by David Mack
He unlocked the gate at the far end of the passage and scrambled up the steps onto a street busy with pedestrians and street vendors hawking wares from wobble-wheeled carts.
A fat old shen tried to tempt Shar with boiled mystery meat on a stick. “Fresh pilska! Hot and juicy! Only two credits!” He waved it off, but he knew that in a few hours he might be hungry and desperate enough to eat something very much like it.
From inside a cart packed with junk, a scar-faced thaan beckoned. “Tools for every purpose! A gadget for every task!” It was easy for Shar to hear the truth behind the dealer’s euphemisms: the thaan was a black-market weapons dealer, one smart enough—or maybe just brazen enough—to operate in public. Shar made a point of noting where the thaan’s cart was located and what its markings were. I might need to pay him a visit sometime.
Leading with his shoulder, Shar bladed through the crowd, certain that if he was being tailed, his shadow would be either exposed or thwarted by the bustling throng. He looked back and still saw no one who looked out of place, nor anyone who appeared intent on following him. Probably just being paranoid. Have to take a breath.
He turned left at the next corner and ignored the come-hither leer of an emaciated young zhen lurking in an open doorway. At a glance Shar could see she might once have been pretty, perhaps even a beauty, but the planet’s constant shortages of food and medicine had taken their toll on the fragile young thing, who now was forced to survive by desperate measures. All he could offer her was a fleeting look of pity as he pushed on into the night.
How long before I get so lonely that I take comfort with someone like her?
Each turn took Shar down a road more deserted than the last, until he found himself treading lightly through a back alley, then down a steep flight of spiral stairs hewn from blue-and-white marbled stone, and around a corner to a basement door marked with alien symbols. He knocked twice with his knuckles—three taps, a brief pause, and then a single tap.
Seconds later, a metal panel on the door slid open, and a glowing mechanical eye on a stalk jutted out and bathed him in chartreuse light. A voice, guttural and synthetic, snapped from an unseen speaker, “A deal is a deal.”
“Until a better one comes along.”
The mechanical eye retracted, the panel shut, and the door’s bolts unlocked with a clunk. The portal slid open, and Shar slipped through it into the unlicensed speakeasy club that served as both a sideline and a front for the Science Institute’s secret equipment suppliers.
At the end of a short, dim corridor, a rust-maned, snaggle-fanged Chalnoth bouncer scanned Shar for weapons before waving him through the open doorway to the club beyond. The steady, bass-heavy thump of electronic music was so loud that Shar wondered if it was being used to drive away vermin—a hypothesis he ruled out when he got a good look at the club’s diverse alien clientele. Nausicaans, Balduks, Talarians—it was as if someone had rounded up prime specimens of the quadrant’s most undesirable off-world neighbors and locked them all in this seedy, strobe-lit, smoke-filled abscess festering beneath the planet’s capital. As the chan crossed the room to meet his contact, a hulking Orion man collided with his shoulder as if trying to provoke a fight. In no mood for a bar brawl, Shar ignored him and made his way to a curtained, circular booth in the club’s farthest corner.
His host, Torv, was already there, puffing on something sickly sweet and narcotic from an Orion-style hookah. The water pipe burbled and vented pale violet vapors as the fat Ferengi diplomat inhaled through the pipe’s long curled hose. Then he grinned and exhaled through his maw of fearsome, pointed yellow teeth. “Nice to see you again, Shar.”
“Can we make this quick?”
“What’s your hurry? Have a drink.” Torv waved over a scantily clad Trill waitress. “Bring my friend here a Solarian Sunrise.” The woman nodded and went back to the bar.
“Did you get the list I sent?”
The Ferengi took another long toke on the hookah. He seemed to enjoy nothing more than wasting other people’s time, a passive-aggressive trait that Shar wished he could correct with some swift negative reinforcement of the corporal variety.
“I got your list. We’re working on it. But the price has gone up.”
“Why?” As soon as he’d asked, Shar was able to fill in the answer. “The embargo.”
Torv blew a cloud of smoke that enveloped them both. “Precisely. Much of what you want is made in the Federation. And moving it past their blockade gets harder every day.”
Shar waved away the smoke, which stung his eyes and left him light-headed. “How much more to get what we need?”
“A ten-percent surcharge.”
“Five.”
“I didn’t call you here to negotiate. The price is the price.”
“There’s always room to haggle, Torv. Seven percent.”
The fat ambassador shrugged. “I’m not the one who needs the shipment. Ten.”
Someday I’ll make him pay for this in blood. “Fine. Ten. How soon?”
“As soon as we can get it here.”
“You promised to deliver it by tomorrow.”
“The embargo—”
“Every day you’re late, we knock ten thousand off your fee. As per the contract.”
“Nice to see you people still know how to read the fine print. We’ll let you know when it arrives. We can settle up then.”
“Good.” Satisfied they were finished, Shar started to get up.
“Before you go, I have a message for you. My contact in External Audits says to tell you, ‘Work has begun.’ I trust you know what that means?”
It was the best news Shar had heard in weeks, and it took all his willpower not to let slip just how great a relief the message was. “I understand. Thank you.”
He walked away, careful not to betray his heightened emotional state. If Bashir’s working on it, we might have a chance. Maybe we can find the answer while there’s still time.
Venturing alone into the streets of Andor’s capital, shrouded in night’s protective cloak, Shar permitted himself a luxury so long denied that he’d nearly forgotten what it felt like.
He smiled.
• • •
“From our vantage point, Cha Presider, it appears your Treishya-run government is doing more to obstruct your scientists’ search for a cure than to promote it.”
“I assure you, we have made every effort to advance the search for a solution to the fertility crisis.” Ch’Foruta found Tholians a most disconcerting species. Even wrapped in the billowing, iridescent silk of their environment suits, their multi-limbed crystalline bodies, faceted heads, and eyes burning with volcanic fires were the stuff of his nightmares. Political decorum demanded that he mask his unease at all costs, but being confronted here in his own office, face-to-face, by Dezskene, the new official envoy from the Tholian Assembly, had left him on edge. The fact that Dezskene’s presence also meant there was a Tholian battleship in orbit only exacerbated the presider’s already considerable anxiety.
The deep, dark scratching sound of Dezskene’s vocoder-translated voice reminded ch’Foruta of a diamond blade cutting through obsidian. “Reliable sources inform us that your scientists have sought aid from off-world specialists. Why would they resort to such measures if you had delivered to them all that we have given you, as we have pledged?”
“I suspect your sources have been the victims of a miscommunication.” Ch’Foruta recalled the talking points on which zh’Rilah had briefed him before this meeting. “Professor zh’Thiin and her peers are only seeking independent confirmation of their findings. It’s a standard practice in scientific research. And, as I’ve already said, we’ve made available to her team all the Meta-Genome data you’ve so generously provided.”
The fire in Dezskene’s eyes burned a bit brighter. “But you do nothing to shield their work from the extremists who constitute the bulk of your own political faction.”
Obeying his political instincts, ch’Foruta pivoted toward
denial. “I don’t know what—”
“A mob of your Treishya partisans set fire to your Science Institute’s headquarters.”
The presider held up both hands. “Those were fringe elements and not representative of the Treishya party or its platform, as we can—”
“Do not lie to me, Cha Presider. We monitor your broadcast and textual media. Those zealots are no more outliers from your party’s orthodoxy than you or your fellow parliamentarians.”
It was time to deflect and obfuscate. “Obviously, these are anxious times for my people. The sorts of dramatic changes we face were always bound to lead to social unrest.”
“Especially when your apologists in the media go to such lengths to incite it.”
The envoy’s criticism left ch’Foruta dumbstruck. Am I really being lectured on social justice by a Tholian? He took a deep breath and focused his thoughts on remaining polite. “Did you come to express a specific concern regarding our research?”
Dezskene spread his forelimbs in an expansive gesture. “The entirety of your program is of great concern to us. Andorian science is most advanced. One would expect your medical researchers to have found what they needed after this much time. The fact that your efforts seem to have been stalled for so long on the verge of success leads us to . . . unflattering conclusions.”
“Such as?”
“That your researchers are taking advantage of our generosity by prolonging their investigations in order to weaponize the information contained in the Meta-Genome.”
All of ch’Foruta’s advisers had warned him that sequestering the Meta-Genome data to buy time for the Treishya to entrench themselves politically might backfire. None of them, however, had warned him of this scenario. “I assure you, we are doing nothing of the sort. We understand the charitable nature of your people’s gift, and we will not abuse it.”
“We want to believe you. And it is important to us that our efforts not be in vain. We are prepared to send to your planet’s surface a team of our best scientists, experts who possess unparalleled experience with the Shedai Meta-Genome. They would bring with them all of our extant files regarding the genome, and they would help your Professor zh’Thiin and her colleagues accelerate their research.”
The Tholians’ act of charity was a potential disaster in the making, but ch’Foruta did his best to dismiss the offer as if it were a silly luxury no one would take seriously. “That won’t be necessary. Our people have the matter under control, and a cure is at hand.”
“We are most relieved to hear that.” The envoy leaned forward a few centimeters, just enough to make ch’Foruta tense with fear. “We would be most grateful if, when your scientists announce their cure, we could have representatives present to remind your people of the role played by the Assembly and its partners in the Typhon Pact.”
“Of course. In light of the great kindness you’ve shown us, it would be only fitting.” Except for the fact that it makes me look like a puppet with a Tholian’s orthorhombic appendage rammed up my backside, with its pincers working my mouth.
Dezskene raised himself up from the platform that had been set up in advance of his visit, a cumbersome block of obsidian that the presider’s staff had needed an antigrav pallet to move. The envoy’s environmental garment shimmered as he moved. “We will look forward to news of your people’s renaissance—and to discussing our future of mutual interests.”
The presider stood and bade Dezskene farewell with a half-bow. “As do I.” He watched his imperial guards escort the Tholian out of his office. As the door hushed closed behind them, ch’Foruta keyed the desk comm channel reserved for his chief adviser. “Ferra?”
As always, zh’Rilah was at the ready. “Yes, sir?”
“Tell Valas we’ve got to find zh’Thiin and light a fire under her—and then we have to make sure we have the Parliament under control once and for all.”
• • •
Few events better exemplified what Commander Dalit Sarai considered wrong with Starfleet Command than the tedium of its morning senior staff briefing.
Ever since she had been transferred from hands-on work as a field agent for Starfleet Intelligence to administrative duties as a liaison officer inside the San Francisco headquarters complex on Earth, she had felt marginalized and ignored. All her years of experience gathering vital information for the Federation and preventing its enemies from wreaking havoc on its citizens and infrastructure had been reduced to collating reports, conducting threat-assessment analyses that she suspected no one ever read, and being condescended to by superior officers.
This place is a waste of my talents, the young Efrosian woman fumed. I could be out there making a difference instead of in here, making presentations. How long was her past going to haunt her? For how long would she be made to pay for the same mistake? Was one friendly-fire civilian casualty really worth derailing an entire career?
She knew there were those who would say she got off lightly, that she escaped any real consequences for her actions. That she was negligent. That she should have held her fire. The critics, pundits, and politicos all loved to second-guess events that had erupted in seconds. It was easy to posit alternatives when one had days to think of them.
She mourned that child. The little Bolian boy’s face would follow her forever. In her dreams he would stalk her like a revenant, an accusing shade whose persecution of her failure would never relent. Her empathic senses had felt his pain, his anguish, his final moments of fear and loneliness. Sarai was certain she knew that boy better in his final moments than his parents ever had, and his death had cut her deeper than she had ever admitted, to anyone. His dying light would live in her heart, a constant reminder of the price of her own shortcomings.
Her mandatory presence at the Starfleet Command daily senior staff meeting was the salt rubbed into that lingering psychic injury.
“Next item,” intoned Fleet Admiral Leonard James Akaar. His rich voice suited him; he was a giant of a man, barrel-chested, square-jawed, and muscular. Despite being old enough that his face had become a map of his life’s long road of pain, and his hair had long since gone white of its own accord, he still looked robust enough to manually dismember large men half his age.
Admiral Marta Batanides, the flag officer in charge of Starfleet Intelligence, slid a padd down the table to the fleet admiral. “Reports of Breen signal traffic in the Murami Sector.”
Akaar lifted the padd and snuck a look at its screen. “Cloaked-ship activity?”
Batanides’s angular features hardened. “Not sure. We’re setting up a tachyon network, just in case. But this could be long-range SLF comms to assets on the ground.”
The fleet admiral’s piercing blue eyes looked up from beneath thick white eyebrows. “On the ground where? In our space or the Tzenkethi’s?”
“We won’t know until we triangulate it.”
The burly chief flag officer slid the padd back down the table to Batanides. “Good luck with that. I predict the signals will be gone by the time your network is active.” He looked down the table and scanned the faces gazing back at him. “Next?”
Rear Admiral Soth Romar, an Argelian who commanded the Ninth Fleet, which was based out of Gamma Hydra, leaned forward to catch the fleet admiral’s eye. “Romulan fleet activity suggests they’ve resumed coreward exploration in the Beta Quadrant. This could put them in direct contact with our Luna-class explorers. I’d like to recommend a Level Three advisory be sent to all starship commanders operating in the sectors beyond the Vela Cluster.”
“Make it happen.” Akaar slapped his palms on the conference room table, his customary prelude to adjourning the meeting. “If there’s nothing else?”
Defying her better judgment, Sarai lifted her hand.
Starfleet’s senior officer squinted at her. “Commander . . . ?”
“Sarai, sir. I’m the SI adjutant.” As soon as she had started speaking, she felt Batanides glaring at her, willing her silently to shut up, but she pressed
onward. “I have reason to think there’s been a breach of security regarding the Meta-Genome data.”
Akaar shifted toward Batanides. “Admiral? Why wasn’t this in your report?”
SI’s commanding officer shot a steely look at Sarai, then softened her countenance before answering her superior. “I reviewed Commander Sarai’s report. It’s inconclusive, at best.”
The fleet admiral was wary but curious. “Commander? What do you have?”
Sarai relayed the data on her padd to the conference room’s main wall display. “Doctor Julian Bashir, the chief medical officer of Deep Space Nine, has convened a medical conference on extremely short notice. Its stated subject is ‘strategies for the use of antigen resequencing in the treatment of Kalla-Nohra Syndrome and Pottrik Syndrome,’ but in attendance are four of the Federation’s leading experts in genomic medicine.” She added to the display a number of internal log files from the new starbase. “Just days before this conference, Bashir was called back from personal leave on Bajor by an urgent message from the Ferengi Ambassador to Bajor—his old friend, Quark. And, as you can see, we have reason to believe the Ferengi are acting as a diplomatic back channel on Andor, sneaking messages in and out.”
Akaar scrunched his brow at the screen full of circumstantial evidence. “I fail to see how any of this suggests to you a breach of security with regard to the Meta-Genome.”
Could they be this obtuse? Or was their blindness a willing charade? “Sir, if Bashir has been in contact with one or more persons on Andor via the Ferengi, my review of his dossier suggests his contact is very likely Thirishar ch’Thane, who currently is working as a senior research fellow for Professor Marthrossi zh’Thiin. She and her team have access to a large volume of Shedai Meta-Genome data provided by the Tholians. And since it’s not likely that Doctor Bashir would gather his four most eminent peers in genomic medicine to discuss Kalla-Nohra Syndrome, I think it’s reasonable to conclude that he and his colleagues are conducting unauthorized research into the potential of the Meta-Genome.”