by David Mack
Six
Bashir vented his impatience by tapping his finger on the desk in his office. The screen in front of him had been paused on the same blue-and-white Federation emblem for nearly ten minutes while he waited for the secure comm channel to make its connection. It had taken him hours to confirm in what sector the Enterprise had been deployed. To his relief, it was in the nearby Rolor Sector, en route to Ferenginar; to his consternation, the starship’s relative proximity did not seem to have made it any easier to reach via subspace for an impromptu conversation.
Five more minutes, he promised himself, but after that I—
The screen snapped from laurels and stars to the face of Doctor Beverly Crusher, the chief medical officer of the Enterprise. Her red hair was a tousled mess, and she squinted across the light-years at Bashir. “Doctor Bashir?”
He sat up and leaned forward. “Yes, hello.” A closer look revealed Crusher’s utter exhaustion. “Are you all right?”
Her voice was a weary groan. “Nothing a long vacation and a time machine won’t fix.” She staved off his reply with a tired wave of one hand. “I have a three-year-old son.”
“I understand. My sympathies.”
“Thank you.” She pinched the sleep from her eyes. “Not to be rude, but it’s the middle of the night for me, so if we could cut to business?”
An apologetic nod. “Absolutely. I’m conducting follow-up research on some work you did about three years ago . . . on Andor.”
Hearing him say Andor jolted Crusher to attention. “You need to leave that alone.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. A friend of mine on Andor thinks the data they need to reverse their dropping fertility rates is somewhere to be found in the genome you identified.”
Crusher pressed her fingertips to her lips, a gesture clearly meant to ask Bashir’s patience for a moment. “First of all, I didn’t identify it. It was isolated by Professor Marthrossi zh’Thiin and her team at the Science Institute. Second, the moment I sent even a fragment of one of its chromosomes to Starfleet for analysis, it triggered a security alert like nothing I’d ever seen. All I did was ask for a pattern analysis, and I almost got myself court-martialed.” She lowered her voice to a whisper to underscore the gravity of the situation. “Whatever you’re working on, abandon it—and for your own sake, don’t let Starfleet even suspect you’ve seen that genome.”
“I can be discreet and conceal my work from Starfleet, but I need to know more about the genome—what it is, where it came from. And as far as I know, you’re the only person I can ask for that information. You’re the only one I can trust. Please help me.”
His plea weakened Crusher’s resolve. “Starfleet made us redact all data about the genome from the ship’s computers. All I can tell you is what I remember.” She waited until Bashir cued her to go on. “The Meta-Genome is an artificial genetic construct created by an extinct precursor race called the Shedai. They ruled over a large area of local space up until about a million years ago, in the sectors around Pacifica.”
“Where the Tkon Empire used to rule?”
“Same region. Anyway, the Shedai went into a prolonged period of hibernation a few hundred thousand years ago, but before they did, they encoded a vast amount of raw data—on everything from biology to power generation to you-name-it—into an impossibly complex set of genetic strings, which they scattered onto planets all over their former territory. And then they left behind some kind of key for reassembling all that information.”
Intrigued, Bashir cut in, “To what end? Did they plan to resurrect their entire civilization when they woke up?”
She shrugged. “I guess. I saw twenty-third-century medical files related to the Meta-Genome’s discovery. It looks as if some of our most advanced tissue-regeneration technology was derived from the Meta-Genome, along with who knows what other advancements.”
“And that was part of the mission profile for Operation Vanguard.”
A quick nod. “I think so.”
“And how did the Tholians end up peddling the Meta-Genome to Andor?”
“If I remember correctly, there was a suggestion in some of the Vanguard documentation that the Shedai uplifted the Tholians to sapience, but enslaved them in the process. After they emancipated themselves, they took some of their former masters’ knowledge with them.”
Bashir began to appreciate the scope of the Meta-Genome’s history and the potential for widespread chaos its uncontrolled dissemination might unleash. “If the Federation has the Meta-Genome data that Andor needs, why aren’t we giving it to them, instead of letting the Tholians play the part of the benefactor?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But I can tell you this: If you go digging for an answer—or, Heaven help you, a cure—the powers that be at Starfleet Command had better not find out it was you, or else think that you’re dead. Otherwise, you’ll end up wishing you were.”
“Point noted.”
Crusher’s tone sharpened. “I’m not kidding. Getting caught with the Meta-Genome data would be a career-ending mistake. Do yourself a favor, Doctor, and leave it alone. And if you can’t, or won’t . . . do me a favor, and forget we ever talked about this.”
“This conversation never happened.”
“I should be so lucky. Good night, Doctor.”
“Sweet dreams. And thank you.”
Her hand blurred into view for a moment, and then the channel was terminated at her end. The screen on Bashir’s desk reverted to the blue-and-white Federation emblem, and he was left alone to contemplate just how far he was willing to go in pursuit of a wild hunch. Crusher had said nothing to Bashir about the risks that Shar’s holographic missive hadn’t already told him, but the genuine fear in her voice gave him pause. He had bucked orders many times in the past, risked reprimand over matters of principle, but somehow this felt different—as if he had been implored to commit a noble crime for a greater good, even though it would cost him everything.
Would I give up my freedom to cure a dying people? Lose my life to save a world?
He was stricken for a moment by unbidden memories of murders he’d committed on Salavat, of strangers who had died by his hand, of black deeds he’d done with the blessing of the government that he was now being implored by a desperate peer to defy in the name of mercy.
His thoughts drifted into a daydream of the Egyptian afterlife, a remnant from some book of mythology he’d once read. He saw himself standing before Anubis, judge of the dead, facing the Ma’at: a scale that would weigh his life’s evils against its acts of virtue. If the balance of his soul favored good, he would earn redemption and salvation; but if the measure of his life favored evil, his soul would be handed over to the Devourer of the Dead for damnation and destruction.
If I had to take that test right this moment, Bashir realized, I honestly don’t know which way the scale would tip. It was a truth he had lived with for far too long.
No longer. He was done with the status quo. It was time for change, and not by degrees. It would be major, and he would make it happen—as soon as possible, and on his own terms.
• • •
Sarina Douglas stepped out of the shower and with both hands twisted a torrent of warm water from her blond hair. After long days—of which this had been one—she often reveled in taking an extended retreat beneath a spray of hot water and gentle sonic pulses. It was one of many pleasures she had come to appreciate in the years since Julian had freed her from her prison of medically induced near-catatonia and unleashed the full potential of her genetically engineered body and mind. Of course, a shower didn’t hold a candle to wine, or to music, or sex, but coming so late to the joys of the senses had taught her to take nothing for granted.
Every day we draw breath is a victory, she reminded herself.
She wrapped a fresh, light-blue towel around her damp hair and pulled on a knee-length, decadently soft white bathrobe. Its thirsty natural fibers wicked the last drops of water from her skin as she padde
d out of the bathroom and across the carpeted floor of the bedroom she shared with Bashir. To her surprise, he was sitting on the end of the bed, hunched forward and hands folded, with a somber expression on his face. Douglas checked the chrono, then looked back at her lover. “Aren’t you supposed to be on duty in the hospital until the end of Beta Shift?”
“I need to talk to you.”
His monotonal reply alarmed her. She sat beside him, barely perched on the bed’s corner. “Are you all right?” When he hesitated to speak, she added, “Is this about what you were saying on Bajor? About what happened on Salavat?”
“No.” He stopped and seemed to reconsider his answer. “Not directly.”
Something was haunting his thoughts; she could see it in the distance of his gaze. “What’s going on? How can I help?”
It took him a moment to begin, but once he did, the story poured from him. He explained that the summons from Quark had been a back-channel message from his old crewmate Shar, on Andor, asking for his help in saving the Andorian people. Then he told her, in a frantic spill of information, all about the Shedai Meta-Genome: what it was, where it came from, why it was needed, and what would happen to Bashir and anyone else who dared to try to unlock its secrets. It was a mad torrent of history and conspiracy theory and science all rolled into a breathless rant.
Finally, his frustration and righteous anger came to the fore. “The fact that Starfleet is stifling research into the Meta-Genome makes no sense! Why have access to something with so much potential only to lock it away?”
“Sometimes, this kind of knowledge gets buried for a reason.”
“I refuse to accept that!” He sprang to his feet and began pacing and combing his graying black hair from his eyes with his hand—mannerisms that reminded Douglas unfavorably of Jack, the eponymous ringleader of “the Jack Pack,” Douglas’s former comrades in psychiatric exile.
She didn’t like playing devil’s advocate, but the situation seemed to call for it, if only to calm Bashir down. “Perhaps whoever classified the Meta-Genome data had a good reason.”
“Reasons lose their meaning over time. Whatever led someone to suppress this information is long since irrelevant.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Sarina. This has politics written all over it. But how many people are still carrying political grudges from the twenty-third century?”
“You’d be surprised. The Tholians, for one. And as a civilization, the Romulans have been known to stay angry for centuries.”
Her pointed logic was unable to pierce his armor of indignation. “It’s inhumane. Placing politics or security concerns over the survival of a sentient species is indefensible.”
Perhaps conversational judo was in order. “I agree with you completely.”
Bashir’s rhetorical momentum halted as he looked at Douglas. “You do?”
“In principle? Absolutely. I’m not going to sit here and make an argument to justify doing nothing while innocent people die, never mind an entire species.” She stood and gently took hold of Bashir by his shoulders. “But think carefully about the answer to this next question. Precisely what action do you suggest we take to stop it?”
He responded by clutching her shoulders, as well. “I need access to the original Meta-Genome data. All of it. As soon as possible.”
“Julian, are you completely deranged? Starfleet would never let you have it. They might even drum you out of the service just for asking about it.”
His demeanor turned dark and deadly serious. “We won’t go through official channels. No one else on the station can know I have the data—not even Captain Ro. And once I have it, I’ll have to conduct all my research offline—one query to any Starfleet or Federation database, and I’ll be in solitary confinement faster than you can say ‘treason.’ But it all starts with us getting a copy of the complete Meta-Genome and any supporting documentation we can find from Operation Vanguard. And that’s why I need your help.”
“To do what? My security clearance isn’t anywhere near high enough to pull those files through Starfleet Intelligence. You think you’d get locked up fast? Watch what happens to me if I even mention that program at SI.”
Bashir seemed unfazed by her protest. In fact, he looked even more resolute. “I don’t want you to get the files from SI.” He let Douglas work out the rest on her own.
“No. Dammit, Julian, that’s too dangerous. We can’t!”
“If we don’t, the Andorian race will go extinct.”
Douglas fought back against a sick feeling in her gut. “It’s a mistake.”
“It’s the only option we have.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand and pressed his forehead to hers. “We have to try.”
“Okay. But I’m warning you, Julian: If we dance with the devil, we will get burned.”
He kissed her. “Won’t be the first time.”
• • •
The waiting was the worst part. Douglas had followed the established protocol for setting up a meeting: she had sent a written message containing only a prime number—always the next upcoming prime-numbered day to occur on the Federation standard calendar—to an ostensibly inactive recipient address. As always, her message was immediately bounced back to her with an error message explaining that her intended recipient did not exist, but she knew that her contact monitored all errors bounced from that address, and that her signal would be received.
Once that step had been completed, there was nothing more for Douglas to do but go to the meeting place at the prescribed time—always exactly five hours and nine minutes after she had sent her message—and then wait, for however long it took to get a reply.
On the old Deep Space 9, the rendezvous would have taken place in the main room of her quarters. Now that she lived with Bashir, she found it prudent to take these meetings elsewhere. Someplace more private, safe from eavesdropping or prying eyes: the solitary confinement block of the new station’s expansive maximum-security stockade complex.
In keeping with Starfleet’s commitment to the ethical treatment of prisoners, the cell in which Douglas sat was comfortable, clean bordering on antiseptic, well-lit, and deathly quiet. She reclined on the bed, which could retract into the bulkhead when not in use, and used her folded hands for a pillow. If I hadn’t turned off the comms down here I could tell the computer to play some music, she mused with mild regret. Ah, well. I guess that’s the price I pay for privacy.
“You asked to see me.” The husky, feminine voice of L’Haan—Douglas’s mysterious Section 31 handler—came from the back of the cell and startled the deputy security chief, who scrambled to her feet as she turned. The Vulcan woman’s face was lean and youthful, but a diamond-hard quality in her eyes gave her the air of someone much older. She had changed little if at all since her first meeting with Douglas, years earlier. She still wore 31’s signature all-black uniform and her Cleopatra-style coif with chilly pride. “State your business.”
“I need a favor.”
“Our organization does not exist for the personal benefit of its members.”
Douglas reined in her temper. “What I’m asking for can benefit the organization, provided we manage it and its consequences correctly.”
L’Haan arched one eyebrow until she became doubt incarnate. “Elaborate.”
“The Andorians reached out to Julian a few days ago. They—”
“We know. Bashir’s former crewmate ch’Thane contacted him through the Ferengi.”
It never failed to unnerve Douglas the way that L’Haan seemed to know all the details of a situation far ahead of everyone else, as if all the people around the Vulcan woman were merely pieces on her astropolitical chessboard. “Do you know what Shar sent to him?”
“Portions of the classified Meta-Genome.” She made a subtle, birdlike tilt of her head. “Bashir intends to acquire the full genome for analysis.” She had said it as if it were fact, but a nuance of diction made it clear she was asking a question.
/> “Yes. But neither he nor I have the security clearance to gain access to it without ending up in one of these cells for real. That’s why I need you to get it for us. Can it be done?”
“Not without great risk.” She paced a few steps, stopped near the entrance of the cell, and turned back. “How would you make such an effort on my part worthwhile?”
“By delivering something else the organization wants very, very much.”
The Vulcan seemed irked by Douglas’s vague promise. “The release of the full Meta-Genome, even into hands as trusted as yours and Doctor Bashir’s, poses grave risks to the security of the Federation—possibly to its very existence. If it were to be stolen or intercepted by hostile powers, there would be dire consequences for the future of our civilization.”
She met L’Haan’s ire with her own rising temper. “We’re well aware of the dangers. He knows not to query any external systems about the genome, and we’ll do all we can to maintain total secrecy at every stage in the project.”
“And if the good doctor succeeds in his mission to save the Andorians, how will he explain the provenance of his miraculous cure?”
“At that point, he’ll invoke his right against self-incrimination. But before we go public with the cure, we’ll delete all data about the genome that isn’t integrated into the end result, so that only the portions needed for the cure are subjected to peer review.”
Her assurances seemed to placate L’Haan. “You still have not told me what would be of such value to the organization that we would incur the risks of obtaining this for you.”