Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Plagues of Night

by David R. George III

  Since their return to DS9, things had not been quite right between them, although their lives had become far more intertwined. They had yet to truly discuss their relationship or their potential future together, but Sarina had stayed with Bashir in his quarters. Their many hours together allowed them to reacquaint themselves with each other in a way that hadn’t been possible during the execution of their mission. They each revealed the details of their lives in the years since they’d last been together, and more than that, they shared who they’d been and what they’d experienced even before they’d met. They took long walks on the Promenade, talked over drinks at Quark’s, and made love back in his quarters. But for all of that, Sarina seemed to keep a part of herself in reserve, and perhaps he did too. They connected, but not completely—not in the way they had that one night on Salavat, holed up at one point on their mission in a one-room residential unit. Bashir became convinced that something stood between them, and he kept coming back to his failure on Salavat, to his not being there with Sarina to prevent the inquisitor from—

  “Doctor?” said a voice. “Doctor Bashir?”

  Bashir blinked, and saw the commander looking across the conference table at him. Past Erdona, through the wide oval windows lining the wardroom, the doctor saw a Frunalian science vessel departing the station. Bashir had no idea how long he hadn’t been paying attention.

  “Julian?” Sarina put a hand on the forearm of his uniform. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” he said instinctively, though not truthfully. “No … I mean, yes, I’m fine.” He shook his head, as though that would clear the dour thoughts from his mind. “I’m sorry, Commander, I guess I’m just a little tired after all this.” He waved one hand above the table, vaguely meant to include their long day of discussion.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Erdona said with apparent sincerity. “We’re usually pretty thorough about this sort of thing anyway, but in this case, considering the gravity of your mission and the continuing potential for catastrophic fallout, we want to make doubly sure that we’re aware of every detail of what took place.”

  “In order to prevent a war from being waged because of the actions we took,” Bashir said, more cynically than he’d intended.

  Erdona offered a small nod in agreement. “President Bacco has been delaying a meeting with the Typhon Pact ambassador expressly so that she can be absolutely certain of her facts.”

  “It won’t come to war,” Sarina said quietly, her hand still on Bashir’s arm. “The Federation hasn’t divulged the Typhon Pact’s illegal intrusion into our space, or their violent theft of the slipstream schematics, and the Pact hasn’t divulged our violations of their territory or our assault on their secret shipyard. That means that neither side is prepared to go to war.”

  “For now,” said Bashir, acutely aware of his continuing pessimism.

  Sarina withdrew her hand from his forearm and gazed at him with what seemed like a measure of sadness. “Julian,” she said, “everything is temporary.”

  Her body language wounded him, her words formed a dagger to his heart. Everything included their relationship. Had Sarina meant her truism about the evanescence of life to be an augury of her intention to leave Deep Space 9—to leave him?

  Bashir tried to divine the answer in Sarina’s eyes, but instead felt the unwelcome presence of whatever stood between them—which in itself provided an answer. He had to look away from Sarina, and so he turned to Commander Erdona. “So what happens the next time a phase-cloaked Romulan warbird penetrates Federation space all the way to Utopia Planitia or Gavor or some other Starfleet shipyard? Or when a squadron of such vessels ambushes the Aventine or some other Vesta-class starship so that they can seize it and reverse-engineer its slipstream drive?” He could hear the sense of defeat in his own voice.

  Erdona raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I believe the conventional wisdom is that military secrets are the most fleeting of all.”

  “So we keep fighting the good fight, is that what you’re saying?” Bashir snapped back.

  “Yes, Doctor,” Erdona said. “We keep fighting the good fight. Each day that we can keep the peace with the Typhon Pact is a good day—and a day closer to the lasting peace we’re all working toward.”

  Lasting peace, Bashir thought skeptically. Suddenly, it all seemed so pointless. As long as the Federation enjoyed a technological advantage over the nations of the Typhon Pact, those nations would do whatever they needed to do in order to undermine that advantage, and thereby secure the safety of their own people. From their perspective, it seemed completely reasonable. Under the same circumstances, wouldn’t the Federation do the same? In fact, hadn’t his mission to Salavat with Sarina been an example of that? And their attempt to preserve the current balance of power—which tilted in the UFP’s favor—did not by any reckoning mark the first such actions taken by Starfleet. Bashir recalled an incident from a century earlier, when a Federation starship illegally violated Romulan space so that its crew could steal a cloaking device.

  For an uncomfortable moment, Bashir saw no difference between the two sides. The nations of the Typhon Pact feared the Federation, and the Federation feared them, and each faction conducted their foreign policy on that basis. But then Bashir drew the distinction: the United Federation of Planets did not wage preemptive war with their adversaries, did not eschew diplomacy for hostility, did not seek to usurp the territory and resources of others.

  “You’re right, of course,” Bashir said. He really wanted very much to close his eyes. Instead, he said, “Okay, so I guess I’m in.”

  Erdona regarded him for a few seconds without replying, as though attempting to parse Bashir’s words. “Pardon me, Doctor?”

  “What are you talking about, Julian?” Sarina asked, in a way that suggested she already knew what he meant.

  “I’ve been thinking of making a change,” he explained, keeping his gaze fixed on Erdona. “I may as well transfer permanently to Starfleet Intelligence.”

  “Please understand that I’ve been in no way pressuring you to join us,” the commander said. “But we would consider having a man of your abilities a tremendous asset.”

  “Julian?” Sarina said quietly.

  He turned to face her. “We can be together,” he said. He had perceived that Sarina didn’t wish to stay with him, but he needed to know why. If she could not forgive him for his transgression on Salavat, he could understand that, and he would have little choice but to accept it. But if she simply wanted to remain with Starfleet Intelligence, Bashir would not allow that to stand in their way.

  “But you don’t want this,” Sarina said.

  Bashir reached over and placed his hand on hers. “I know of only one thing in this universe that I want,” he told her.

  Sarina glanced sidelong at Commander Erdona as a flush rose across her features. Then she looked back at Bashir. “I know,” she said, and she reached for his other hand. “There’s only one thing I want too.”

  Bashir opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn’t find his voice. He loved Sarina, but as they’d stayed together on DS9, he’d felt something between them, something holding them back. But as he looked into her eyes, all of that had fallen away. Once, a long time ago, Bashir had described Sarina as the woman for whom he’d been waiting all his life. In that moment, finally, he stopped waiting.

  The woman of his dreams had arrived.

  Sarina met his loving gaze with her own before turning to look over at Erdona. “Commander,” she said, “would you mind giving us a few moments?”

  “Of course,” he said. He stood and began gathering up his padds. “We were done here anyway, other than that I wanted to speak with you, Ms. Douglas, about your return to active duty with Starfleet Intelligence. If you wish to join us as well, Doctor, we should be able to process your transfer relatively quickly.”

  “We’ll let you know,” Sarina said.

  Erdona picked up his padds, came around the table, and headed f
or the nearer set of doors. The instant they closed behind him, Bashir said, “We’re going to stay together.” He couldn’t take his eyes from Sarina’s beautiful face.

  “Yes, Julian, yes,” she said. “But not at Starfleet Intelligence. That’s not right for you.”

  “It can be,” he said. “As long as I’m with you.”

  “No,” she insisted. She let go of Bashir’s hands, stood up, and paced away from him. When she turned back to him, she said, “Before we left for Salavat, you spoke with me about all the good things you’d accomplished here on Deep Space Nine.”

  “And you spoke about your intelligence work,” he reminded her. “About helping to prevent wars, to end political oppression, to—”

  “What we were both talking about was working to make the universe a better place,” Sarina said. “We can do that here.”

  “I agree with your point,” Bashir said, “but I don’t want you to give up on your ambitions for me. Even before you came back into my life, Sarina, I was thinking of making a change.”

  “Were you?” she said, taking a step closer to him. “Why?”

  Bashir looked away, easily recalling the despair he’d felt not that long ago. He remembered sitting at a table in Quark’s, alone in the middle of the station’s most popular social space. His closest friend, Miles O’Brien, had left DS9 with his wife and children years earlier. Garak, Odo, Jake Sisko, Thirishar ch’Thane, even Worf had departed to pursue other directions in their lives. Captain Sisko had eventually returned from his time apparently spent with the wormhole aliens, but had then left Starfleet for his home on Bajor. More recently, Elias Vaughn, Kira Nerys, and Nog had left the station—though Vaughn had ultimately returned: injured during the Borg invasion, he lay in DS9’s infirmary, brain-dead, his once vital body an empty shell.

  Peering across the conference table and out through the ports at the cold stars, Bashir said, “So many of my friends have moved on from this place.”

  “And you can’t make new friends?” Sarina asked, though not unkindly.

  He looked over at her. “Well, yes, but … it’s just that I’ve been here for thirteen years.”

  “And that’s too long?”

  “Yes,” he said, the uncertainty in his voice plain. “Maybe … I don’t know.”

  Sarina smiled at him and walked back over to the conference table. She sat down, leaned forward, and once more took his hands in hers. “Julian, if you want to leave Deep Space Nine, that’s fine with me. I told you on the Aventine: where you go, I go. So if you want to transfer to some other Starfleet posting, I’ll find a place there. If you want to retire from Starfleet and practice medicine on some remote planet, I’ll be there. If you want to resign your commission and go peddle Spican flame gems … or mine Spican flame gems … or, I don’t know, create works of art out of them … I’ll be there.

  “But Starfleet Intelligence? No. It’s too dangerous. There would be too great a chance of losing you.”

  “There are dangers everywhere in the universe,” Bashir said. “Including here at DS-Nine.”

  “I know,” Sarina said. “But living aboard this station isn’t quite as risky a venture as two humans waltzing into the Breen Confederacy, posing as citizens, and destroying an experimental starship and the top-secret facility that constructed it. We both ended up drifting without a vessel in open space. We were fortunate to survive.”

  “I know,” he said. “You’re right.”

  “Look, you’ve been here for thirteen years,” Sarina said. “You’ve achieved a great deal, you’ve made good friends, and you’ve watched them pick up and move on. Now, if you’re truly prepared to move on too, then we’ll move.” She paused and squeezed his hands. “But do you know what this place sounds like to me?”

  “What?”

  “It sounds like it’s your home.”

  “Sarina,” Bashir said, “you are my home.”

  Again, she smiled. “Then it doesn’t matter where we go. It’s your choice.”

  “It’s our choice.”

  Sarina leaned farther forward and pressed her mouth against his. Soft and warm, her lips tasted sweet.

  When she sat back, she said, “Then how about this? How about we stay here for right now? I’m going to resign from Starfleet Intelligence, and I’ll see what I can find to do, either on the station or on Bajor.” She raised her head and looked all around the wardroom, as though seeing it for the first time. “This has been your home, Julian. Share it with me.”

  “But what if you don’t like it?” he asked. “What if I really am ready to move on?”

  “Then we’ll move on,” Sarina said. “It doesn’t matter where or when, as long as we’re together.”

  Bashir could not keep himself from matching Sarina’s smile with his own.

  8

  Ben Sisko hesitated. He had no idea what he would say—had no idea what more he could say. But he did know that delaying any longer would not suddenly allow him to find the words.

  Sisko reached up and pressed a fingertip to the touchpad set beside the door. Inside, chimes announced his arrival. A few seconds later, he heard footsteps approaching—footsteps he still recognized.

  Kasidy opened the front door. It had been nearly a year and a half since he’d last seen his wife in person, and in that time, he thought that he had, at least to some degree, inured himself to missing her. When he laid eyes on Kasidy, though, he felt a strong impulse to toss his duffel onto the porch, step across the threshold, and take her in his arms. She wore black slacks and a ruby-colored wraparound blouse. She’d let her dark hair grow longer, and it cascaded past her shoulders. Kasidy looked as beautiful as the day he’d met her … as the day he’d married her … as the day he’d left her.

  “Hello, Ben,” she said evenly. Her voice carried neither bitterness nor warmth. The same had been the case in the messages they’d exchanged during the past couple of months, once Sisko had reestablished contact with her.

  After Nerys had tracked him down at Starbase 39-Sierra, it had not taken him long to see the merit in what she’d said to him—in the perspective that Kasidy had asked her to pass along to him. He sent Kasidy a message telling her so, which opened up a dialogue between them about how best to reintegrate Sisko into Rebecca’s life. As part of that process, he wanted simply to tell his daughter the truth of their situation, but Kasidy resisted.

  “It’s good to see you,” Sisko said, almost nonsensically after all that had transpired.

  Kasidy did not respond to his words. Instead, she said, “Come in, it’s cold out there.”

  Sisko glanced upward, where dark clouds spilled across the sky, threatening snow. Then he walked forward and through the door, into the home that he had planned so long ago, in what seemed like an entirely different existence. Behind him, Kasidy closed the front door on the brittle winter air that had descended on Kendra Province.

  The interior of the house looked much as Sisko remembered it. To his right, beneath a vaulted ceiling, the great room spread to a comfortable sitting area, with a sofa and several easy chairs arranged before large picture windows that afforded ample views of the Kendra Valley. He peered out at the landscape, where bare moba trees stood guard over grasses that had grown brown with the season. In the distance, the dark twist of the Yolja River flowed along the base of the mountains.

  Looking to his left, Sisko saw two wing chairs facing the hearth, sitting on either side of a small, triangular table. Red flames crackled in the firebox, effectively keeping the day’s chill at bay. Above, an assortment of framed family photographs lined the mantel. While Sisko saw a number of new additions, mostly featuring Rebecca, none of the pictures he knew seemed to be missing—not even those that included him. He saw an image taken on the day he and Kasidy had first brought their daughter home, another from their wedding, a portrait of him wearing his Starfleet dress uniform. That Kasidy hadn’t taken the photos down and packed them away, or even rid herself of them entirely, surprised him. He suspe
cted that it demonstrated her avowed attempts to keep Sisko familiar to Rebecca even without him there.

  It did not surprise him, though, that from above the mantel she had removed his canvas reproduction of City of B’hala, a historic Bajoran icon painting. Years earlier, Sisko’s study of the work of art had coincided with unusual activity in his brain. He experienced visions, which directly led to his unearthing the ruins of the actual city of B’hala, previously lost for twenty millennia. He also felt on the cusp of completely seeing the complex tapestry of Bajor’s past, present, and future, of understanding the Prophets’ plans for the people, the meaning and structure of the Celestial Temple, the role of the Cardassians in all of it—only to have it all taken away when Doctor Bashir operated on him. Sisko initially refused the surgery that would have restored his brain to a normal, healthy state, instead choosing to risk his life for the chance to comprehend the deep reality surrounding Bajor and its people. But when he lost consciousness and faced impending death, Jake authorized the doctor to perform the procedure.

  As a result of its nearly fatal effect on Sisko, Kasidy had never liked City of B’hala, although she did claim that she’d come to appreciate its artistry. Once he’d left, apparently, that had not persuaded her to keep the painting on display. In its place hung a pointillist work, a bucolic scene of a mother and daughter walking through the countryside. Sisko recognized the signature of the artist, Galoren Sen, as one of Kasidy’s favorites. He suspected that she’d acquired the painting from Rozahn Kit’s gallery in Adarak.

  Sisko walked past the front rooms to the dining area, where an arrangement of dried flowers garnished the table. To the right, an open doorway led into the kitchen. Sisko unslung the duffel from his shoulder and set it down on the table.

  “You’re not planning on staying,” Kasidy said, gesturing toward the duffel. Her tone had gained an edge.

  “No, no, I’ll be with Jake and Korena for the two weeks,” he said. “As we planned.”

  Once Sisko and Kasidy had decided on the length and frequency of his visits, they’d also agreed that his sleeping at the house, even in the guest room, would be too difficult. Depending on what they chose to tell Rebecca, such an arrangement might also confuse her too much. Fortunately, Jake and his wife welcomed the opportunity for him to stay with them.