  She resigned herself to the need for the use of force and turned toward her first officer, who as usual stood to the right of her command chair, even though he had a chair of his own. “Sam? Do we have a weapons lock on the runabout’s shield emitters and warp core?”

  Bowers threw a questioning look at the security chief. Kedair nodded once and poised her hand over the phaser controls on her console. The XO glanced at the Rio Grande, and he seemed as unhappy about the situation as Dax did. “Weapons locked, sir.”

  “Set phasers to one-quarter power and fire to disable.”

  The XO nodded to Kedair, who fired the ship’s phasers. On the main viewscreen, brilliant orange pulses hammered the Rio Grande, and in just three hits the ship’s shields collapsed and it tumbled out of warp speed. Bowers reacted with calm precision. “Tharp, come about, bring us out of warp, and put us at station twenty thousand kilometers from the Rio Grande. Mirren, stand by to put a tractor beam on the runabout.”

  In less than a minute the Aventine was hovering above and behind the Rio Grande, which appeared to be drifting without impulse power. A pale golden shaft of energy lanced through the void and snared the runabout. “Tractor beam engaged.” Mirren looked troubled by new sensor data on her panel. “Sirs? I’m reading no life-forms aboard the runabout.”

  Dax sprang to her feet and doled out orders on the move. “I’m going over there. Sam, Lonnoc, with me. Gruhn, you have the conn.”

  Helkara handed off his post to a junior officer and moved to the center seat. “Aye, sir.”

  Kedair sidestepped from her station to block Dax’s path to the turbolift. “Captain, I respectfully suggest you let me secure the runabout before you beam over.”

  “Suggestion noted and overruled.” She stepped around the Takaran security chief and led her and Bowers into the turbolift. “Let’s move.”

  Bowers and Kedair said nothing on the turbolift ride, nor on the short walk to the transporter room. A male human chief petty officer stood behind the transporter console and nodded at Dax and the others as they entered and stepped onto the platform, found their way to separate pads, and faced forward. The chief powered up the system with a pass of his hand and looked to the captain for clearance to proceed. Dax took a breath. “Energize.”

  The chief swept his hand across the controls, and the energizer coils overhead and underfoot filled the compartment with a swiftly rising hum. Then came a shimmering veil and a moment of paralysis, followed by a pulse of white light—

  —that faded to reveal the cockpit of the Rio Grande. Kedair moved aft, toward the crew-support module. Dax studied the commander’s console.

  Bowers pivoted toward the helm. “Autopilot’s engaged. Not sure for how long. Looks like Bashir disabled the flight data recorder along with the transponder.” He poked at the controls. “So much for figuring out how long since he ditched.”

  Dax studied the cramped cockpit with trained eyes. “There are ways of finding out. I’ll have a forensic team sweep the ship for anything Julian left behind. Even skin cells might be revealing, if we find them soon enough.”

  Kedair returned from the aft section of the runabout. “Empty. Bashir’s definitely not on board, and the transport and sensor logs have been wiped. He must have abandoned ship.”

  Bowers motioned past Dax toward the commander’s console. “What’s that?”

  “A personal log.” Dax tapped the screen to play it back.

  Bashir’s recorded voice emanated from the overhead speakers.

  “Personal log, supplemental. Doctor Julian Bashir recording. By the time this log is recovered and reviewed, my efforts to bring a cure to the Andorian people will be over—either because I’ll have succeeded or because I was captured in the attempt. Some will call me a traitor for defying the orders of the lawful civilian government of the Federation. I don’t imagine my chosen defense—that those orders are immoral—will carry much weight in a court-martial. And though I’ve taken steps—”

  Dax halted the playback. “I’ve heard enough. Lonnoc, copy it and send it back to the ship for analysis. Sam, send a copy to Starfleet Command. I’m sure they’ll want it as evidence.” She tapped her combadge. “Dax to Aventine.”

  Helkara answered. “Go ahead, Captain.”

  “Tow the Rio Grande into Shuttlebay Two and beam us back, on the double.”

  “Aye, sir. Stand by for transport.”

  As they waited to be transported, Dax secretly fumed at being outmaneuvered by Bashir. “Julian wouldn’t have beamed off this ship unless he had somewhere else to go. And since he hasn’t reached Andor yet, he must be on another ship. Whatever it is, wherever it is—find it.”

  • • •

  Shadows roamed the streets of the Andorian capital. Everywhere Shar went, he felt spied upon. As night settled on Lor’Vela, its ancient, narrow cobblestone boulevards took on a darkling cast that put the young chan on his guard. He was keenly aware of his isolation; all his friends and allies were far away, and they felt more distant with each passing day. Should he find himself imprisoned again, this time there would be no one to secure his freedom. He would fade away, forlorn and forsaken, in the catacombs carved deep within the bedrock.

  Ruddy light bled through careworn curtains, a meager glow all but swallowed by the night. Shar kept the hood of his cowl draped low to hide his face as he walked, but even so, a cruel wind snaked inside and chilled his antennae. A cold, dark season had dawned.

  In the ten days since he had returned to the city, he hadn’t stayed anywhere more than two consecutive nights. He had stashed clothes and weapons in small bags in hidden spaces all over the capital, and thanks to his Ferengi contacts, he had untraceable credit chips that he could use for small purchases such as meals or for short-distance trips in hired transports so that he could avoid being detected by the surveillance systems that monitored all public transit nodes. Living in a state of near-constant motion had worn him down quickly and left him wandering at times as if in a daze, p
lagued by dull headaches and a steady sensation of unsatisfied hunger.

  A far cry from the life I used to lead.

  He turned a corner and began the riskiest part of his evening walk. Each night, regardless of what roundabout route he had taken to get here, he strolled down this particular block, looking for any evidence that his contact was trying to signal him. By itself, walking here night after night was no crime, but Shar was wary of doing anything that might be detected as forming a pattern of behavior, so he made an effort to vary the timing of his visits. Sometimes he swung past at dusk; sometimes he passed this way before midnight; a few nights he had delayed his visit until an hour before sunrise. Each time, the signal had been dark.

  Tonight it was lit: a single red candle burned in the alley-facing window of a decrepit, three-level dwelling. Whoever lived there likely had no idea of the significance of the signal or for whom it was intended. Based on Shar’s admittedly limited understanding of espionage tradecraft, the resident of that dwelling was probably someone who was paid to light the candle when told and to not ask any questions, about anything, ever.

  It was important not to draw attention to himself. He continued walking, his stride even and regular. His next objective was to retrieve the message. He tucked his hands inside his pockets, both to keep them warm and to confirm he still had his personal comm.

  He left behind the residential sector the moment he crossed one of the capital’s main thoroughfares, the aptly named Division Boulevard. A sparse traffic of hovercars cruised above the broad, four-lane roadway—automated vehicles serving the needs of the city’s nighthawks. Shar kept his head down as he crossed the street into Sakina Commons, a commercial sector known for hosting a variety of around-the-clock businesses, most of them bars and restaurants. The area was a favorite of young professionals, particularly those who worked for the members of the Parliament Andoria.

  Navigating by memory, he made his way to one of the quarter’s less popular eateries. Its name was hand-painted in alien symbols above its tall arched gateway, which led to a long and narrow roofed path that reeked of stale urine. This evening the odor was so rank that Shar was relieved to get through the restaurant’s front double doors and have his nose offended instead by some of the most nauseating victuals he had ever encountered.

  SopveQpu’ Gishka served a fusion menu: Klingon-Ferengi cuisine. Someone had made the dubious observation that both species had a penchant for eating live food and had hit upon the disgusting notion of melding such stomach-turning Klingon classics as rokeg blood pie or gagh with the Ferengi’s emetic masterpieces, live tube grubs and Kytherian soft-shelled crabs. The only thing Shar liked about visiting this culinary house of horrors to pick up his messages was that, no matter how hungry he was before he came in, his appetite vanished the moment he stepped inside, and it often didn’t return for several hours after he left.

  If I could reduce this place to a hypospray, I’d have the ultimate diet aid.

  He made his way to the back booth, which was always obstructed by a conical sign on the floor. Its warning was written in Klingon script, but Shar deduced it probably translated as CAUTION—WET FLOOR. He ignored it and slid into the booth. Then he waited.

  A few minutes later, a fat middle-aged Klingon chef with prodigious jowls lumbered over to Shar’s table. The exertion of propelling his own bulk the length of his restaurant left him struggling to catch his breath as he spoke. “What . . . do you . . . want?”

  “I’ll have the vegetarian plate.”

  There was nothing like a Klingon giving one the stink eye. “Sold out.”

  “My friend called ahead. He said you’d hold it for me.”

  “What . . . is your friend’s . . . name?”

  “Opportunity.”

  Disgusted, the Klingon chef plodded away in slow, rocking steps and vanished into his kitchen. Shar suspected the man didn’t like him. I can’t imagine why; I’m quite likable.

  A few minutes later, the chef returned holding a large tin plate in one hand and a rolled napkin in the other. He dropped the platter on the table with such flair that its freight of wriggling gree worms scattered across the tabletop. Then he tossed the napkin into Shar’s lap like an insult. “Grass-fed worms. Qapla’ novpu’.”

  There was something almost hypnotic about watching the worms spread out on the table, but Shar had seen and smelled enough of SopveQpu’ Gishka. He unfurled the napkin and retrieved the isolinear chip hidden inside it. After a quick look around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he inserted the chip into a reader slot on his comm device and detached an in-ear transceiver that would let him listen to the chip’s message without fear of eavesdroppers.

  Through the earpiece, he heard a woman’s voice read eight simple words.

  “He has the answer. He’s coming. Be ready.”

  He put away his earpiece, removed the isolinear chip from his comm, dropped the fragile strip of polymer onto the floor, and crushed it under his boot heel. Then he got up and made a quick exit to the street.

  The message was better news than Shar had dared to hope for, and it had come much sooner than he had thought possible. Part of him knew he should be overjoyed. But he knew that not everyone on Andor would welcome Bashir and his cure. The Treishya, their political allies, and their Typhon Pact patrons would almost certainly do everything in their power to seize the cure for themselves if they found out about it.

  As of that moment, Shar knew his mission had changed.

  He also knew he was going to need help—and that he had only one place left to turn.

  • • •

  A quick about-face combined with a moment of inattention collided Bashir’s head with a low overhead beam and left him seeing a red haze of pain for a few seconds. The crew spaces aboard the S.S. Parham were even more confined than those aboard the Rio Grande, despite the ship’s greater size. Most of the interior volume of the Caretta-class freighter was devoted to cargo storage without life support, leaving only a few cramped berthing spaces, a narrow mess with a single combination replicator-reclamator, and a common head and sonic shower.

  After changing into civilian clothes and stowing his single small duffel under the rack in the ship’s guest quarters—which amounted to an empty storage closet with a bunk built into the bulkhead—he ducked through the low doorway into the main passage that ran down the center of the ship’s only deck. The corridor was barely large enough for him to walk through without his shoulders touching the sides. He made his way forward, past the ship’s sole escape pod, and ducked through another low, round-cornered hatchway into the cockpit.

  Slouched in the port-side chair was the ship’s owner, pilot, captain, and chief mechanic. Emerson Harris was a human man in his early thirties. There didn’t seem to be a lot of muscle on his lean and wiry frame, but his hands bore the calluses of hard work. His long, square face was framed by short dark hair and distinguished by a low brow, a rudder-straight nose, and a pointed chin. Grime and food stains marred his red plaid shirt, whose sleeves he had torn off either for comfort or to avoid getting them snagged while he was making repairs on some hard-to-reach part of his rattletrap of a ship. Underneath the stained plaid pseudo-vest he wore an equally soiled white T-shirt, and both hung loosely over the top of his frayed and weathered work pants.

  Harris greeted him with a broad grin and a soft Tennessee drawl. “Y’all settled in?”

  Bashir dropped into the other cockpit seat. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Hope you don’t mind the tight fit. Don’t get many passengers.”

  “Well, then, thank you for making an exception.”

  He dismissed the courtesy with a wave. “Ain’t nothin’. Least I could do after you fixed that problem for me last week.”

  “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

  Seven days earlier, the Parham had been docked at Deep Space 9 for a refueling stop when it was flagged for a random health and safety inspection by the dockmaster. After Harris’s ship had
been cited for numerous violations, Douglas had brought the case to Bashir’s attention and recommended that he grant the freighter pilot a blanket exemption—in return for a small favor: postponing his next run for up to one month, in order to wait and maintain comm silence at an arbitrary set of coordinates in interstellar space, until and unless hailed with a specific code phrase. At first Harris had balked at the suggestion, but a generous donation to his operating costs had persuaded him to take the deal rather than face the revocation of his flight license.

  Bashir suspected that Douglas had arranged the Parham’s failed inspection, but judging from the slovenly conditions inside the vessel, she likely hadn’t needed to make much of an effort to push the Parham over the line into full-blown code violations.

  “So, uh, Doc . . . I don’t mean to pry or nothin’—”

  “Then don’t.”

  Harris grew uneasy. “Sorry, but I gotta. I mean, look at this from where I’m sittin’, Doc. You hail me from a Starfleet runabout—a damn fine ship, by the way. Faster than mine, with a cozier bunk, and armed to boot. And you ping me lookin’ for a ride? What gives?”

  It would do no good to spook the man, but he was already suspicious. Lying to him might make matters worse, depending upon how much he already knew about the situation. Bashir watched the man’s face for revealing micro-expressions as he asked, “What have you heard?”

  The query made Harris look away, as if he were hiding something, too. He chewed on his answer for a second. “Comm blasts from Starfleet are callin’ you a criminal. . . . Are you?”

  “I guess that depends on one’s point of view. What do you think?”

  “I try not to judge, Doc.”

  “If you knew there was a warrant for my arrest, why did you meet me?”

  Harris looked offended. “I gave my word, Doc. Said I’d be there for you, and I am.”

  “I appreciate that. Really, I do. I’d have been lost without you.”

  That seemed to quell some of Harris’s doubt and anxiety. “So, what’s on Andor?”