Unity

by S. D. Perry

  “Much about this quadrant takes getting used to,” Taran’atar said.

  “Such as . . . ?”

  Taran’atar didn’t hesitate. “Plurality. Freedom. Chaos.” He’d obviously given the matter some thought.

  “Sounds like fun,” Wex observed.

  “Not for me.”

  “I suppose not. Trelians enjoy their freedom. Did you know that?”

  “Yes. They resisted Dominion control twice in the last century. I killed many during the last insurrection.”

  Ro winced. She got ready to politely interrupt depending on what came next . . . but if Wex was disturbed by the Jem’Hadar’s blatant admittal, her voice didn’t betray it.

  “And have you ever stopped to wonder why a people would risk death to be free?” Wex asked.

  “Failure to recognize overwhelming opposition,” Taran’atar stated.

  “No. It’s because, faced with the choice of a life of stagnation under the Dominion or the risk of death, the risk of death was preferable.”

  Taran’atar hesitated before answering. “Then death is inevitable.”

  “Your presence here, among the defeaters of the Dominion, proves otherwise,” Wex said, her voice mild, almost kind.

  “My presence here . . . is lost on me.”

  The tone with which Taran’atar spoke was striking. Ro had been about to move away, feeling guilty for eavesdropping, but she couldn’t bring herself leave, not yet. She thought she was starting to understand something about Taran’atar, something she hadn’t realized before.

  Since his arrival some months ago, Taran’atar had often infuriated her . . . But he had also fascinated and surprised her in the most unexpected ways. Ro had fought and killed enough Jem’Hadar during the war that she’d gotten used to thinking of them as factory produced killers, not as individuals. But Taran’atar had turned out to be as complex as any sentient she’d encountered—not only because of his origins, but because of the unique circumstances that had brought him to the station. Yet even after five months, he didn’t truly understand the task that Odo had set for him, to observe the complexities of a free society. It would seem that he saw himself as a freak and an exile, cast out by one of his gods.

  “So why do you stay?” Wex asked.

  “I wasn’t given the option to leave.”

  “What would you do if you had the option? Go home? Return to your unit?”

  Taran’atar paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was meant to carry. “I’m not sure. Do you have any suggestions, Lieutenant Ro?”

  Letting out a breath, Ro turned and stepped into view, saw Wex turn to face her. Taran’atar was still gazing impassively out the window. Wex’s liquid black gaze was accusatory.

  “I apologize if I’ve offended,” Ro said sincerely. “My curiosity got the better of me. This is a troubled time aboard the station. I’m the chief of security here.”

  Wex scrutinized her silently. “You’re good,” she said finally. “By nature, I’m not easy to sneak up on.”

  Ro smiled, relieved. “I feel I should make it up to you. Is there anything you need to make your stay with us more pleasant?”

  Wex stared at her another moment, then nodded toward the entry-way into the upper level of Quark’s, across the balcony. “I was considering trying out that establishment. How is it?”

  “Not bad,” Ro said, noting that Taran’atar still hadn’t moved. “Food, drink, games of chance, holographic environment rooms. I’m on good terms with the proprietor. I can see to it you’re well taken care of.”

  Wex nodded slowly. “That sounds . . . interesting.” She turned to her companion. “Will you join me?”

  Taran’atar finally turned away from the viewport and inclined his head.

  “Great,” Ro said, doing her best to keep the uncertainty from her voice as she led them toward the bar. At least her breach of etiquette would be overlooked . . . But glancing back at the petite, gray-skinned girl and the hulking Jem’Hadar trailing behind, she couldn’t help a mental shake of her head.

  And people think Quark and I make a weird couple . . .

  * * *

  The officer field shelter was Starfleet standard, a utilitarian one-man pressed piece with all the necessities and none of the luxuries. Not that Vaughn cared particularly; he’d stayed in much, much worse. The communications setup was excellent, all that really mattered.

  The central compound was set up off the Tilar peninsula, near the ruins of what used to be the Karnoth resettlement camp. Not necessarily the best choice for Bajoran morale, but except for the outback southeast of them, it was the primary location for transmission clarity in all of Hedrikspool province. With this side of Bajor nearing the end of its hot season, the Occupation ruins seemed a better choice . . . and because of its isolation, less likely to draw attention to the magnitude of the operation. There were smaller, more discreet camps set up in the provinces of Hill, Rakantha, and Musilla.

  Vaughn dropped his bag on the cot attached to one wall of his quarters, dropping after it, looking around at his new temporary home. Food replicator, computer console, fold out table, ’fresher with shower facilities. The only thing that made it an officer’s shelter was that there was one cot instead of two.

  Outside, shuttles and hoppers buzzed and rumbled in and out of the deepening shadows of the compound, taking or returning teams of examiners. It seemed he’d arrived during one of the two daily shift changes. There was equipment to be recalibrated, information to download, medical exams to be taken. A number of press-piece shelters had been organized to deal with the day-to-day, from replimat to com center. There were barracks, too, three long, slightly flattened gray tubes of replicated matter, each capable of holding fifty comfortably . . . depending on one’s definition of comfort.

  Not bad for a week’s work, Vaughn thought tiredly, his shoulders slumped with it. Starfleet could whip together a functioning camp in no time. He knew he needed to get out there, to let the on-shift CO know that he was ready to go over everything. A faint memory fluttered through his consciousness, one of his first classes at the Academy. An instructor whose name he’d long since forgotten, making the students repeat the three S’s for organizing sweep ops—strategy, scheduling, sector coverage. After a few years in the field, he’d decided the instructor had been hopelessly shortsighted, leaving out a whole slew of letters that should have been included—D for defense in hostile territory came immediately to mind, C for communications, P for position—but the rule stayed with him. It seemed so arbitrary sometimes, what the mind decided to hold on to . . . .

  Vaughn heard a group of people walk past his shelter, heard friendly bantering among Starfleet personnel, all of them certainly younger than he; he’d been feeling his age lately, and the Defiant’s homecoming hadn’t helped. He’d gotten little sleep the night before after a prolonged conversation with Akaar, going over his Borg report, what little there was of it. It had taken some time to convince his old friend that the danger appeared to be long past . . . though L.J., to his credit, hadn’t tried to lecture him after the whole story was out. An “I told you so” would have been well deserved, but the admiral wasn’t without mercy, had even squeezed his shoulder as they’d parted company.

  Prynn hadn’t returned either of his calls before he’d left the station, though he’d made it clear that he might be away for a while. He was unhappy about it, but supposed he understood. Ruriko’s death—her first death, not the death he’d inflicted on the Borg creature—had kept him from having a real relationship with Prynn for too long. He had only himself to blame, of course, it was his guilt and shame that had done it . . . but wasn’t it ironic, that after true reconciliation between them finally seemed to be on the horizon, Ruriko’s second death had brought father and daughter back to where they’d started. Prynn was resentful and full of pain, and it was his fault. If he’d tried harder, if he’d done a better job during all those empty years, they might have had something to work with, enough kind feelings
to see them through the worst of it; all they had now was remembered slights, and good intentions that had gone nowhere . . . .

  There was a signal at his door. “Come,” Vaughn said, straightening.

  Sam Bowers walked in, carrying a handful of padds, his usual gentle countenance marred by the stern look he wore as he stood at attention. “Good evening, Commander.”

  Bowers would be filing daily status reports with the station, acting as contact for all of the Starfleet personnel working the planet.

  “At ease, Lieutenant.”

  Bowers relaxed, but only slightly. “Sir, General Lenaris hasn’t yet returned from the field, but I have his report. I’m prepared to brief you on our current status.”

  Vaughn nodded, standing and motioning toward the fold-out table near the replicator. “Take a seat, Sam. When I said at ease, I was serious. Can I get you something to drink?”

  Bowers relaxed even more. “Ah, that’d be great, sir. Coffee, black.”

  Vaughn ordered two of them, then sat down across from Bowers, refocusing himself. Some days it was harder than others, but he was career Starfleet; no matter how bad things got, he always managed to get done what needed doing. He’d convinced himself long ago that it was a necessary skill in his line of work, and it was . . . but it wasn’t such a great talent, either, to learn how to suppress everything in the name of effective work habits. Something else that came with age, he supposed . . . figuring out what was important.

  And right now, that’s finding the infected, he thought firmly. Lives were at stake, and not just those unfortunate ones who’d been attacked and taken over. For all they knew, the parasites meant genocide for the Bajoran people.

  “Fill me in,” Vaughn said, and though he was focused enough as Bowers called up a sector map on the console and picked up the first padd, he could still see an image floating in front of mind’s eye—of tiny dots of Ruriko’s blood spattering ever so lightly across his daughter’s stunned face.

  Stop. And focus.

  Bowers was pointing out the sites that had been established as scanning stations. Vaughn concentrated, filing the information, considered adding an additional group near the labyrinths by the southern islands—and remembered dropping the phaser, turning to Prynn as Ruriko’s biomechanical limbs spasmed in death, as Prynn reflexively wiped at the spray on her face, smearing her mother’s blood across shocked flesh, beneath shocked eyes. And for the first time since that image had been reality, he felt a stab of real fear, a fear that it might not be all that difficult to lose touch with reality.

  God help him, what if there were some things that couldn’t be put aside?

  8

  EZRI AND CYL SPENT A NUMBER OF POINTLESS HOURS SORTING THROUGH the Trill historical database, looking for something that might point them in a helpful direction, in any direction. They’d eaten a mostly silent lunch together and gone back to it, more hours of silence in one of the small research offices just beneath the Promenade—Ezri, at least, wondering if it was even worth the effort. Cyl had already made it clear that there weren’t any files to be had . . . .

  And what good would they do if there were? The parasites were trying to start up a war, they hated Trill and didn’t seem all that fond of anyone else, either. They’d attempted to take over Bajor by infiltrating the government, presumably to gain control of the worm-hole and to establish an entire population within the Federation . . . and knowing the exact nature of their historical connection to Trill would help how, exactly? They were here, they were crawling into people and hiding, scheming, and they clearly meant harm; stopping them was the most important thing, whatever it took. Understanding them could wait until after they were wiped out—

  Ezri looked away from the screen of her computer interface and rubbed her eyes, surprised by her knee-jerk train of thought. It was true; the very concept of the parasitic species provoked some negative instinctual reaction in Trill, or at least in her; being aware of it apparently didn’t make a difference. She went back to her scanning, reminding herself that understanding them might be the Federation’s only chance . . . but it was a hard thought to hold on to, and when Kira commed through a few minutes later, Ezri was glad for the distraction.

  An unscheduled briefing. Dazed by a full day of reading about everything from ancient land disputes to the evolutionary path of the TSC, Ezri and Cyl hurried out to the wardroom. Ezri hoped that Kira had some ideas on how to better involve both the Federation and Trill in finding a solution.

  Julian and Kira were already waiting for them, the full roster for the meeting; as soon as the door closed behind them, Kira started talking.

  “We know the biological connection between the symbionts and the parasites.”

  Sitting down next to Julian, Ezri was just giving his hand a gentle squeeze when Kira dropped the news. With how quickly he jerked his hand away, it seemed her reaction had been noticeable.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s just the beginning, really, but it is significant,” Julian said. “We already knew that the DNA codings between the symbionts and the parasites were similar, from the same gene family. I’ve been collaborating with a cellular biologist on Unefra III for some time, on a program that breaks down the satellite DNA—that’s a particular kind of DNA that has a different density from regular DNA. It sediments as a distinct band in caesium chloride density gradients. These are generally polymorphic, which makes them ideal markers for linkage studies—and there’s no question, I’ve run our samples through my copy of the program in every combination possible. The genetic linkage is beyond ancestral; we’re looking at recombination, and not from natural crossover.”

  He cleared his throat, looking from Cyl to Ezri with a furrowed brow. “Everything points to site-specific mutagenesis. Genetic engineering.”

  Ezri stared at Cyl, whose gaze remained fixed on Julian.

  “What—how?” Ezri asked, unable to think of what else to ask, dumbstruck by the news.

  Julian shook his head. “That I can’t tell you. There’s the possibility that the connection between your symbionts and the parasites is much more recent than everyone seems to think; the loci positions in the linkage map are too similar to be accounted for by such a distant historical connection, not when you consider genetic drift . . . but a certain kind of engineering would explain it, too. Another species doing experimentation on a symbiont, perhaps, a very long time ago.”

  There was silence for a moment, Ezri trying to absorb the information, trying to consider the implications—but she had no idea what to do with it.

  She turned again to Cyl, and his expression troubled her.

  “Did you know about this?” Ezri demanded in a whisper.

  “Of course not,” Cyl said, but he couldn’t hold her gaze. Ezri raised her voice, unable to help it. “No more secrets, Cyl, I’ve had enough!”

  Cyl shook his head. “Ezri, please . . . You must believe me when I say that I’m as taken aback by this as you are. Audrid Dax herself was one of the first to document the biological connection between symbiont and parasite. But the assumption was always that it represented some natural evolutionary divergence in the distant past. As far I know, no one ever put forth the theory that the parasites were engineered.”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as odd?” Kira asked.

  Cyl turned to her. “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is that maybe the reason no one has ever suggested the possibility that the parasites were engineered from symbionts is precisely because no one wanted that to be known. Maybe that’s the real reason Trill has always been so secretive about the symbionts. Not just for the living memory they represent—the pseudo-immortality of the joined—but because of the danger they pose if exploited. If they were tampered with once, and it gave rise to the parasites . . . is it such a stretch to believe that your leaders would do or say anything to prevent that from happening again?”

  Cyl’s brow furrowed. His spots seemed to darken. “You’re sugge
sting a generational conspiracy. Among the leaders of my world.”

  Kira leaned forward. “Can you honestly rule it out?”

  Cyl opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again.

  “I called this meeting as soon as Julian told me,” Kira said. “My thinking is that this gives you something solid to present to the TSC. If you tell your people that an alien race experimented on the symbionts during their evolution, they might be more willing to cooperate, to find out who and why.”

  Ezri nodded slowly. It was a possible angle; the symbionts were precious to their hosts, and well-protected by them. And it’s about time that something shook them out of their denial. Maybe this is it.

  She took Julian’s hand again, under the table. They’d been back from the Gamma Quadrant for less than a single day. “When should we go?” she asked.

  “I haven’t decided,” Kira said. “But I want you to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. That means you taking charge on the Defiant, making sure she’s prepped for flight immediately, and standing by to depart when I give the word. She’ll make the trip faster than anything else we’ve got.”

  Ezri nodded, glancing at Julian with a faint smile of regret. He smiled back, but it didn’t erase the look in his eyes, the stark worry that she saw there. He was afraid for her . . . and she couldn’t refute his fear; she was afraid for all of them.

  * * *

  Ro Laren entered the small block of cells in the early evening, balancing a bulky data-entry padd and two mugs of hot liquid. Gard sat up from his bunk, his attention fixed on the padd, big enough to have a foldscreen and a tie-in to a main system. He hoped very much that she’d be leaving without it.

  Ro set the items down on the watch console, turning to look at Gard. “Promise not to kill me, if I open your door?” she asked, a trace of smile in her voice.