by Dayton Ward
Daret touched another control on the monitor and the opaque tint of the stasis unit’s top surface began to clear, revealing what Crusher recognized as something resembling the body of a humanoid. Bones and fragments of bones had been arranged inside the container in such a manner as to present the appearance of a person, as though the individual in question had been assembled from miscellaneous components. The skull, along with several sections of both arms and legs, was missing.
“These remains were discovered in an area of what was the Olanda labor camp,” Daret said. “That section of the compound was excavated about six months ago. As is common practice with the identification protocols we’ve established, we ran comparisons of the subject’s genetic structure against all known databases of such information on Bajor. We also engaged Federation and Starfleet resources, hoping to find genetic matches to family members.” He shook his head. “Such records aren’t complete, of course, and a lot of that information was lost during the Occupation, but protected archives still exist on Cardassia Prime. Every Bajoran in Cardassian custody was identified via retinal and genetic scans, particularly if they were sent to Terok Nor or to labor camps or other destinations away from the Bajoran homeworld.”
Crusher remembered something about this from a file detailing the status and medical treatment of slave workers employed aboard Terok Nor, the massive Cardassian space station that had orbited Bajor during the Occupation. Doctor Julian Bashir once had shared the file with her during one of the Enterprise’s rare visits to Bajor, after the station had been repurposed to serve as Federation Station Deep Space 9. Of course, now that station was gone, replaced by a state-of-the-art Starfleet facility, and Bashir was a criminal facing court-martial for violating Starfleet and Federation law while working to help the people of Andor. Though he likely had saved that planet’s civilization from eventual extinction, there could be no arguing the illegality of the methods he had employed to bring about that laudable achievement. Crusher sympathized with her friend’s plight, but the doctor’s status was sure to be a key debate now that Andor had been readmitted to the Federation. He almost certainly would be surrendered to the authorities for trial, to answer for whatever charges Starfleet and the Federation Council had drawn up against him.
Good luck, Julian.
“How conclusive are such comparisons?” Konya asked.
Daret replied, “As you might imagine, it is a slow, painstaking process, which often yields failure—or, as some of my associates and I prefer to view it, more challenges.” He gestured to the subject. “However, we also enjoy our share of successes, such as with this individual.”
Crusher stepped closer to the table. “You’re telling us that this person is . . . ?” She allowed the rest of the question to hang in the air between them, unspoken, and Daret’s gaze met hers.
“This person, according to every record available to us, is Ishan Anjar.”
Cruzen was the first to react. “Wait, what?” Her features closed with confusion; she looked first to Daret before turning to Crusher. “Is he serious?”
Nodding, Crusher replied, “Yes, he’s quite serious.”
“You’re saying that the Federation president is . . . what?” Konya asked, making no effort to hide his disbelief. “An impostor? That he took the identity of another Bajoran?”
Daret replied, “Based on the available evidence, it seems so.”
“I can see getting away with that here, during the Occupation,” Cruzen said, “but later? Are you suggesting he avoided any further checks of his identity?”
Konya replied, “No, that’s impossible. There would’ve been any number of physicals after the Occupation and more when he began serving in public office. Hell, the background checks to be elected to the Federation Council would be enough to uncover any sort of deception.”
“He had help,” Crusher said.
His mouth frozen in the midst of his next sentence, Konya blinked and turned to Crusher before nodding. “Yes, exactly. He would’ve needed help somewhere along the line. At the very least, he would’ve needed access to sensitive information.”
“That may be the more likely scenario,” Cruzen said. “From the bio I read when he was appointed president pro tem, he worked for a time as a civil servant in the Bajoran provisional government. Back then, with so many people needing help and so many issues to tackle after the Cardassians’ withdrawal, the new government was filling positions as fast as applicants presented themselves. It took months just to get everything organized.” She paused, as though considering the ramifications of what she was saying. “Someone looking to manipulate or falsify whatever records or databases remained after the Occupation could have done it any time in those first couple of years.”
“It’s just a theory,” Konya snapped, and Crusher watched his expression change as he looked to the floor, shaking his head. In a quieter voice, he added, “But I suppose it’s possible. Crazy, but possible.”
“Any crazier than Changelings replacing prominent leaders during the Dominion War?” Cruzen asked. She gestured to the body on the table. “If this really is Ishan Anjar, then the impostor’s had years to cement his cover. Are we thinking he’s some kind of sleeper agent? For who? The Cardassians?”
Crusher said, “Maybe, but that raises a lot of other questions. Is the impostor—if that’s what he truly is—simply a turncoat Bajoran, or a Cardassian or some other individual surgically altered to appear Bajoran? Any of those scenarios would require the sort of records falsification he would need to preserve his identity.”
“If he is an undercover operative,” Daret said, “then he certainly had assistance establishing his cover, even in the early days of the Bajoran provisional government. It would have taken a great deal of time to insert him, and it may well have been a process that began here, though there are no records of any such operations taking place. Even if it was a scheme to alter his identity for another reason—such as concealing his activities as a collaborator—the records kept here for the Bajoran laborers could have been manipulated well before the evacuation and Starfleet’s arrival. Assuming he possessed the appropriate resources, opportunity, and assistance, such a deception could be furthered with relative ease.”
“But why?” Crusher asked. “I mean, I understand wanting to cover his tracks after the Occupation if he was a collaborator, but what about after that? If he was hoping to keep a low profile and avoid prosecution by the Bajoran government, taking a position on the Federation Council and running for president seems counterproductive.”
Daret’s expression grew somber, and Crusher heard him clear his throat before he said, “Beverly, you will recall from our conversation while you were en route here that I made mention of a colleague. He was a Bajoran, Doctor Raal Mosara, and he was the one who identified this subject as Ishan Anjar, working from the archived records kept on Cardassia Prime. He spent three months confirming this, keeping it a secret even from me for most of that time. Only when he had removed his final doubts did he share what he had found, along with his intentions to take what he had learned to visit a close personal friend who serves in the Bajoran government. He prepared copies of all his findings and accompanying notes and sources and departed on a transport for Bajor more than two months ago.”
“And you haven’t heard from him since then?” Konya asked.
“No, even though we had established a schedule for contact.” His gaze seeming to fix on something before him that only he could see, Daret began to pace a slow circuit around the examination table. “Mosara would not even tell me the identity of his friend on Bajor, so my ability to attempt locating him was severely limited, and that’s before you take into account any danger he might have faced with the knowledge he possesses.”
“You said he prepared copies of his notes,” Crusher said as Daret came around the table and walked toward her. “Does that mean the originals, or other copies, are still here?”
Again, Daret sighed. “That is my understanding,
though none of that data is here, or in Mosara’s residence or laboratory. He told me before he left that he had taken care to hide those materials.” He placed a hand atop the stasis unit. “Along with portions of the remains he recovered from the excavation site. According to Mosara, there is enough evidence to prove without doubt that this is Ishan Anjar.”
“So where did he hide the evidence?” Cruzen asked.
“I do not know,” Daret replied. “He insisted it was for my own protection, at least for the moment, but if anything happened to him that I would know what to do.”
Konya grunted, “If he said that, then he’s left some clue he’s expecting you to find, something in his house or lab, or something you’d be able to figure out because you know him well enough.”
“Yes,” Daret said, “that was my thinking, as well, but I am at a loss to divine what Mosara might have meant.”
“A puzzle,” Crusher said. “Wonderful. Whatever we’re going to do,” she said, “we need to do it fast.”
On the one hand, she could understand the precautions Raal Mosara had taken to protect not only himself but also Ilona. But Raal’s disappearance would only hamper efforts to retrieve the stunning evidence he had amassed, and Crusher already was operating on borrowed time. How much longer could she hope to evade suspicion or detection? Would Captain Ro Laren be able to cover for her absence on Deep Space 9, or did President Ishan—whatever his real name—have someone on the station to alert him when Crusher failed to arrive for duty? Once that was known, attention would be cast on Jean-Luc and the Enterprise crew, who also were attempting to provide protection for her whereabouts and activities.
“About your friend,” Crusher said. “Maybe Captain Ro or Captain Sisko can help us with that. Surely they have contacts on Bajor who might be able to help find him.”
“That’ll be a waste of time,” said another voice from behind them, startling Crusher. Its familiar baritone tenor filled her at once with surprise and relief, and she turned to see the imposing figure dressed in dark civilian attire standing in the doorway leading from Daret’s lab. Her initial astonishment only deepened when she realized the man before her was both a friend and a stranger. His dark hair possessed more gray, and there was a weariness to his normally intense, bright blue eyes. The beard he sported was unkempt and also littered with gray, almost but not quite covering a thin scar.
Oh my god. It can’t be . . . ?
“Raal Mosara is almost certainly dead,” said Thomas Riker, “and we will be, too, if we don’t find his evidence and get it back to Earth.”
Fourteen
Starbase 310
“While I can’t say I don’t appreciate the help, Captain, I cannot help thinking that sending the Enterprise on a cargo run seems a little beneath you.”
From where he stood at the viewing port overlooking the flurry of activity taking place on the main floor of the starbase’s primary cargo transfer center, Picard affected what he hoped was a convincing air of muted resignation. With a sigh that to his ears sounded a bit forced, he turned from the window and regarded the station’s commanding officer, Admiral Joris Rhaast.
“It’s no trouble at all, Admiral. The Enterprise is heading in that general direction, anyway, and a brief stop at Acheron won’t impact our schedule.” In truth, the cargo run to the colony world was but one part of the ruse Admiral Riker had engineered as a means of giving Picard maneuvering room while the captain carried out a different, clandestine mission.
Rhaast smiled, and when she did so her white teeth seemed even brighter when contrasted against the deep hue of her blue skin. “Spoken like an accomplished diplomat. Even that assignment seems a bit odd for you. Security patrols along the border?”
“Not given the problems we’ve experienced with some of the sensor systems upgrades,” Picard said. “I’m thankful for a bit of dull patrol duty. And that reminds me: Thank you for letting us borrow your station chief to assist my chief engineer with the diagnostics. I know Commander La Forge is grateful not only for the extra set of eyes and hands, but also the perspective of someone who’s not used to looking at our ship’s innards every day.”
“No need to thank me. Chief Vitali is grateful for the change in routine.” Casting another glance down to where Picard counted seven different cargo consignments being moved to different locations around the massive processing facility, Rhaast added, “As he told me, it is not often that he receives the opportunity to crawl around inside a Sovereign-class vessel. After all, our repair facilities aren’t large enough for something the size of Enterprise.”
“Still, I imagine the chief is rather busy, so any time he can spare to help us is appreciated.” In point of fact, Picard was happy to have one of the admiral’s people working aboard his ship, as it lent an air of legitimacy to his request for help diagnosing the supposed issues with the Enterprise’s sensor systems. La Forge had “invented” the problems in order to provide cover for the real assignment given to him by Picard: sweeping the ship for anything that might be some kind of covert surveillance equipment, as well as scanning the computer memory banks for sniffer software. As of the chief engineer’s last cryptic status report, he had found no such attempts at furtive reconnaissance.
Rhaast said, “What I don’t believe is them sending you out to run a security patrol, while you’re dealing with such issues.” She shook her head. “There are times when I question Starfleet Command’s decision-making abilities. Then again, I made the decision to accept promotion and command this starbase, rather than keeping my captain’s rank and my ship. I think you may be smarter than all of us, Jean-Luc.”
Picard allowed his expression to soften. “Oh, they’re still after me, Joris. I’ve lost track of how many times they’ve chased me with a promotion, but for the moment I’m able to outrun them. I just don’t know how much longer I can keep it up.”
Her eyes widening as she feigned shock, the Bolian chuckled. “This, from the first freshman cadet to win the Academy marathon?”
“First, and only,” Picard corrected. “At least, as far as I know. I should probably check on that, one of these days.” He recalled that day, so long ago, and the elation he had felt as he passed four other runners, each of them upperclassmen, on his way to the finish line. Even now, he was hard-pressed to explain from where he had summoned the will and the energy for that final, decisive burst of speed.
“I would have beaten you if I had not tripped.” Rhaast leaned closer, her voice lowered. “And I never did get that rematch. What are you doing later today?”
“With any luck, bidding a tactical retreat,” Picard replied. “I know a sucker bet when I see one.” It was true that Joris Rhaast appeared almost too thin for her flag officer’s variant of the Starfleet duty uniform, with its jacket seeming to hang from her shoulders. Due to her slight physique as well as her age, a casual observer might even dismiss her as weak, but Picard knew better. In addition to the various awards and accolades she had won over the years for record-setting marathon wins at events held across the Federation, the Bolian also was a noted martial arts enthusiast. She excelled in several disciplines and had taught a specialized unarmed combat course for a time at Starfleet’s training school for new officers and enlisted personnel who had chosen the security division as their career path.
Rhaast shrugged. “Then dinner, perhaps? You and your family can be my guests.” Then she chuckled again. “Jean-Luc Picard, father; I say it out loud, and I still can’t believe it.”
“There was most definitely a transition,” Picard said, “but one for which I’ve enjoyed every moment.” His response elicited another small laugh from his old friend.
“Even that sounds improbable.” She reached out, patting him on his arm. “Though I must say that you shoulder fatherhood well. You always were a father figure or mentor of sorts, once you settled down after the Academy. I have never met anyone who knows you and would not follow you anywhere you might lead, and I cannot wait to meet the child who w
ill benefit from having a man of such character in his life.”
Becoming uncomfortable with the effusive praise, Picard cleared his throat. “I’d love to introduce you to René, but it will just be two of us. His mother has taken a temporary assignment at Deep Space Nine as their interim chief medical officer.”
Nodding, Rhaast said, “A fine mess, that. I do not know all the details, of course, but I know enough. Are the rumors true that Doctor Bashir and Captain Dax are to stand court-martial?”
“I don’t know,” Picard replied. “The matter is being kept under wraps, at least for the moment.” He had tried to get more information from Riker, but his former first officer and trusted friend had been unable to provide any details. Even discussing the issue might attract unwanted attention, something Picard was keen to avoid for as long as possible.
“Secrets seem to be the status quo, these days,” Rhaast said. “I cannot say it is something that brings me great comfort.” She sighed, gazing through the viewport into the cargo center and the activity taking place there. “Indeed, there is very little within the upper echelons of Starfleet Command and the Federation that brings me comfort.”
Frowning, Picard asked, “What do you mean?” When Rhaast at first said nothing, he pressed, “Joris, we’ve known each other since our first day at the Academy. You’ve always been someone I could trust, and I’d like to think you believe the same of me.” Even as he spoke the words, he tried to ignore his own recriminations over his decision not to tell the admiral about La Forge’s ongoing hunt for surveillance devices aboard the Enterprise. Instead, he said, “It’s in the spirit of that trust that I ask you: What is it that you see happening around us?”
