by David Mack
Tezrene inched away from Bacco’s desk. “You and your Federation will pay for your arrogance, Madam President.”
“So you keep telling us.”
“No empire lasts forever.” Tezrene turned and scuttled toward the door, flanked every step of the way by the team of protection agents, who followed her out. As that door slid closed, the one on the opposite side of the office opened, and Esperanza Piñiero walked in.
“How’d it go?”
Bacco shrugged at her chief of staff. “As expected.”
“That badly?”
“Could’ve been worse. If I’d made her any angrier, she might have attacked me. Then my protection detail would’ve shot her, and Kant would be explaining to the press corps how a diplomatic courtesy call turned into an interstellar incident.”
“Look on the bright side, Madam President: at least we’re not at war.”
Bacco heaved a sigh and sank into her chair. “Yes, we are. It’s last century’s goddamned Klingon Crisis all over again, except this time we have six enemies plotting against us instead of just one.” Noting the smirk on Piñiero’s face, she asked, “What’s so funny?”
“A sixfold increase in enemies?” Piñiero said. “If that’s not progress, Madam President, I don’t know what is.”
Bashir entered Deep Space 9’s infirmary and found the place much as he had left it only a few weeks earlier: immaculate, quiet, and almost empty. He had reviewed his staff’s recent case files and updates on routine vaccination procedures during his journey home aboard the Aventine, and for once there were no pressing emergencies or rude surprises waiting for him upon his return.
The lights in the main room were dim, and the air was laced with the sharp odor of disinfectant. Bashir unlocked the door of his office, stepped inside, and settled into his chair. His computer powered up automatically, and he glanced at the list of messages that had accumulated during his absence. It’ll take me days just to get caught up on all this. At this rate, I’m less a doctor than a glorified medical correspondent.
Looking out his office window at the rows of empty biobeds, he was struck anew by the feeling that he no longer had any reason to be there.
Bashir got up and moved with soft steps toward the intensive-care ward. He paused and peeked through its open entryway. Prynn Tenmei sat on a chair next to her father’s bed. She held Vaughn’s left hand with her own, and in her right hand she held a padd, from which she read to him. Even from across the ward, Bashir was able to hear her, thanks to his enhanced senses.
“‘At the top of the altar, Wade saw the remains of the artifact,’” Tenmei read. “‘It lay shattered and broken, its power and its promise sacrificed by men who had never understood it, never respected it, never used it wisely. In its runes they had read only the stories of their own ambitions, the tales of their own glory.
“‘Wade pinched a few grains of gemstone dust between his thumb and forefinger. “It was our fault,” he said. “Our magi and priests did this.” He looked back at the men he had led around the world, over raging seas and blighted lands, only to bring them to this unholy place, and he felt sick with remorse. “It was Men who struck first,” he said. “Men who rained fire on Scarden and laid it waste, and left the Wights no choice but to conquer new lands. Entire generations lost to war … and it all began with one decision, made here.” ’”
Tenmei stopped reading and looked up at Bashir as he approached. “You’re back,” she said.
“For the moment.” Bashir accessed the biobed display to review Vaughn’s chart and noted with surprise, “He’s off the respirator.”
“Nine days now,” Tenmei said. “I thought about what you said—that maybe this wasn’t such a bad time and place to let my father go. And I finally admitted to myself that keeping him alive just for me wasn’t fair to him. So I signed the DNR and asked Nurse Richter to remove the respirator systems. But, as you can see …” She looked at Vaughn and smiled, though her eyes were wet with tears. “Still no higher brain activity, but something in him just refuses to give up.”
Bashir nodded. “I have to admit, your father is one of the strongest men I’ve ever met. And one of the most stubborn.”
Tenmei chuckled. “Oh, I know. Trust me, you don’t have to tell me about that.” She squeezed her father’s hand. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back before I take the final step and have his feeding tube removed. I thought you’d want to be here at the end.”
Standing at the bedside of his friend and former commanding officer, Bashir found himself thinking about the past few weeks of his life—in particular, the lives he had taken in the name of duty and country, and the stain that state-sanctioned murder had left on his soul. The notion of taking action to end Elias Vaughn’s life, though it might be practical and even humane, no longer felt ethical.
“Let’s not cross that bridge yet,” Bashir said. “I don’t think your father is likely to ever regain consciousness, but … something in him clearly isn’t ready to die yet. And I’m not going to take that away from him—or from you.”
Tenmei brushed a tear from her cheek and shot a confused look at Bashir. “Are you sure about this, Julian?”
“No. But if I’m wrong, at least this is a mistake I can live with.”
Sarina awoke from a dream whose details immediately faded from her memory. She drew a long, deep breath and listened to the sounds in Julian’s quarters. The space station’s ventilation system hummed overhead, and the angled windows above Julian’s bed had been set to near total opacity to keep the room dark even as Deep Space 9’s slow rotation brought the star B’hava’el into view for several minutes every hour. Beside her, Julian lay sleeping, his breathing slow and deep.
She lifted the sheet and blanket with care and slipped out of the warm bed. The air in Julian’s quarters was chilly and filtered to the point of being all but devoid of fragrance—institutional qualities that did nothing to endear the place to Sarina, who had lived most of the first three decades of her life in just such an antiseptic environment. She gathered up her cashmere bathrobe from a chair in the corner and wrapped it around herself. Taking care not to wake Julian, she tiptoed toward the open doorway to his suite’s main room.
As she reached the doorway, Julian mumbled from the bed, “Where are you going?” He was straining to see her through eyes heavy with sleep.
“To have some tea and check my messages,” she said in a hushed voice. “I’ll just be a few minutes. Go back to sleep.”
Julian yawned, made a noise that sounded like “Umkay,” and rolled over.
Sarina crossed the main room to its replicator, requested a Betazoid variety of hot herbal tea, and savored its floral aroma as she lifted the delicate cup from the replicator nook.
When she turned around, she was unsurprised to see her visitor sitting in a chair with her legs crossed, regarding her with a dispassionate stare. “Hello again, Sarina,” said the black-clad Vulcan woman with a Cleopatra haircut.
“Hello, L’Haan,” Sarina said. She set her tea on the low table between her and the Section 31 supervisor. “I’ve been expecting you.”
L’Haan arched one eyebrow. “Naturally. I did tell you I would return.” She leaned forward. “Section 31 is very impressed with your performance on Salavat.”
“Happy to hear it.” Sarina nodded toward Bashir’s bedroom and whispered, “Aren’t you afraid we’ll wake him?”
“An acoustic-dampening field protects our conversation,” L’Haan said, “and Doctor Bashir’s dinner was laced with a mild sedative to deepen his slumber.”
Sarina rolled her eyes. “Well, that certainly explains his diminished performance this evening. Glad to know it wasn’t me.” She focused her attention on L’Haan. “Why are you here?”
“To commend you. Your mission was a success—and, most important, the good doctor was forced to get his hands dirty. This was a major step for him, one whose importance is not to be underestimated.”
Sarina nodded. “I u
nderstand. So, what’s next?”
“Let your relationship with Bashir continue on its current arc,” L’Haan said. “Whether he remains here or pursues a career at Starfleet Intelligence is ultimately irrelevant. What matters now is that you remain romantically enmeshed in his life—as intensely and as intimately as possible. When the time comes for his further development as an asset, your access to him and his talents will be invaluable. Do you understand?”
“Yes. That won’t be a problem. He adores me.”
“Excellent.” L’Haan’s mien took on a contemplative quality. “It is regrettable that my predecessors Sloan and Cole lacked this fundamental insight into Doctor Bashir’s psychology. The doctor has no ambition to exploit his abilities for personal gain. The weak spot in his persona is not his pride or his ego—it is his unabashed romanticism.” She stood, stepped around the table, took Sarina’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, and lifted it so that their eyes met. “Make him love you,” she said, “and then we will have him.”
THE SAGA OF
DEEP SPACE NINE ®
WILL CONTINUE
Acknowledgments
First, I thank my wife, Kara, for not strangling me or divorcing me or otherwise avenging herself upon me for being such a pain-in-the-ass recluse while I was writing this book during the first few months of 2010.
Also, my thanks go out to editor Margaret Clark, who commissioned this novel from me and guided its early development. Sadly, Margaret was laid off before the manuscript was written, so she did not get to complete the journey she helped me begin. Margaret, I hope you feel I’ve done this story justice.
My gratitude also goes out to Christopher L. Bennett, who took time out of his schedule to share scientific advice about real star systems that might serve to add verisimilitude to my tale’s fictional setting, and to David R. George III, who valiantly agreed to serve as this book’s beta reader, ferreting out its myriad flaws.
Last but never least, my thanks to you, the readers, who make these efforts of mine worthwhile. I hope we get to take many more literary journeys together.
About the Author
David Mack is the national bestselling author of sixteen novels, including Wildfire, Harbinger, Reap the Whirlwind, Precipice, Road of Bones, Promises Broken, and the Star Trek Destiny trilogy: Gods of Night, Mere Mortals, and Lost Souls. He developed the Star Trek Vanguard series concept with editor Marco Palmieri. His first work of original fiction is the critically acclaimed supernatural thriller The Calling.
In addition to novels, Mack’s writing credits span several media, including television (for episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine), film, short fiction, magazines, newspapers, comic books, computer games, radio, and the Internet.
His upcoming novels include the Mirror Universe epic Rise Like Lions and a new original supernatural thriller.
Mack lives in New York City with his wife, Kara. Visit his official web site, www.davidmack.pro/, follow him on Twitter.com @DavidAlanMack, and friend him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/david.alan.mack.