by Dayton Ward
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For Michi, Addison, and Erin
Historian’s Note
On August 27, 2385, during the dedication of the new Deep Space 9, the president of the Federation was assassinated (Star Trek: The Fall: Revelation and Dust). Nanietta Bacco’s death aided in the fall of the Cardassian government (Star Trek: The Fall: The Crimson Shadow) and drove Doctor Julian Bashir to break his Starfleet oath and commit treason (Star Trek: The Fall: A Ceremony of Losses).
Citing the assassination, officials from within the Federation president’s administration began putting into motion a wide range of unorthodox schemes: ignoring the chain of command and giving secret orders to Starfleet as well as creating and dispatching special operations teams tasked with finding the assassin. Troubled by President Pro Tempore Ishan Anjar’s actions, Admiral Akaar ordered home the U.S.S. Titan, promoted Will Riker to rear admiral, and tasked him with finding out what Ishan was up to (Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice).
Just weeks before the special election for the remainder of Bacco’s term, Andor was readmitted to the Federation, allowing Kellessar zh’Tarash, the presider of Andor, to run for Federation president.
The main narrative of this story takes place between October 13 and October 27, 2385.
Prologue
Jevalan, Doltiri System—Earth Year 2369
Gil Cetal Lagrar ran onto the balcony of his office and stared across the courtyard in time to see the front of the three-story barracks building coming apart. Echoes of the explosion still lingering in the air now were drowned out by the low roar of crumbling metal and thermocrete. A cloud of dust billowed outward from the base of the collapse, expanding to obscure the light poles situated at regular intervals around the encampment.
“What happened?” Lagrar called out as he caught sight of four soldiers emerging from cover near an adjacent building. No sooner did he ask the question than alarms began wailing across the compound.
One of the soldiers, his sidearm in his hand, gestured with the weapon toward the damaged barracks. “We don’t know, sir!” he shouted, just barely audible over the sirens.
Looking around the compound, Lagrar saw more soldiers—most of them armed—exiting the other buildings. The officers in charge already were organizing the soldiers into groups or sending them to different areas of the camp. That was good, Lagrar decided, for as the officer on duty and in charge of the guard detail this evening, he had his own responsibilities to oversee.
After checking with the sentries who were manning posts around the compound’s perimeter and the buildings that housed the Olanda labor camp workers and ordering the soldiers at those locations to maintain their positions, Lagrar made his way outside, getting his first real look at the destroyed barracks. Emergency teams already were moving about the edges of the destruction, working to extinguish the few small fires that had broken out amid the rubble. Lagrar heard the faint, high-pitched warbling of scanners and calls for assistance as soldiers and other support personnel scrambled over the wreckage in search of survivors. Searchlights were being moved or repositioned to focus on the scene and to provide illumination for workers. Over it all, the alarms continued to echo in the night air.
Just hours before daybreak, how many soldiers and others had been inside the building? Too many, Lagrar knew, just as he was certain that the explosion that had caused this damage could not be a simple accident.
Sabotage.
His communications device chirped for his attention. Activating the unit, he snapped, “Lagrar.”
“This is Glinn Virat,” said the voice of the officer responsible for the guard detail overseeing the workers’ compound. “I am already receiving requests from emergency teams for labor parties to help with moving debris.”
“Absolutely not,” Lagrar snapped. “Someone from over there may well have planted the bomb. No one leaves or enters that camp until further notice. Anyone who violates that order, whether Cardassian or Bajoran, is to be shot. Is that understood?”
Virat replied, “Understood, and I approve. However, I imagine the commander will take issue with such a directive.”
“Perhaps,” Lagrar said, “but as I am the officer in overall authority of the entire guard detachment, such decisions fall to me during alert situations. I will answer to Pavok once we restore order.” He knew that his decree would be called into question by the camp’s commander, Gul Pavok, but Lagrar had no time now to worry about things such as his superior’s ego and whining about having his authority circumvented or ignored. At the moment, containment of the current situation—along with identifying those responsible—and seeing to the rescue of any survivors was of paramount importance. If a few impudent Bajorans and even some of his own stubborn or stupid subordinates had to be sacrificed to meet those goals, then it was a price Lagrar was willing to pay. Worrying about Pavok’s reaction and accompanying temper tantrum could wait.
Another tone sounded from his communicator, and Lagrar tapped the device to change the frequency. “Lagrar.”
“Checkpoint Three, sir,” replied the voice of Gorr Foral, one of his subordinates on the evening’s guard detail. “Intruders detected near our position!”
Lagrar began running across the compound, bypassing the scene of destruction before him as he headed for the perimeter fence and the watchtowers positioned along its length on the encampment’s far side. “Don’t let them escape, but I want them alive!”
Another voice, this one belonging to Garresh Bilek, barked, “I am moving additional sentries to that area, sir!”
For the moment, Lagrar set aside the question of how any such intruders might not have been detected before the barracks explosion. Foral was but a low-ranking soldier, assigned the most menial of tasks for the night’s guard detail, and was one of two sentries manning a watchtower along the perimeter. Any questions pertaining to possible lapses in duty would be directed to Bilek, the garresh assigned to oversee all the guards on post this evening.
Later, he reminded himself.
Checkpoint Three was the most distant of the towers along this expanse of perimeter fence, and Lagrar recalled that it was one of the few areas of the compound that was not covered by visual sensor feeds transmitted to the camp’s command post. If he were considering a covert infiltration, he might well have selected a point along that section. The barriers themselves consisted of a metal framework within which ran a series of force-field generators. They did have certain limitations, such as the support stanchions that powered different segments of the field. The same type of barricades were used to contain the Bajoran workers in their own separate compound, which was guarded in similar fashion with sentries positioned in towers around its boundary. In theory, someone with the proper knowledge, training, and opportunity could thwart the field and enter the camp undetected.
Then there was the troubling possibility that the saboteurs may even have had assistance from someone on the inside. Worse, the party or parties responsible for the attack may already have been in the camp. Any number of Bajorans—personal assistants, kitchen and sanitation workers, house servants, comfort women and men—would have time and opportunity to enact such a bold attack, particularly if the assault had been planned and coordinated well in advance.
If that was t
he case, Lagrar would urge Gul Pavok to execute every Bajoran who had been inside the compound at the time of the explosion. Though resistance efforts on the part of the laborers was nothing new, either here or at one of the other camps scattered across the face of the planet, this incident by far was the worst manifestation of that defiance. It now was past time to make a powerful statement that such wanton destruction and any further acts of rebellion would not be tolerated. Putting to death a few dozen Bajoran laborers, regardless of their involvement in this attack, would send just the right message.
Sounds of weapons fire from somewhere ahead made Lagrar draw his disruptor pistol and quicken his pace. He rounded the corner of a smaller building near the perimeter barrier in time to see a figure—Cardassian—falling from the watchtower. The soldier’s body landed with a heavy thud on the grass and remained still while his companion in the tower was leaning over a parapet and aiming his disruptor rifle at a target Lagrar could not see. Pale yellow-white bursts of energy rained down from the tower as the guard fired, and Lagrar caught sight of two dark figures also falling to the ground. A third one dropped to a knee and raised his arm, the silhouette of a weapon in his hand. He fired at the tower, and the remaining guard fell back, out of sight.
Sprinting toward the assailant, Lagrar covered open ground in immense strides. He raised his own disruptor as the intruder turned to run. Drawing abreast of the unknown attacker’s dead companions, Lagrar recognized them both as Bajoran, one male and one female. The remaining interloper was heading for a section of the barricade between two sets of force-field generators, and even from this distance Lagrar could see that the indicators and other gauges on the control panel for these units were dark. The power for that section had been disabled.
“Halt!” Lagrar shouted, firing his disruptor so that its beam just missed the intruder and struck the barricade’s metal framework. The Bajoran, a male, ceased his running and held his hands out away from his body. “Drop the weapon!” Lagrar ordered, continuing to close the gap between them. Without turning to face him, the Bajoran allowed the disruptor pistol to fall from his hand, and it landed in the grass next to his feet. “Kick it away from you!”
Once the Bajoran complied, Lagrar reached for the restraints that should have been in a pouch on his belt, only to realize that with the exception of his sidearm, he had neglected to bring with him his other uniform accessories. The restraints, along with his baton and the badge he was supposed to wear to indicate his authority—all were lying on the desk in the duty office. He grunted in irritation, but it was only one Bajoran.
“You will turn toward me, slowly,” he ordered, training the muzzle of the disruptor on the center of the Bajoran’s back. “Do not attempt escape or resistance, or I will kill you where you stand.”
The Bajoran did not move. “You won’t kill me. My friends are already dead, and you need me to find out what happened back there.”
Was it Lagrar’s imagination, or was the worker’s tone one of self-confidence? Even arrogance? Lagrar almost fired his weapon just to alleviate his growing annoyance.
“Turn around,” Lagrar hissed. “I won’t tell you again.” After a few moments, the intruder began slowly to turn toward him, and Lagrar saw that he was young, little more than a child. “What is your name, Bajoran?”
Cloaked in shadow, the man’s left arm was invisible just for an instant as he turned, but it was enough for him to reach to his waist. Lagrar saw the movement too late, and by then, the Bajoran’s hand and the other disruptor it held was aiming at him. The last thing Lagrar saw before the weapon fired was the Bajoran’s face.
“My name is Ishan Anjar.”
One
Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, Earth
“And just as we did more than two centuries ago, the people of Andor stand once again with the United Federation of Planets, and we are humbled that you have welcomed us now as you did then: as friends and allies. As such, we Andorians rededicate ourselves to the principles that have guided this unrivaled coalition from its first days, speaking as one voice for freedom, for security, for the right of self-determination. We renew our pledge to join with our fellow beings from worlds across the Federation, serving and protecting each of its citizens as though they were born of our own world.”
Thunderous applause stopped Kellessar zh’Tarash as she stood before an open session of the Parliament Andoria. Propping himself against the edge of his desk, Admiral William Riker watched the speech as it had been recorded for later broadcast across the quadrant via the Federation News Service. The current leader of the Andorian government’s Progressive Caucus seemed almost regal on the large viewscreen that dominated the far wall of Riker’s new office at Starfleet Command Headquarters.
“She certainly knows how to blow the doors off the joint, doesn’t she?” Riker asked, gesturing toward the screen.
Seated in an overstuffed chair in one corner of the office that afforded her an unfettered view of the broadcast, Deanna Troi turned from the screen to regard her husband. “She’s quite something. The people of Andor seem to have a great deal of faith in her, and her support looks to be growing across the Federation.”
On the viewscreen, zh’Tarash continued. “Though we may have lost our way for a time, we are reminded that the Federation’s compassion and sense of unity made us a stronger world than if we had continued to stand alone. Indeed, those very ideals were exhibited yet again during a time of dire need, and it is our hope that we will have the opportunity to express our eternal gratitude for the service the Federation has provided to our world and our people. It is this cooperative spirit that has compelled me to seek the office of President of the United Federation of Planets.
“If it is the will of the people that I am allowed to serve you in this manner, I will commit myself to demonstrating that the Federation is deserving of its place of prominence in the cosmos, not through threat of force but by continuing to extend the hand of friendship. It was Nanietta Bacco’s firm belief that no sentient species in this galaxy could have a greater friend or ally, and I promise you that I will spend each day proving that she was right. This I pledge, to every citizen of this Federation, which we Andorians are honored once again to call our family.”
“Computer, pause playback,” Riker said, and the image on the screen froze as members of the Parliament Andoria were rising to their feet to once more applaud zh’Tarash. Folding his arms, the admiral blew out his breath, shaking his head. “I’ll bet Ishan is climbing the walls right about now.”
“Polls indicate an overwhelming approval of Andor’s readmission,” Troi said. “It’s an interesting change from surveys taken after their secession.”
“I remember.” Public reaction had been intense following the explosive announcement three years earlier that Andor, one of the Federation’s founding members, had decided to withdraw its membership following a close, tumultuous vote by the Andorian government. Common sentiments had included feelings of anger and betrayal, owing in large part to a lack of knowledge of the events leading up to the unprecedented decision. It had been reported that Andor’s secession was triggered by knowledge given to them by the Typhon Pact that Starfleet had examples of alien technology and information that might have led to a cure for an escalating reproductive predicament that was threatening the eventual extinction of the Andorian people.
While that was true in and of itself, what was only now being told to the public’s satisfaction were bits and pieces of the larger story surrounding the still-classified nature of Operation Vanguard and the data and materials it had collected, which were all that remained of the ancient race known as the Shedai. Chief among the discoveries made more than a century ago was the so-called “Shedai Meta-Genome,” which Starfleet had found to carry enormous potential to expand or even redefine any number of scientific and medical principles. After everything that had transpired during Starfleet’s all-but-disastrous attempts to understand the Shedai and the awesome power they once
had commanded, someone within the Federation hierarchy had decided that the entire project should be buried and forgotten, citing the potential for unchecked abuse should such knowledge fall into the wrong hands.
Though Starfleet had shoved the collected data and materials into the depths of a classified archive facility and consigned almost everyone who had survived the operation to relative obscurity, other parties who had acquired information and understanding into the Shedai continued to perform their own research. One such group was the Tholian Assembly, who, after emerging from their normal seclusion to join the Typhon Pact, had approached Andor with the knowledge they now possessed, having discovered that the Meta-Genome held the potential to end forever the planet’s fertility crisis. The Tholians also had managed to spin the truth about Starfleet’s involvement just far enough to paint it and the Federation as having somehow betrayed the Andorian people by not sharing with them their own cache of information about the Shedai and the Meta-Genome.
And the rest, Riker mused, as they say, is history.
“Even though the full story behind Operation Vanguard remains classified,” he said, pushing away from his desk and moving to the window set into his office’s rear wall, “the parts Starfleet’s been releasing seem to be appeasing the public.” His own knowledge of the top-secret project did not extend much beyond the official information releases distributed by Starfleet Command to the press, and Riker knew that the bulk of the operation’s history likely would remained cloaked in shadow for years if not decades to come. “They’re being smart about it, focusing on the good it’s done for Andor, even though the whole thing would never have happened if not for Julian Bashir.” The former chief medical officer of Deep Space 9 had accessed the classified Shedai data and used it to develop a cure for Andor’s dilemma, and while the Andorians considered him a hero, Starfleet had no choice but to charge him with espionage and possibly even treason. At this moment, arrangements were being finalized for Bashir’s return to Earth for trial. If there was a way to save the doctor from permanent disgrace and incarceration, Riker had yet to conceive of it.
