by David Mack
A side street led away from the city’s center, and Bashir noted several familiar landmarks that confirmed he was heading in the direction of the maintenance tunnel access hatch. When he reached the narrow passage that led to the hatch, he saw a locked gate that barred access to the alley. Opening his channel to Sarina, he said, “I don’t remember that being there, do you?”
“It wasn’t there,” Sarina said. “I’m positive. Look how shiny its bolts are. That gate was just put in.” She caught up to Bashir and looked around, as if worried they were being watched or followed. “They must be closing off access to the maintenance tunnels. I could try to pick the lock, but knowing the Breen, they probably have one or more hidden cameras watching each gate.”
Bashir nodded. “So if we break in, we’ll be telling them where we are.” He pondered their predicament for a few seconds and then began thinking aloud. “When Nar created these identities for us, she said they had access to generous credit lines. She also created false credit histories for them.” Reacting to a flash of inspiration, he beckoned for Sarina to follow him. “Come on.” He led her to a nearby information kiosk. Manipulating its controls with an ease that he found both exciting and unsettling, he let the kiosk read his identichip, and then he called up his credit profile. In many ways, the interface resembled those used by the Ferengi businesses on Deep Space 9. Bashir wondered if the Ferengi, who had a long history of trade with the Breen, had been involved in developing the Confederacy’s credit and financial networks. Perusing the details of his account’s most recent transactions, Bashir found what he had hoped would be there. “Look at that,” he said. “We’re staying at a visitors’ lodge on Level Ten.”
Sarina leaned forward and looked past Bashir’s shoulder. “Makes sense,” she said. “If we’re visitors from offworld here on government business, we’d need a place to stay. That was good thinking on Nar’s part.” She elbowed Bashir playfully. “And you didn’t do too bad yourself.”
“Kind of you to say.” Bashir logged off from the kiosk. “Let’s go check into our hotel room and have a look at those data files.”
28
Thot Keer was surrounded by authority figures. His supervisor, Thot Naaz, sat beside him in his office. They were facing the holomatrix, which was divided into a split screen showing two real-time subspace feeds. On one side was the visage of Thot Gren, the Confederacy’s delegate to the Typhon Pact’s board of governors; on the other was Domo Brex, the appointed leader of the Confederacy. Never before had Keer been in such immediate proximity to so much political power. He found it distinctly unsettling and hoped never to be in such a position again.
Gren said, “I have invoked an obscure point of order to force the board to accept a prolonged recess from deliberations. However, this tactic cannot be used indefinitely. We have at most three days before we are compelled to resume.”
“That is enough time,” Keer said. “I have finished revising the slipstream equations, and I am certain they are correct. Now that the computations are verified, all that remains is construction and deployment.”
Naaz leaned forward to draw the attention of Gren and Brex. “We can overcome those hurdles, sirs, but doing so will entail pressing many new workers into service, and we need a sizable influx of new materials, parts, and fuel.”
Gren jabbed a finger accusatorily, as if he could reach through the screen and poke Keer and Naaz. “A waste of men and money. All we ever get from you two is promises, never results. Your project is late, over budget, and now a political liability. By any reasonable standard, your operation is a failure.”
Keer felt his hearts racing, but he kept his posture relaxed and his voice at a level volume as he replied, “It will become a failure only if it is abandoned before yielding a success. With all respect, Domo, I know that the Confederacy has invested heavily in this project, and that additional investment might seem like a waste, but the only truly wasteful act would be to let our research and labors come to naught when we are so close to bringing them to fruition.”
Before the domo or the delegate could respond, Naaz added, “There is another factor to consider, sirs. If the Romulans develop and implement this technology before we do, we will lose not only political influence within the Typhon Pact but also the ability to project military force throughout local space.”
“Thank you, Thot Naaz,” said Delegate Gren, “but the domo and I are well aware of the potential consequences associated with the collapse of this project. However, you seem unaware of the risks to which you expose us by continuing to pursue a failing course. If we defy a majority vote by the board of governors that directs us to share our research, we will face stiff economic sanctions under the terms of the Pact’s charter. We might even find ourselves subject to expulsion from the Pact—which would leave us exposed before three great powers.”
“If you really want to feel exposed,” Naaz said, “let the Romulans master this technology without us. They already wield power disproportionate to their numbers because of the advantages provided by cloaking technology. If they acquire slipstream propulsion before we do, the Typhon Pact will cease to be a coalition and begin an inexorable slide toward becoming a monopolar entity.”
Gren replied, “Your political analysis is foolish and simplistic.”
“Is it?” A harsh buzz of anger was audible through Naaz’s vocoder. “Then why are you working so hard to do the Romulans’ dirty work for them? Are you already adapting to a life beneath their banner instead of celebrating our own?”
“Choose your words with care, Naaz,” Gren said, his threat implicit.
Domo Brex said, “This has been presented as a simple matter of logistics and economics. For the time being, let us treat it as such. Thot Keer, answer the following questions with specific details and hard numbers. How many workers do you require to complete your slipstream prototype in less than three days?”
“Seven hundred twenty-eight, Domo. My written request specifies the exact numbers of personnel required within each technical specialty.”
Brex picked up a data tablet and perused it. “Are all the requisite personnel currently on Salavat and available for immediate employment?”
“Yes, sir. We also have space to board them here at the shipyard, and our provisions are more than sufficient to support such a workforce.”
“Good,” Brex said. “I assume, then, that the chief impediment to your operation is money. Or, to be more precise, the acute lack thereof.”
“Yes, sir. That is correct.” Keer checked his figures with a glance at his own data tablet. “To hire the crew and work them all in double shifts for three days will cost an additional three hundred thirty-four million sakto.”
“What about the costs of additional supplies, parts, and fuel?”
“My current estimate of the total matériel cost is six point four billion.”
The domo was silent for a moment. “A steep request.”
Naaz replied, “Consider it an investment in our future, Domo.”
Gren shot back, “A gambler would call it doubling down.”
Eager to stave off another volley of pointless insults and posturing between Naaz and Gren, Keer said, “I can have the slipstream prototype powered up and ready for preliminary testing in fifty-two hours, Domo.”
“If I grant your request for funding and personnel,” the Domo replied.
“Yes, sir. If you grant my request.”
Everyone was silent while the domo considered the matter. Then he lifted his head in a proud gesture. “Requests approved. Get it done. Gren, do whatever is necessary and legal to stall the board of governors. Naaz, anything that money cannot buy for Keer’s project, I authorize you to commandeer. Anyone who refuses to be hired, I give you permission to kidnap and press into service.”
“It will be done, Domo,” Naaz said, bowing his head.
The domo leaned forward, making his face appear huge and distorted in the holomatrix. “May fortune smile on you, Keer. The Conf
ederacy is risking much to support you in this. If you fail, I assure you, the repercussions will be severe.”
“I understand, Domo.”
The subspace channel was terminated, and the holomatrix above Keer’s desk seemed to evaporate, leaving him and Naaz alone.
Naaz stood, took a few steps toward the door, turned, and said, “Keer, I just want you to know that no matter what happens in the next three days, if you lead this project to disgrace, I intend to see that you bear the blame alone.”
“Of course, sir,” Keer replied. “But how can I fail when I have such bold leadership as yours to inspire me?” The supervisor stood flummoxed by the jab of sarcasm, then turned and stormed out of Keer’s office muttering vulgar epithets and low curses. Keer stood and looked out his window at the prototype vessel in the microgravity hangar.
Under his mask, he smiled.
Time to go to work.
29
Sequestered in the privacy and luxury of his alter ego’s rented accommodations, and sitting by while Sarina decoded the data stolen from the Breen Militia, Bashir found himself cursed with an overabundance of time to reflect on the day’s bloody events. His conscience nagged at him to say something about the killing of the Breen communications technician, but he resisted for fear of driving a wedge between him and the woman he loved and couldn’t bear to lose.
He watched her work. Her hands were quick and nimble, manipulating the interface panel of the device she’d liberated from the comm center. Seated on the end of the bed with her helmet and gloves off but otherwise still in her Breen disguise, she cut a strange figure, in Bashir’s opinion—fragile yet aggressive, a human beauty encased in an alien culture’s primary symbol of ugly conformity.
Catching his reflection in a mirror on the other side of the room, Bashir thought he looked more like a boy playing dress-up, trying on clothes two sizes too large for his frame.
“I think I’ve cracked the encryption,” she said, interrupting his mental digression. “With a little luck, we should have a decrypted file in a minute or so.”
Bashir decided that if he didn’t speak his mind at that moment, he might not be able to muster the will to do so again. “There’s something we need to talk about,” he said.
Sarina set aside her work and met Bashir’s troubled gaze with a placid look. “Okay, then let’s talk about it.”
“At the comm center,” he said, “when the technician didn’t buy our cover story …” He hesitated to see what she might say, but she remained silent. Despite his reluctance to play the role of her accuser, he continued. “You killed that man.”
She nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“You didn’t have to. I saw how skilled you are in martial arts. You could have knocked him unconscious.”
“I could have,” Sarina said, “but you’re wrong when you say I didn’t have to kill him. I know it’s not the choice you would have made, but it was the right one.”
“By what reasoning?”
“Because it’s true.” She got up and walked toward him as she continued. “If I had just knocked him out and left him there, even bound and gagged, sooner or later he would get loose and summon help.” She squeezed his upper arm. “Then he’d tell others about us, about what happened. Then our covers would be blown.”
He pulled free of her grip. “Our covers are already as good as blown when they find his body.”
“Which, if we’re lucky, won’t be for several more hours. And even then, we’ll be only two of hundreds of possible suspects.”
“Until they check the activity logs for his computer,” Bashir said. “When they see what data was accessed the last time that station was used, they’ll know what we’re looking for—and they’ll know what information we’ve acquired.”
Exasperated, Sarina flung her arms toward the ceiling and paced away from Bashir. “Yes, we’re playing a cat-and-mouse game—I know that, Julian. The choice I had to make was whether to give us an hour to analyze the data and take action, or to give us several hours.” She returned and gently pressed her palms to his face. “I’m sorry that man had to die, but it’s done. You need to accept it, because he might not be the last person we have to kill to complete this mission.”
Bashir didn’t know what bothered him more—the prospect of spilling more blood in a fashion that felt more like murder than like war, or the fact that Sarina’s argument was eminently logical and her prediction likely correct.
Before he could respond, the data device on the bed made a series of chirping noises. Sarina picked it up, studied its display, and said, “We’ve got it. Still no specific location for the shipyard, but most of these messages are between the comm center and a factory that provides most of the machined parts to the shipyard. Based on some of their manifests, it looks as if they’re definitely working on a slipstream drive.”
He moved to stand beside Sarina and read over her shoulder. “Does it say where the factory is? Is it here in Rasiuk?”
She shook her head. “No, we didn’t get that lucky. It’s nearly two thousand kilometers away on the other side of the planet, in a city called Utyrak.”
Bashir nodded. “I saw that name on a public-transit map in one of the kiosks. High-speed maglev trains provide underground express service between the major cities on Salavat. We could be there in less than seven hours.”
“Helmets on,” Sarina said as she got up. Bashir lowered his helmet into place. Sarina donned her mask and gloves, walked to a companel on a wall, and activated it with a touch. Navigating its menus with speed and precision, she seemed as comfortable with the Breen interface as would a native. Then she switched off the panel. “Done. We have two tickets for the next express to Utyrak waiting for us at the maglev terminal. If we move quickly, we’ll just make it.”
As he followed his fleet-footed partner down the hotel corridor, he joked over their private comm channel, “Seems a shame to leave so soon. I mean, this is one of the most popular lodging halls in Rasiuk, and we’ve only just checked in.”
Sarina replied in a teasing lilt, “We didn’t come all the way to the ass end of space just to see the inside of a hotel room.”
“Sounds like something my mother used to say to me when I was a boy.”
“A word of advice, Julian: Never compare your lover to your mother.”
30
Bowers rubbed his eyelids, which felt as if their insides were coated with sand that made his eyes itch. “We’ve been staring at star charts for hours,” he said. “I need a break. And a cup of coffee. And a shower. And a few hours of sleep, to be honest.”
“I’ll second that request,” said Kedair, “if just to see something other than the inside of this room for a few minutes.”
Captain Dax leaned against the edge of the conference room’s long table and kept her attention on the bulkhead companel in front of her. “Requests denied. There has to be a way through this blockade, and we’re going to find it.” Running the fingers of her right hand through her short, dark hair, she added, “I admit it’s a tight net, but it’s our job to rip a hole in it. So focus, people.”
Kedair let out a sigh. “If all we had to do was find a weakness for the Klingons to exploit while cloaked, that might be possible. But now that we know they aren’t sending anybody, this is just an exercise in futility.”
“I don’t have time to listen to excuses for why we can’t succeed,” Dax said. “I need to hear ideas for how we can make this happen. Bashir and Douglas are counting on us to pull them out on little more than a few minutes’ notice. I don’t care whether we sneak through or shoot through, as long as we get through.”
“Well, I can foresee a few challenges,” Bowers said. “For starters, we don’t even know if Bashir and Douglas are still alive. If they get killed or captured, we won’t have any way of knowing. And if they don’t accomplish their mission before the Breen launch that prototype, their condition becomes a moot point.”
Kedair asked, “Why would it be a moot point
?”
“Because,” Dax said, “according to the mission profile, if the Breen launch their prototype, the op is officially a failure, and we’re to leave the sector immediately—to preserve plausible deniability for the Federation.”
The security chief shook her head. “That’s just great.”
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Dax said. “But for now, let’s assume the operation succeeds, and either Bashir or Douglas sends the extraction signal.”
Bowers folded his arms. “Okay, let’s start there. Since we don’t know when that’s going to happen, we need a tactic for breaking the blockade that’s not time sensitive. It has to be something we can trigger with no notice, that will produce a rapid enough change in the blockade’s deployment that we’ll be able to respond to the extraction beacon before it’s too late, and that will buy us enough time to get back out of Breen space after we recover Bashir and Douglas.” Raising his eyebrows in a show of incredulity, he asked Dax, “Does that about sum it up?”
“Yeah, I’d say that hits the high points,” the captain said. She covered her mouth with her fist as she yawned. “The floor is open to suggestions.”
Kedair got up, circled the table, and studied the star chart on the companel up close. Bowers could tell from the intense expression on the Takaran woman’s dark green, delicately scaled face that she was deep in thought. Using both hands, Kedair began manipulating the companel display, enlarging a single subsector located inside Breen space but still within range of the Aventine’s sensors. She pointed at an icon. “This is a Breen subspace comm buoy.” Looking over her shoulder at Bowers, she asked, “Did the ship captured by Special Ops have access codes for the Breen communication network?”