Star Trek: The Fall: A Ceremony of Losses

by David Mack

  Dax’s reply was hoarse and half drowned under the whine of phaser fire. “Go ahead.”

  “Mission accomplished, and I have President Ishan on the comm.”

  “Is it what we expected?”

  “To the letter, Captain.”

  A brief pause. “Then you know what to do, Sam.”

  “Aye, sir. Good luck.” Bowers stepped forward to stand over Mirren’s shoulder. “Hail the Warspite and tell Captain Unverzagt that Captain Dax and Doctor Bashir surrender.”

  • • •

  Bashir looked on, dumbstruck as Dax dropped her phaser rifle and kicked it away. Then the young Trill starship commander caught Kedair’s eye. “It’s time, Lonnoc. Do it.”

  Peppered with phaser wounds that slowly fused shut, Kedair turned and aimed her phaser at Dax and Bashir. “Captain Dax, Doctor Bashir—you’re both under arrest.” For the benefit of the Warspite personnel who were gathered on the far side of the collapse blocking the passageway, she called out, “Cease fire! Captain Dax has been relieved of her command and taken into custody. I repeat—cease fire!”

  The shooting stopped, and cautious eyes peered out through the smoky gloom. As the team from the Warspite advanced in slow steps through the breach, Kedair shouted back to the other Aventine personnel and the Andorians, “Stand down! Lower your weapons, and hold your fire! That’s a direct order.”

  Bashir looked at Dax, pleading with his eyes for reassurance. Under her breath she confided, “It’s okay, Julian. It’s done.”

  No one spoke as the teams from the two starships met, wary of each other, both sides anticipating betrayal. Then reason prevailed, and Kedair stepped aside to confer in private with the leader of the Special Ops team from the Warspite. After a moment of hushed negotiation, they shook hands, and Kedair stood aside as the hulking black-furred Caitian lieutenant pointed at Dax and Bashir and snapped at his troops, “Arrest those two and prepare to beam up.”

  Commandos in black surrounded Bashir and Dax and pulled their arms behind their backs. Then each of them was restrained with a pair of cold, tight-fitting magnetic manacles.

  Dax seemed tickled by their predicament. “How sweet! Matching jewelry.”

  Bashir couldn’t help but chuckle. “There’s the Dax I know and love.”

  As the commandos led the two of them away, she flashed Bashir a bittersweet smile that felt to him like friendship incarnate. “What can I say? You always did bring out the best in me.”

  Twenty-nine

  Standing outside Ishan’s circle of senior advisers, Admiral Akaar felt like an uninvited guest at a party. Lurking behind the president pro tem’s shoulder was his Tellarite chief of staff, Velk, who acted as the traffic manager and gatekeeper, shushing some and inviting others to speak. Despite his best efforts, the tenor of the office on the fifteenth floor of the Palais de la Concorde was one of chaos straining at the leash of order and threatening to slips its bonds. All that Akaar could do was wince and try to shut out the din of overlapping voices.

  “Sir, if you could just look at next year’s estimates for grain yields on Acamar—”

  “We need an answer for the Sheliak Ambassador on the Tagoras problem before—”

  “Polls show you ahead on Betazed, but only by one and a half points, and only against a single unspecified challenger, but if we run the numbers with multiple candidates—”

  Ishan raised his hands and his voice. “All of you, stop! One at a time, damn you.” He pointed at Safranski, a Rigellian who had served as the late President Bacco’s secretary of the exterior and who continued in that capacity, pending the special election of a new president. “You were about to give me your read on the Andor situation.”

  “Yes, sir.” Safranski cleared his throat, and Akaar noted that the Rigellian made a point of avoiding eye contact with Velk. “In the seventy-two hours since the governing coalition of the Treishya, True Heirs of Andor, and the Visionists was dissolved by a no-confidence vote and replaced by the Progressive–New Restoration–Unity–Alliance coalition, several changes have taken place. Shadow cabinet members from the new coalition have been appointed to the front bench offices, and as of this morning, the Parliament Andoria has named a new presider.”

  The news put Ishan in a glum mood. “Let me guess: the Progressive leader, zh’Tarash.”

  There was genuine surprise in Safranski’s reply. “No, sir. They elected Solloven zh’Felleth of the Unity Caucus.”

  Velk’s porcine features took on a sinister cast. “Clever. Instead of elevating one of their own, the Progressives bought themselves some goodwill by backing their coalition partners. Would I be correct in assuming the cabinet posts have been equitably divided between the new coalition’s member parties?”

  Safranski continued to address his remarks to Ishan. “That would be correct. And just this morning, the Parliament Andoria passed its first binding resolution: a repeal of its Secession Act. It passed along party lines, and Presider zh’Felleth contacted the Federation Council in person to submit Andor’s application for readmission to the Federation.”

  That revelation put Ishan visibly ill at ease, as if he had no idea how to react to it in mixed company. “I see. Most interesting.” He forced a thin and patently insincere smile. “That should give the Council something to debate about for a while.”

  “Not likely.” Joy brightened Safranski’s face. “Several dozen senior members of the Council have already pledged to support Andor’s readmission, and Councillor Enaren of Betazed has promised to fast-track the application out of committee over the weekend and move it to a floor vote. Andor’s membership could be reinstated as soon as Monday afternoon.”

  Ishan’s smile tightened almost to the point of vanishing. “Excellent. Anything else?”

  “Just one more item.” At last, Safranski turned his focus toward Velk, almost as if he expected to savor the moment to come. “As soon as Andor’s membership is formally restored, its Progressive Caucus leader, Kellessar zh’Tarash, will announce her candidacy for the Federation presidency.” The Rigellian looked pleased with himself as Velk winced at the news. Then Safranski added, to Ishan, “Looks like your campaign’s about to get even more interesting, sir.”

  “I can hardly wait.” Ishan turned away from Safranski to invite someone, anyone, to change the topic. “What’s next?”

  A cascade of voices filled the room, and Akaar remained outside the verbal scrum, in no mood to compete with bureaucrats for the pleasure of chewing on a rhetorical bone. He watched Safranski make a dignified departure from the office, and part of Akaar wished that he was leaving, as well.

  Over the course of half an hour, one manufactured crisis at a time, the knot of supplicants surrounding Ishan’s desk thinned. The last one to leave was the Bajoran’s annoyingly cocksure campaign strategist, Rellim Eryjem, a pollster for hire whose last turn on the political stage had saddled the Federation with the belligerent ineptitude of Min Zife’s second term. Only after the half-human, half-Orion political operative had left the office did Ishan and Velk even deign to note that Akaar remained at attention, mere meters from the president pro tem’s desk.

  Velk offered Akaar one open hand. “Admiral, our apologies for keeping—”

  “Give us the room.” Akaar’s demeanor brooked no argument. “I need to have a word with Mister Ishan. In private.”

  Ishan motioned for Velk to leave. Then he noted Akaar’s glance toward the agent assigned to Ishan by the Protection Detail, and the president pro tem waved his Vulcan bodyguard out of the room with casual indifference. The agent, to his credit, was reluctant to leave his post, but he seemed reassured when Akaar promised, “We’ll be only a minute.”

  The agent followed Velk out the door, which closed after them.

  Akaar stood in front of Ishan’s desk and towered over the seated chief executive, whose countenance soured without the benefit of an audience. “So, Admiral. What’s this about?”

  “The chain of command, sir.”

&nb
sp; Ishan’s eyes dulled with boredom. “What about it?”

  “You need to learn to use it, sir.”

  Faced with a direct challenge, Ishan bristled and sat forward. “Excuse me?”

  “Sir, during the past week, you have, on no fewer than three occasions, bypassed Starfleet Command and issued orders directly to active-duty Starfleet personnel in the field. On stardate 62703.9, you ordered Captain Ro Laren of Starbase Deep Space Nine to proceed to Bajor and arrest Doctor Julian Bashir. On stardate 62708.1, you requested a sitrep directly from Captain Steven Unverzagt of the Starship Warspite. Finally, on stardate 62708.7, you ordered Commander Samaritan Bowers of the Starship Aventine to relieve his commanding officer and take her into custody. I also have reason to believe that you or a member of your staff encouraged insubordinate activity by a Starfleet Intelligence liaison assigned to my office.”

  The middle-aged Bajoran arched one gray eyebrow with disdain. “Are you challenging my authority as the civilian commander in chief?”

  “No, sir. But the manner in which you exercised your authority was not only improper, it was in violation of Federation law and the Starfleet Code of Military Justice. If you wish to micromanage the actions of Starfleet, that is your prerogative. However, Starfleet’s protocols of command and control require that you issue all military directives through Starfleet Command. When you bypass my office and issue orders directly to starship commanders, you undermine my authority and make it impossible for me to perform my duties as a general officer.” Akaar planted his fists on the desktop and leaned in to emphasize his final point. “Especially when you plan to launch covert military operations that could lead us into war . . . sir.”

  Ishan’s glare was sullen. “Your point is noted. Thank you, Admiral.”

  He did not have to tell Akaar that he was dismissed. It was implied and understood.

  “Thank you, sir.” Akaar turned away and departed, his craggy mien a deliberate cipher. There would be idle chatter about their closed-door meeting, and no doubt there were already some in the Palais and in Starfleet Command who were spreading anxious whispers of Ishan’s usurpation of Akaar’s military authority. As much as Akaar regretted fanning the flames of rumor and innuendo by confronting Ishan this way, the president pro tem had forced his hand.

  Crossing through the outer office, he spied Velk huddled in a corner, plotting under his breath with Eryjem while staring daggers in Akaar’s direction.

  I’m beset by serpents on all sides, Akaar brooded as he stepped inside a transporter alcove for the return to Starfleet Command. Even in my own headquarters, officers under my command betray my trust. I need someone untouched by this pro tem administration. Someone above reproach. Someone I can trust to help me get to the root of Ishan’s hidden agenda.

  As the first hum of the transporter filled Akaar’s ears, hope rekindled in his heart.

  He knew just the man for the job.

  Thirty

  There were worse prison cells in the galaxy; Julian Bashir knew as much from bitter experience. He had been a prisoner of the Breen during the Dominion War, and he’d seen the insides of his share of starship brigs and alien jails. The key difference between those incidents and his present situation was that this was the first time he knew he actually deserved to be there.

  He paced back and forth across his four-square-meter solitary confinement cell. Incarceration vexed him as much as it did most people, though he took comfort in the fact that it was, at least, a Federation-run facility. That meant it was sanitary, temperate, and well lit. His bunk was only slightly uncomfortable, but not so much as to constitute a hardship. At regular intervals nutritious meals appeared in his replicator nook, which had no user interface—a standard security precaution, to prevent sabotage or tampering. When he wanted something to read, as long as it wasn’t classified or sensitive material, it was uploaded to his padd. He even was allowed a modicum of control over his cell’s primary overhead light.

  And I certainly can’t complain about a lack of privacy.

  No one had questioned him. Following his arrest on Andor, he and Dax had both been beamed up to the Warspite. After they had left the transporter room, they were ushered in different directions. He and Dax had shared a valedictory glance as they parted ways.

  That was the last he had seen or heard of her.

  One week of high-warp travel later, he had been delivered to this ostensibly nameless rock in a star system so insignificant it likely was known by a catalog number rather than a name. There had been no interrogations, no abuse, no attempt to elicit a confession of his crimes. Just four walls, a featureless door, a smooth floor, and a blank ceiling, all cast from the same haze-gray thermocrete. The overhead light fixture cast a steady if sickly chartreuse glow.

  The worst part of his detention, in his opinion, was the silence.

  Some sadist had decided to deny him the privilege of listening to music in his cell. Bashir saw no obvious reason for the deprivation other than that it annoyed him; someone was playing games, showing him who was in charge. After all, it wasn’t as if they had withheld a vital need; there was no provision in the Federation Charter of Rights and Freedoms that stipulated prisoners had to be permitted to enjoy musical entertainment. Even so, it irritated him—not just because it was arbitrary, but because it was so damnably petty.

  Let them take what they will. They can’t touch what matters.

  The only person who had spoken to him since his arrest had been a JAG officer aboard the Warspite. The young female lieutenant had read the charges against Bashir in a voice so cold and unfeeling that he had wondered for a moment if she were actually a poorly programmed hologram. It was an impressive criminal complaint: high treason, espionage, insubordination, disobeying a superior officer, multiple counts of assaulting a fellow officer, three counts of criminal destruction of private property, two counts of sabotage—one for the Defiant, the other for the Tiber—stealing a Federation starship, and, of course, the all-purpose charge that linked the others: conspiracy.

  Good work if you can get it.

  He circled like a wild thing fresh to a cage, as if by walking his cell’s perimeter he would somehow suss out its weaknesses and begin charting a course to freedom. But there was no chance of that. This penal facility, wherever in the galaxy it happened to lie, was buried deep inside an asteroid, an airless chunk of rock drifting unknown through the darkness, one speck of silicon and carbon lost in a spray of planetary debris between distant planets. Even if he escaped his cell, there was nowhere to go from there, and no surface on which to hide.

  That was all right with him. He had no desire to escape, no reason to flee.

  I chose this, and I accept it. No turning back now.

  He stopped pacing and sat on his bunk. Leaden silence settled upon him. In theory, he would eventually be brought before a court-martial, despite having resigned his commission. It might take a day or two for the prosecutor to present all the evidence according to proper JAG procedure, but when it was done, Bashir had no doubt he would be convicted and sentenced to live out his days in this forsaken place. He was facing the end of his Starfleet career, the revocation of his medical license, and the loss of everything he had worked for in his life.

  It was the best he had felt in years.

  No punishment they could impose could make him forget what he had done for the people of Andor or erase from his memory the image of Sarina gazing upon him with love and respect as she watched him embark upon the greatest fool’s errand of his life. If this was the price he had to pay for doing what he knew was right, he could live with it.

  He looked at his drab, utilitarian prison cell and his matching gray coveralls. Then he caught his reflection in the mirror over his retractable sink and refresher. For the first time in years, he wasn’t ashamed of the man looking back at him.

  Locked away inside a rock with no name, Julian Bashir felt . . . free.

  One Year Later

  Epilogue

  �
��Look at them, Tala. They’re so beautiful.”

  Selleshtala zh’Lothas marveled at the tiny life cradled in her arms, wrapped in swaddling clothes and gazing up at her with the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. My lovely shei. You have no idea how long we’ve waited to welcome you to the world.

  Her entire bondgroup huddled together in the recovery room off the maternity ward of Kathela General Hospital, all admiring their healthy new offspring with tearful wonder. Shayl, the thaan, squatted beside Tala’s bed and draped his arm over her shoulders, while the group’s chan, Thar, hovered over and doted on Mara, their shen, who held their other newborn, their thei, against her breast and surrendered to bliss, mesmerized with love for their precious child.

  “I’d almost given up hope,” Thar confessed. “After all we’d been through—”

  “Love sustained us.” Shayl stroked a sweaty lock of Tala’s hair from her forehead, then he cupped his palm with gentle grace over the tiny shei’s delicate bald head. “Thank Uzaveh for Bashir’s miracle and for the courage of all who defended him.”

  Mara wiped away a tear and kissed the head of their infant thaan. “They need names.”

  The bondmates nodded in agreement. According to custom, the right of naming belonged to a child’s zhavey. Shayl clasped Tala’s hand. “What shall we call them, zh’yi?”

  She lifted her shei in both hands over her head. “I declare before Uzaveh that your name shall be Ezrishar sh’Lothas.” She lowered the shei and handed her to Shayl. Then Mara shifted their thei into Tala’s hands, and she lifted him up toward Mother Stars and the Maker of All Things. “I declare before Uzaveh that your name shall be . . . Bashir th’Lothas.”

  Shayl beamed with paternal approval. “Excellent names, zh’yi.”

  The bondgroup gathered around Tala, enfolding her in their loving embrace, shutting out the world so they could be alone with their joy, safe from the envy of strangers’ eyes.