“But I expect that for the duration of your stay you will comport yourself like an ally,” Benjamin continued. “Even a hint of misconduct, and I assure you, I won’t hesitate to hand you over. Am I clear?”
“I will not violate your trust, Captain,” T’Rul said, the emotionless façade falling once again.
“For what it’s worth, T’Rul, I am very, very sorry for your loss,” he said.
The Romulan swallowed hard and nodded her head.
Jadzia sat stone-still, gazed fixed downward, as Odo escorted T’Rul out of the room. She stirred only when Worf touched her shoulder, indicating the time had come for her to return home.
“Commander Dax? Here are those shield matrix configuration tables you’d requested.”
Jadzia stirred from her reverie and accepted the proffered padd. “Thanks.”
As her associate, a Bolian lieutenant, returned to his own workstation, she turned her attention back to watch, for the twentieth time, a simulation of a reworked quantum torpedo against a Jem’Hadar battle cruiser. No matter how much she tinkered with the torpedo’s targeting sensors, trajectories, or detonation mechanism, she came up with the same result—failure. Examining the shield data, she reformulated the simulation’s calculations, and requested the computer rerun it. When the torpedo detonated before it reached the cruiser, Jadzia knew the time had come for a mid-afternoon raktajino. She shoved back her chair and made for the replicator, her steps slowing when she saw T’Rul standing there, studying the menu. For a moment, she considered returning to her workstation, and she slowed down her walk. She hadn’t exchanged words with the Romulan since their first day working on the project, fully fifty-two hours ago. Mustering up remotely neutral small talk that didn’t sound ridiculous under the circumstances wasn’t possible. “How’s it going?” hardly addressed T’Rul’s very real losses. Recommending exotic pastries from the replicator file would be shallow. But before she could think up a plan, Jadzia found herself standing beside T’Rul at the replicator.
As T’Rul struggled to make the computer understand what she wanted, Jadzia stood by, fidgeting with her hands linked behind her back. When T’Rul threw the replicator’s latest mistake into the recycler, Jadzia unthinkingly stepped in, told the computer what she thought T’Rul was asking for. A ceramic mug, filled with a steaming red liquid topped off with a mountain of foam, materialized.
“Is this it?” Jadzia said, offering her the soup.
“Your computer didn’t understand what I was—”
“My last host—Curzon—spent some time on Vulcan where he had a chance to sample some of their native delicacies. What you described to the computer was similar enough to shav’rot that I thought it was worth a try.”
T’Rul sipped off the edge. “While not entirely the same as what we brew on Romulus, it is close enough. Satisfactory.” She offered Jadzia a curt nod in acknowledgment of her help, and began walking away.
I can’t believe I’m saying this. ... “T’Rul.”
The Romulan turned around.
“I know there’s no possible way I can understand what you’ve been through lately. But I do know that this war—this war is costing us all far too much,” Jadzia said quietly. “A few days ago, I found out I’d lost someone—an old, dear friend who changed my whole life. He was killed when the Jem’Hadar attacked an unarmed civilian transport outside the Cardassian border. I know it’s not the same as losing a husband and children, but I wanted you to know that you’re not alone. In your grief, I mean.”
T’Rul paused, scrutinizing Jadzia for a long moment before saying, “There is no question in my mind that the Jem’Hadar are a plague. They are a disease that must be wiped out and destroyed.” The subcommander started to turn away.
And for Jadzia, everything suddenly fell into place.
Her mind raced, and the more she thought, the more ideas tumbled out of the recesses of her mind, revealing a new world of possibilities in an instant. She reached over and grabbed T’Rul’s arm. “Wait.”
T’Rul stopped and looked at her quizzically; Jadzia felt her pull away slightly. She probably should let go, but T’Rul was part of this. She needed the Romulan woman to stay put.
“I think I’ve figured something out,” Jadzia whispered, heading for the exit. “Follow me. We can’t talk here.”
Once out in the hall, Jadzia launched into her explanation before T’Rul could siege her with questions. “If the Jem’Hadar are a plague, why aren’t we treating them like a plague? When there’s an epidemic, how do we defeat it? We neutralize the organism, develop a vaccination or wipe out the source. Wipe out the source.”
Whatever protest had been on T’Rul’s lips when they left the room evaporated as comprehension of Jadzia’s words dawned on her.
Their eyes met.
And Jadzia knew they understood each other.
The conversation between them started slowly. For her part, T’Rul talked about her mate, how they’d spent most of their married lives apart and how pleased she was that their children had decided to follow their father in such a prestigious career. Jadzia reciprocated with anecdotes about Dr. th’Rasdeth. They had just moved from discussing their impressions of Blue Sky to the war when several doors opened admitting several dozen scientists into the hallway, including Julian.
“Mind if I join you?” Julian called out.
Jadzia and T’Rul separated, allowing him to step in between them.
“Sorry I haven’t had a chance to welcome you back, Subcommander,” he said, offering her a smile in lieu of the usual human handshake.
“I believe we meet under better circumstances this time than last,” she said. “Not in terms of the war, of course, but as allies.”
“Speaking of our being allies, how do you think Blue Sky is going?”
Jadzia and T’Rul exchanged looks. Both of them agreed that their munitions team had covered very little new ground so far. Trying to be sensitive to various cultural and political differences meant the team took baby steps to avoid offending one side or the other.
He looked first at Jadzia, then T’Rul. “Ahhh. I see you’re as frustrated as I am.”
“We didn’t say that,” Jadzia said.
“You didn’t have to. If it makes you feel any better, the efforts to create a more efficient, more effective Allied soldier are equally bogged down,” Julian said. “Devising a universal training regimen that can be used by all the various species in our forces is proving to be unworkable. Say, I’m off to the infirmary. Walk with me to the turbolift?”
Jadzia gestured “after you,” and they began walking.
“Have you considered using performance-enhancing agents?” T’Rul asked.
Julian shook his head. “Starfleet’s reluctant to embrace a strategy that at least on the surface resembles what the Founders have done with the Jem’Hadar and ketracel-white.”
T’Rul sighed. “But it works. The Jem’Hadar can fight without eating or sleeping.”
“True enough.”
“That’s one thing I don’t understand about the Federation. Your naïve morality.”
“I can’t think of a place where our ethics have interfered with our fighting ability,” Julian said.
“Biogenic weapons. Why not use them against the Jem’Hadar? They wouldn’t hesitate to use one against us.”
Julian frowned. “Leaving aside that biogenic weapons are outlawed by interstellar treaties signed by the Federation, the Romulans, the Klingons, and even the Cardassians before the war,” he said, “such weapons often have catastrophic ecological consequences, not to mention the potential for rampant mutations or other unforeseeable complications. Starfleet isn’t willing to accept those consequences.”
“Treaties and weapons bans are designed to fit the times,” T’Rul said. “And as we have seen, times change. Circumstances change.”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, is that your view, Subcommander?” Julian asked. “Consequences be damned?”
>
T’Rul’s eyes narrowed. “I know something of consequences, Doctor—particularly those that result from the failure to act in time, with every resource at hand.”
Jadzia swallowed, hoping Julian would just let it go. He seemed to be considering a response when T’Rul suddenly looked at her and asked, “What do you think, Commander Dax?”
“Yes, Jadzia,” Julian said. “I’d be fascinated to hear your perspective.”
Jadzia sighed. “Truthfully, I’m surprised that Command hasn’t put more options out on the table. Even theoretical options such as biogenic weapons—and before you get all worked up, Julian, let me explain. You should know, as a human, that one of the most critical wars in Earth’s history was decided by what was, for its time, an unfathomably horrible weapon.”
“The Manhattan Project. But this is—”
“How is it different, Julian? Hundreds, if not thousands, are dying every week, civilians and Starfleet. We’re losing starships, equipment, and emptying our stockpiles of raw materials faster than we can replace them. Can we really afford to take options off the table?”
The trio reached the turbolift.
“Too bad my patients need me, or we could continue this conversation at Quark’s.”
“I guess we’ll just have to continue it without you, Julian. Truce?” Jadzia smiled and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze, before he disappeared into the turbolift.
“So, can I buy you dinner?” Jadzia asked her companion.
T’Rul studied her intently, giving her the distinct feeling she was being tested. “Did you mean what you said just now?”
“What? The part about putting options on the table? Yes. I think so.”
T’Rul smiled, a narrow, tight-lipped smile. “Then, yes, I’d very much enjoy sharing a meal with you.”
The first few days they’d worked together had been predictably awkward, filled with uncomfortable silences and fumbled attempts to figure out which direction their research should take. They’d worked surreptitiously in the Blue Sky labs, probing the database for any relevant files but found, unsurprisingly, that the Federation’s ethical quandary over genetic engineering made research on the subject difficult to find. Other than obtaining comprehensive studies on the Jem’Hadar—provided for use in Blue Sky by Julian—Jadzia and T’Rul had come up with little to nothing. So both women had fallen back on their personal resources—T’Rul’s access to Romulan files on the subject and Jadzia’s high-level clearance to sensitive Federation materials—for answers. Answers that Jadzia hoped would be forthcoming. Every day that passed without a breakthrough was another day of casualty lists and missing ships and squandered opportunities.
T’Rul was waiting at Jadzia’s quarters when she arrived back from her ops shift. Within minutes, both women were hunched over their computer terminals studying. Time passed with little comment, their studies requiring all their focus. The densely written papers had been written for experts in their field. Even with Audrid’s memories and biological expertise, Dax had to stretch her abilities to fully understand the complexities of genetic engineering. She marveled at the precision—the elegance—of the techniques and the astonishing potential results they offered. But while she found the articles on curing the Mabgonian plague fascinating, she began to wonder if either she or T’Rul had a chance at accomplishing the task they’d set for themselves. She closed down a particularly tedious analysis of a food-based parasite and moved to the next file, “The Challenges of Interspecies Conception.”
Her eyes flickered over the text, and as she studied, the same instinct that told her that Grilka wasn’t the woman for Worf told her she might have found what she was searching for. Barely able to contain her excitement, she gestured for T’Rul to come over and check out the article she was reading.
“Listen to this.” Jadzia began reading from the article, “ ‘Ovarian resequencing uses enzymes to rewrite specific sections of DNA.’ ”
“I’m not sure how this pertains to our project ...” T’Rul said dubiously.
“If incompatible gametes can be changed so that fertilization can take place, can’t genes that produce undesirable Jem’Hadar traits be switched off? If we could resequence Jem’Hadar DNA, switching off traits that give them superior strength or encourage aggression ... ?”
A triumphant smile—the first Jadzia had ever seen—spread over T’Rul’s face. “Fighting them would be a new thing entirely. The complexion of the war would change.”
Holding the padd behind her back, Jadzia walked purposefully through Quark’s booth, her jaunty step belying her internal trepidation. All their work—the hours of painstaking analysis—all of it came down to the conversation she was about to have. She was within a meter of the table when she realized she would be interrupting an ongoing game. Julian will make swift work of winning and then I’ll approach him, she thought, slipping into a vacant chair where she could keep an eye on things.
“Don’t tell me you think you can pull it off this time,” Miles O’Brien said, and took a pull off the mug of ale he’d been nursing. He turned a skeptical eye on the dartboard hanging on the wall. “Besides, I can’t decide if that Manchester board makes it easier or harder.”
“Between my legs, my back to the dartboard, dart in the right hand in one bull’s-eye, dart in the left hand in the other,” Julian said confidently. “If that’s not a handicap, I don’t know what is.”
“You say that every time and every time, you still win.” Miles fiddled with his few remaining darts. “Just take your shot already. I’ll pay your tab and get on my way home.”
Not surprisingly, Miles’s green hadn’t yet scored.
With exaggerated grace, Julian bent at the waist and walked each foot out several paces. A dart in each hand, he counted to three and made his toss.
Jadzia winced—for Miles—who had instantly dropped his head to the tabletop.
“I don’t know why I let you do this to me, Julian,” he said, rising from his chair. He reached out to the Ferengi waiter who had been waiting patiently nearby and thumbed the padd displaying the tab.
Bashir slapped his friend on the back good-naturedly. “I don’t know why you do it either, but I’m certainly grateful to have my bar bill paid, if it makes you feel any better.”
Miles shook his head, and mumbled good-bye.
Jadzia saw her opening. “Julian!”
He spun around. “I take it you saw my latest triumph.”
“Impressive. But since I know it’s just a matter of you calculating trajectories and how much force to apply, I’m less impressed than I would be if it were just raw luck.”
“Fair enough,” Julian said. “Join me?” He gestured at the table he’d been occupying with Miles.
“Absolutely.” She slid into the chair opposite Julian, placing her padd on the table between them. “Can you look at something I’ve been working on?”
“Blue Sky?”
Jadzia nodded.
While Julian perused the padd, Jadzia waved a waiter over and ordered a Black Hole. Julian still hadn’t said a word a few minutes later when the drink arrived. Whether that’s a good sign or a bad one—she took a deep breath—who can say? and she swallowed a mouthful of synthehol.
“Fascinating stuff, really,” Julian said, still scrolling through the pages. He paused for a long moment, then put the padd down and crossed his arms. “A theoretical analysis of how to alter the DNA of a fully matured Jem’Hadar.”
Hearing the tight, higher modulation in his voice, Jadzia steeled herself for his next words.
“A biogenic device.” He shoved the padd across the table.
Jadzia caught it.
“Since when did the project take this approach?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Jadzia,” he whispered harshly. “You know exactly what I mean. We discussed this. This isn’t about teaching officers trained in astrophysics to combat Jem’Hadar soldiering or weaponry. That thing you hav
e in your pocket—” he leaned over until he was nose to nose with her “—is about genocide.”
Shaking her head, Jadzia took another swallow of her drink. “It doesn’t kill, maim, or infect the Jem’Hadar with disease. This isn’t the Quickening. We’re not damning them to a slow, painful death.”
“That’s not the point!” he said through clenched teeth.
“What’s wrong with switching off the genes that make the Jem’Hadar practically invulnerable? Even if they’d get tired, we’d stand a better chance!”
“Every sentient creature has the right to self-determination, Jadzia. Altering a species without their consent, is no different than what the Founders do—what they did with the Vorta and the Jem’Hadar.”
“So says the man with the miraculous ability to hit a double bull’s-eye by throwing darts between his legs.”
“For every Julian Bashir there’s a Jack, a Patrick, a Sarina, or, yes, a Khan Singh. And when a couple of amateurs—” He shook his head. “Who’s to say that the Founders, anticipating just such a strategy as yours, haven’t built a failsafe into the chromosome? Tampering could potentially make them more deadly. Setting loose an entire breeding facility of half-crazed Jem’Hadar ... My, my, that sounds like a sure way to win a battle.”
“I think it’s a risk worth taking. To not even consider a cleaner alternative to having to send ship after ship into combat is foolish.”
“A cleaner alternative,” Julian repeated. Scowling, he looked away, clearly seething. Finally he seemed to rein in his emotions and met her eyes again. “You know, Jadzia, there was a time, not all that long ago, when a standard-issue Starfleet hand phaser had a setting capable of dematerializing its target. A living being hit by such a weapon would, to all intents and purposes, simply vanish in a burst of light. No blood, no bodies, no mess. It was quite ... tidy.”
“That’s very interesting, Julian, but—”
“I’m not finished,” Julian said. “Starfleet records show that, historically, when lethal force was required, more phasers were discharged at that setting than at any of the more conventional ‘kill’ settings of any Starfleet hand weapon before—or since. Do you understand the implications of that? When dealing death became ‘clean,’ it also became easy. Once those statistics became known, Starfleet ceased producing phasers with a dematerialization setting.”
STAR TREK: DS9 - Prophecy and Change Page 25
