by David Mack
Cole handed Bashir the towel. “You’re looking well.”
Bashir dried himself. “What do you want?”
“Manners, Doctor. There’s no need for such rudeness.”
“Oh, really? The last time we met, you sent me on a manhunt into the Badlands, to fix one of your mistakes. If memory serves, that ‘simple assignment’ became a bloodbath. To be blunt, Mister Cole, your presence conjures less than cordial memories.”
The accusations drew a thin smile of mild embarrassment from Cole. “Touché.”
Bashir lifted his thick gray cotton robe from a hook on the privacy wall of mortared stones that surrounded the deck. “It’s late. Do us both a favor and get to the point.”
The agent crossed his arms. “As you wish. There’s a situation developing that will very likely require a response from the organization. Because of the specific details of this crisis, I think you’re uniquely qualified to be of help.”
“Not interested.” Bashir tied his robe shut.
“You haven’t heard the details yet.”
“I don’t need to. I was opposed to everything your organization represents when we met nine years ago, and I find it—and you—just as offensive now.”
A mirthless smirk hinted at Cole’s growing ire. “What aspect of our remit offends you? The part where we save innocent lives? Or the one where we defend the Federation?”
“I object to your utter lack of accountability. You act without legal authority, oversight, ethics, or humanity. You’re a cancer infecting the Federation, an infection I’d gladly excise.”
Cole shrugged. “I guess it’s true. You can’t please everyone.”
Bashir took a step toward Cole, intending to confront him, but halted as the agent uncrossed his arms and let his hands fall to his sides, open and tensed to act. Subtle shifts in the older man’s balance and posture signaled that he was ready to defend himself, and that he would likely prove to be a merciless opponent in hand-to-hand combat. Sensing that he was out of his league against a trained killer such as Cole, Bashir backed off just enough to signal he had no intention of pressing an attack. “Joke all you like; I find nothing funny about what you are.”
“What I am, Doctor, is effective. Something you ceased to be the moment you let yourself get drummed out of Starfleet.” He pivoted from his hips, making a show of looking around with disdain at the luxury residence Bashir now shared with Sarina. “You can’t tell me this is your idea of a meaningful life?”
“Actually, I’m planning on opening a private practice here on Andor.”
The agent let out a short, derisive chortle. “Of course you are.”
“Meaning what?”
“Where else can you go? As I understand it, Andor’s the only planet that’ll give you a license to practice medicine these days.” He held up a hand to forestall Bashir’s rebuttal. “Yes, I know Federation law says other member worlds have to recognize your license—full faith and credit, and so on. But without a Federation-issued license, you’d have to retake your board exams on every world you visit before you could practice there. Sounds inconvenient to me.”
Anger began to show through Bashir’s carefully crafted mask of indifference. “If all you have left to offer are insults, feel free to do your disappearing trick anytime now.”
“I’m not trying to pick a fight with you, Doctor. All I’m saying is, I understand how . . . unfulfilling your current circumstances must feel. Until now, you’d spent your entire adult life either in Starfleet or at its academy, preparing for your medical career. Now the admiralty’s cast you aside for no better reason than you caused them some embarrassment, by doing what they should have had the courage to do in the first place. You’ve devoted your life to others, to serving the Federation and the ideals for which it stands. Are you really going to spend the rest of your life on the outside looking in, just because Starfleet says so? Come work with us, and you can still serve the Federation—where, when, and how you’re most needed.”
Bashir moved beneath the heat lamps, under the trellis in front of the sliding glass doors that led to the top floor of his and Sarina’s hilltop villa. He looked back at Cole and shook his head. “I see what you’re trying to do. It won’t work. Appealing to my wounded pride isn’t nearly enough to make me abandon my principles, no matter how patriotic you try to make it sound.”
“What if I told you the Breen are looking for a way to reach the alternate universe? The one you visited back in 2370 with your pal Kira Nerys.”
That news snared Bashir’s attention. “Why would the Breen want to go there?”
“To steal advanced technology. The Terran Rebellion you helped inspire won its revolution a few years ago, with a little help from some folks a lot like us. Unfortunately for them, their success has painted a target on their backs—and the Breen are taking aim.”
It was a troubling scenario, but Bashir knew better than to take Section 31 at its word. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth? What proof do you have?”
“Nothing solid. Not yet, anyway. For now, we have to rely on educated guesswork.”
“I see. More smoke and mirrors. The same old story.” He walked toward the glass doors, which parted in response to his approach. Warm air billowed out of the villa and washed over him. “Sorry, but I won’t sell my soul in the name of ‘guesswork.’ ”
Cole still sounded confident. “So if I bring you solid evidence, you’re in?”
Bashir stopped and looked back at Cole. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” A sinister smile deepened the creases of the agent’s weathered face. “I’ll be in touch, Doctor. Good night.”
Bright colors washed over Cole from crown to sole. He flickered and pixelated for an instant, and then he vanished like a dream lost at the moment of awakening.
Bashir gazed upon the empty space left behind by the interactive hologram of Cole. For all his protests, he had been expecting a visit from Section 31 for some time. The only surprise had been the organization’s decision to use Cole as their messenger.
He stepped away from the doors. They slid closed, leaving Bashir to regard the dark outline of his reflection on their tinted glass. So far, my infiltration of Thirty-one is going exactly as Sarina and I planned. He frowned at his shadow self. That can’t be a good sign.
* * *
Sarina Douglas knew whom she would find waiting for her when she reached the Kathela Falls Bridge. The long, narrow walkway, which passed behind the falls’ roaring wall of water, was deserted except for the Vulcan woman who had summoned her. Though Sarina was not prone to acrophobia, she avoided looking down through the transparent aluminum walkway plates at the vertiginous drop to the falls’ indigo lake, more than three kilometers below.
She stopped beside L’Haan, who stared at the curtain of falling water. The Section 31 handler’s voice was low and dispassionate, yet tinged with notes of accusation. “You said he would cooperate. That he would be receptive to our overtures.”
“If you had been the ones to liberate him from the black site prison—”
“That wasn’t an option.” The bangs of L’Haan’s Cleopatra-cut black hair stayed in place even as she turned and tilted her head in a birdlike pose. “Why did he refuse our invitation?”
“From what I heard, he made his reasons clear to your man Cole.”
“I’m not interested in his naïve rationale. I want your explanation for this setback. You assured me that once he was out of Starfleet, he’d be ready to join us. What happened?”
Sarina faced L’Haan, deliberately leaning in to encroach on the older woman’s personal space. “You want to know what happened? The pardon is what happened. We were supposed to approach him when he had no other options—no career, no home, no allies left in Starfleet. But you let the Andorians spring him from prison. Then zh’Tarash gave him a clean slate, and the Andorians gave him a new medical license. He doesn’t need us now.”
“You didn’t accoun
t for those possibilities?”
“No, and neither did you. Because when we started this, there was no way we could’ve known the sitting president protem would turn out to be a war criminal with a stolen identity. Or that his chief of staff would end up in prison. Or that Andor would get fast-tracked back into the Federation. Or that an Andorian would win a surprise victory in the presidential election—and end up granting a full pardon to the man who saved her species from extinction.”
L’Haan backed away from Sarina and turned her eyes back toward the water. “When one frames the situation in those terms, the paradigm shift becomes easier to understand.” She tapped her right index finger against the bridge’s railing. “We need him for this mission.”
“I can bring him into the organization.”
“How?”
“Exactly as you predicted four years ago. The key to Bashir is his sense of romance. He loves me. There’s nothing he won’t do for me. If I ask him to join us, he will.”
It was a bold suggestion, and a dangerous one. Sarina knew it was necessary to expedite Julian’s infiltration into Section 31, but she had to make sure the organization didn’t suspect her true motives, or Julian’s.
As she’d expected, L’Haan met the notion with a dubious glare. “Do you think it’s wise to risk abandoning your cover? Revealing yourself to him as one of our agents might sabotage all your efforts to secure his affections.”
She shook her head. “Not a chance. I know how to control him now. He’ll be upset at first. He’ll resist, and he’ll argue. He might even try to turn me. But in the end he’ll decide I matter more to him than his hatred for Section Thirty-one.”
The Vulcan considered Sarina’s argument, then gave a grudging nod. “Very well. But this has to work, Agent Douglas. If he betrays you to Starfleet, we’ll have to eliminate you both.”
“I understand—but that’s not going to happen. Trust me: I can deliver Bashir.”
“When?”
“Midnight tomorrow.”
“See that you do.” L’Haan retreated into the icy shadows without offering Sarina so much as a token gesture of valediction.
Alone on the bridge, Sarina watched the plunging water vanish into the misty depths far beneath her feet, and she remembered that according to Andorian legends, Kathela Falls was where star-crossed lovers came to take their own lives. Then she reflected upon the disastrous course she had just set for herself and Julian, and wondered whether L’Haan had understood the cultural significance of the place she had chosen for this fateful meeting.
She stared into the blue gloom where the falls met the lake, and she faced the bitter truth. No turning back now. We’re already over the edge—and there’s nowhere left to go but down.
Five
The Alternate Universe
Kersil Regon waited on the shore. Kilometers away, in the middle of the shallow lake, stood a twisted mountain of metallic wreckage and broken thermoconcrete—the shattered remains of the once proud floating city known as Stratos. At home on Cardassia Prime, Regon had grown up surrounded by monuments to victory and success. Not until she had come here, to the now abandoned protectorate world of Ardana, had she ever seen a shrine to failure.
She was tempted to read too much into the fate of the dead metropolis. It had been felled years earlier by renegades acting on behalf of the Terran Rebellion. Her poetical nature wanted to extract a metaphor from the city’s tragic end, but she dismissed the urge. It had been destroyed because its incompetent Klingon half-breed intendant, B’Elanna Torres, had been too foolish to see the threat of the rebellion for what it was, and too weak to defend herself from it.
Regon’s mood turned maudlin. No one can save us from ourselves.
Footsteps crunched on the rocky ground behind her. Approaching with long strides and heavy steps was Kort, a Klingon whose assignment at Imperial Intelligence was the same as Regon’s had once been at the now disbanded Obsidian Order. He had donned drab civilian clothing for their meeting, just as she had done.
They met, clasped each other’s forearms, then came together in a brief embrace. Kort bared his jagged teeth in a broad grin. “It’s been too long, dear Regon.”
They parted, and she gave him an approving nod. “You’re looking well, Kort.”
“All an illusion, I assure you.”
Up close, she saw that the furrows in Kort’s weathered face had deepened beyond what could be blamed on time’s relentless passage. His angular features had become careworn.
Despite her curiosity, she elected not to pry into his personal life. Instead, she turned her eyes toward the broken peaks of Mount Stratos and steered their conversation toward business. “Thank you for coming. I know it can’t have been easy for you to get away.”
“No more challenging than it must have been for you.” He took in the bleak landscape with a disappointed frown. “We used to own all of this. Now we’re trespassers here.”
She was suspicious of his seemingly innocent choice of pronoun. “I presume when you say ‘we’ used to own all of this, you mean the Alliance—not merely the Klingon Empire.”
He feigned offense. “Naturally.” A teasing smile dispelled his charade. “You and I might not agree which of our peoples deserved to be the dominant partner in the Alliance, but we’ve always agreed they were stronger together than separately.”
“True. That’s why I contacted you.” She crossed her arms against a cold wind that gusted over them and rippled the surface of the lake. “Ever since the armistice, Damar has done his best to erase the Obsidian Order from existence, but many of its members remain. And they don’t look kindly upon his détente with the rebels, or their new commonwealth.”
A chortle masquerading as a cough rolled inside Kort’s barrel chest. “I’m sure his support of the Oralian Way hasn’t won him much love from the old guard, either.”
“Your gift for understatement is rarely seen in Klingons.”
“A consequence of circumstance. Regent Duras has been vexing the High Council and the high command of the Defense Force with his talk of restoring the ancient codes of honor. It seems no one ever told him ‘Kahless’ is just a name. He treats it like a magical totem.”
“I confess I’m torn when it comes to your regent. On the one hand, I despise him for appeasing the rebels by recognizing their government. On the other, he has been quite generous to Cardassia in its time of need.”
Kort gathered a mouthful of spit with a great wet rasp, then spat on the ground between himself and Regon. “Curse him and his charity. The strong should not coddle the weak.”
His implied insult made a murderous chill course through Regon’s veins. She reined in her urge to draw the blade hidden beneath her sleeve and slash the Klingon’s throat. “Save your venom for the real enemy, Kort. Cardassia’s clandestine services have been neutered, but those of us who still know how to do our jobs have learned something worth sharing. That is, if you and your allies at Imperial Intelligence are interested in restoring the balance of power.”
“I belong to a shadow section that stands ready to act.” His eyes narrowed beneath their shaggy brows. “What have your people learned?”
Regon wondered how much Kort knew. It was possible he was fishing with a naked hook, hoping to reel in some morsel of actionable intel while giving up nothing of value in return. Or he might pretend to do so, soliciting help from her and then withholding his own. Despite the many times they had saved each other’s lives in previous decades, she still found it hard to trust him, now that they both were desperate for leverage.
Faced with no better alternative, she chose to put her trust in her old brother spy. “Our sensor posts have been tracking the Commonwealth’s fleet. They’re usually hopping all over the place, sometimes so fast we can barely keep up with them. But over the past week they’ve been oddly static. As if they’re waiting for something. Something significant.”
The Klingon digested that news with a pensive grunt. “Interesting. One of
our scout ships reported yesterday that a small fleet of alien vessels arrived through the Bajoran wormhole.”
“An alien fleet? From the Gamma Quadrant?”
“So it seems. We’re still trying to decrypt their comms with the jaunt ship that was sent to meet them. All we know so far is that the newcomers hail from what they call the Dominion.”
The pieces of the puzzle aligned in Regon’s imagination. “That must be what has the Commonwealth fleet on alert. They’re all standing by in case they need to go to war.”
“Wishful thinking, dear Regon. And not a shred of proof to support it.” He grinned. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Maybe not. But we’ll both need to change if you want to come with me.”
“Why? Where will you be going?”
“To Bajor. The only way to know what’s really happening there is to put ourselves in the thick of it. And to do that”—she stroked his cheek—“we’ll have to be able to fit in.”
Kort winced at her implication. “Cosmetic surgery? Tell me you aren’t serious.”
“Unfortunately, I am. But look on the bright side.” She leaned close to him and breathed a coquettish whisper into his ear. “For once, we won’t be able to tell which of us is the prettier.”
* * *
The thoroughfares of Erebus Station coursed with activity. Director Saavik moved along the edges of the crowd. The elderly Vulcan woman passed one docked jaunt ship after another. Steady currents of young men and women, hailing from a variety of species, moved on and off the vessels. Some were members of the ships’ crews; others were engineers and mechanics who were involved in preparing the Commonwealth’s next fleet for launch in a few weeks.
Saavik remembered the early years of Erebus Station, when it had been all but deserted, an automated shipyard programmed to first build itself and then to construct the wormhole-drive jaunt ships that had changed the fate of the galaxy by giving the Terran Rebellion an unassailable advantage over the now defunct Klingon-Cardassian Alliance. The station’s vast interior spaces had echoed with emptiness, and its arresting view of the entirety of the Milky Way galaxy’s elliptical spiral, as seen from more than two hundred thousand light-years away, had gone unappreciated. As jealously as Saavik guarded her scant hours of quiet solitude, she preferred to see Erebus Station alive with the hustle and bustle of daily activity.
