Star Trek: The Fall: A Ceremony of Losses

by David Mack

  “People who need my help. Speaking of which, can’t we go any faster?”

  “Not much, no. But even if we could, I’d advise against it.”

  Bashir tried not to let his impatience show. “Why not?”

  “Commercial traffic on the Andor Run averages warp five. We start haulin’ ass, you might get there a few hours sooner, but we’d kick up a shitload of red flags doin’ it. And seein’ as there’s a price on your head, I’d reckon that’s the last thing you’d want.”

  Mollified, Bashir sat back and relaxed. “You make a fair point.”

  “Damn straight I do.” He fiddled with the ship’s flight controls for a few seconds, then turned back toward Bashir. “So, who’re these people you’re out to help? Friends of yours? Maybe got yourself a sweet blue honey down there?”

  “No, nothing of the kind.”

  The skipper looked confused. “What’s the rush, then? Someone owe you money?”

  “I’m not in this for profit. Or for glory, in case that was your next question.”

  “Then level with me, Doc. What the hell am I mixed up in? Why does Starfleet want your butt in a sling?”

  Bashir’s first instinct was to deflect, lie, or somehow put an end to the conversation. Then his conscience stung him, and he realized that whether he had meant to do so or not, he had just put Harris’s life in very real danger. If I expect him to risk getting killed, I owe him the truth.

  “How much do you know about why Andor seceded from the Federation?”

  The disheveled pilot shrugged. “Just what I hear on the news. Somethin’ about they’re dying off, and they blame us for hiding some top-secret files they think might’ve helped ’em find a cure. Then the Tholians said they have it and they’d share, so Andor told us to get lost.”

  “As it happens, every word of that is true. Now, even with the Tholians’ help, the Andorians still haven’t found their cure—but I have. And with your help, I plan to bring it to them.”

  “And what’s in it for you?”

  “Absolutely nothing. In fact, I fully expect more than a few interested parties will reward my efforts by trying to kill me before I complete my mission. . . . And you with me, I’m afraid.”

  To his surprise, Harris looked pleased. “All right, then. Sounds like a plan, Doc.”

  “You’re taking this far better than I might have expected.”

  “Don’t get much call to do good deeds. Figure it’ll be a nice change of pace.”

  “Even though you’ll be in terrible danger?”

  Harris grinned. “I’m a ship captain, Doc. Risk is my business.”

  “You’re the captain of an unarmed one-man freighter.”

  The younger man’s mirth faltered. “Okay, so my business is delivering cargo.” His jovial demeanor returned. “But I’ve been meaning to diversify.”

  • • •

  It wasn’t dawn itself to which Kellessar zh’Tarash objected; it was the fact that she was obliged to rouse herself from bed each day at sunrise—and sometimes earlier—when she would have much preferred to slumber until the crack of noon.

  The buzzing of her alarm pulled apart her fragile curtain of dreams, and she forced herself out of bed with a weary groan. Every year it gets harder, she lamented, but just as quickly she felt self-conscious about her self-pity. She wasn’t as young as she used to be—not that anyone else was, either—but she was far from old. She was in good health, and for an Andorian, she had barely begun to creep up on the lower threshold of middle age.

  Gray predawn light bled around the edges of her bedroom curtains, enabling zh’Tarash to discern the elegant features of her sleeping lover, Rane. She was a lovely shen, but never more so than when she slept. Awake, her beauty was marred by the lingering shade of sorrow, just as zh’Tarash’s was. Others rarely recognized that darkness in them, that void where love once had dwelled, but she and Rane knew each other so well that they no longer needed to speak of it. They had been bondmates, pledged to each other since their youth, consecrated in their union with the gentle grace of Isal, their group’s chan, and the fierce pride of its thaan, Hosh.

  More than four years had passed since the Borg invasion. Since the day that a sickly green bolt of fire cast down from orbit had leveled the planet’s former capital and consumed Hosh and Isal. Since the day that she and Rane had seen their lives cut in half.

  She closed her eyes and pushed away the memories.

  We will not speak of it. Not today. Not ever.

  A deep breath, and zh’Tarash got out of bed. She collected her dressing gown from the chair in the corner, put it on, and tied it closed over her pajamas. On her way out of the bedroom, she let her fingertips whisper across Rane’s cheek, and she felt a moment of mild envy that, as an artist, Rane enjoyed the privilege of sleeping in pretty much every day.

  In another time, before the decimation of the homeworld by the Borg, before the scourge of the fertility crisis, zh’Tarash might have feared that her political rivals, or even society at large, might have tried to publicly shame her and Rane for their relationship. They had made no secret of their tezha—their exclusive sexual union outside the reproductive ritual of shelthreth—but then neither had many other fractured bondgroups that had suffered the ravages of the recent past. Faced with perils of a more existential quality, the Andorian people had begun to shift their mores. Lifestyles and behaviors that had once been condemned were becoming mainstream, or at the least tolerated as an inevitability.

  Of course it helped that she and Rane had an additional rationale for remaining together and refusing new bondmates: their thei, Sennifaal th’Tarash. Crossing the hallway with gingerly steps, she cracked open his bedroom door. The six-year-old was still fast asleep; his antennae twitched ever so slightly, signaling that he was deep within a dream cycle.

  May the winds of Uzaveh bring you gentle dreams, my thei.

  Later, when he awoke, he would rouse Rane, who would make him breakfast and see him off to school. Then Rane would return home and paint in her studio until it was time to go back and bring Senn home for lunch and homework. It was a routine like any other, but zh’Tarash was grateful for it every day. She knew that she and her bondmates were among the few lucky ones, those who had succeeded in siring a healthy offspring when so many millions of others had endured the heartbreak of repeated miscarriages. On some level, she wondered if the tragic deaths of Isal and Hosh had been Uzaveh the Infinite’s price for their child. If so, it was a price she would pay again—with her own life, if necessary.

  She eased Senn’s door shut and continued in feather steps down the hall and around the corner toward the kitchen, to conjure herself a mug of hot katheka from the replicator and jolt her brain into full consciousness before showering and making her way to the Parliament Andoria to endure another day of pointless prattle by ch’Foruta and his Treishya demagogues.

  As she started to cross the living room, she stopped.

  A stranger was sitting on the sofa, facing her.

  Should I scream? Should I run? Terrified, she looked back toward the bedrooms. What about Senn? Rane? Seeing no option for retreat, she steeled herself and invoked her steadiest and most defiant tone of voice. “Who are you? And what are you doing in my home?”

  The chan held up empty hands. “I beg your forgiveness, Zha. My name is Thirishar ch’Thane. I work with Professor zh’Thiin at the Science Institute.”

  She knew his name, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the room, she recognized his face from briefings and news footage. “How did you get past my guards? And the alarms?”

  A coy twitch of his antennae. “Sorry. Trade secret.”

  “And you’ve broken into my home because—?”

  “I need to speak with you, but I can’t risk coming to your office at Parliament.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your enemies are my enemies. The Treishya was behind the mob that burned down the Institute’s headquarters. If they knew I was in th
e capital, they’d come after me.”

  She recalled ch’Thane’s arrest a couple of weeks earlier. “You do seem to be at the top of their most-wanted list. But just because we share an enemy, that doesn’t make us friends.”

  “Not yet, it doesn’t. But it’s a good place to start.”

  He remained seated as she edged into the room and stood in front of him. “All right. You want my trust? Tell me where to find Professor zh’Thiin and the rest of the Institute staff.”

  “All I can tell you is that they’re someplace safe—for now.”

  “That’s not the answer I was hoping for.”

  “Best I can give you.”

  She studied his face, seeking any telltale signs of a lie taking shape. “Why don’t they come back? Things have been quieting down in the capital.”

  He shook his head. “Not for much longer. Something major is about to break, something that’ll put the Treishya on the defensive. That’s why I need your help.”

  The more he spoke, the more worried zh’Tarash became. “What kind of help?”

  “I need you to facilitate safe passage and amnesty for Julian Bashir.”

  The human’s name and an account of his crimes had topped the previous night’s Parliamentary security briefing. “He’s a fugitive from Starfleet justice. After all the work I’ve done to try to mend fences with the Federation, why would I antagonize them by helping him?”

  “Because he’s in trouble for trying to help us. I sent him the Shedai Meta-Genome data we got from the Tholians, along with all the work the professor and I had done over the last three years. And I just got a message back from him: He has the cure, and he’s on his way here.”

  His news robbed her of her equilibrium, forcing her to sit down across from him. “You’re telling me he has the cure? The solution to our fertility crisis?”

  “That’s what his message said, yes.”

  As a politician, suspicion came easily to zh’Tarash. “How can you be sure he’s telling you the truth?”

  His conviction was steady. “I served with him. I trust him. I believe in him.”

  “We’ve been led down the garden path before—by you and your Yrythny cure, as I recall. What if Bashir’s wrong, too? What if he only thinks he has the cure?”

  “He’s risked everything to bring this to us: his commission, his career, his reputation. And if he’s intercepted by the Tholians or the Treishya, perhaps his life. He wouldn’t make such a dangerous wager unless he was certain it was worth it. And if he’s sure, I’m sure.”

  “Your faith in him is touching. But it doesn’t change the political reality that I alone do not control the government. I have no legal authority to direct the military or grant amnesties.”

  The young scientist was undeterred. “True. But the rules of parliamentary politics contain several mechanisms that protect the interests of the minority and empower the loyal opposition.”

  “I don’t need you to teach me the nuances of politics.”

  “Then stop acting like a helpless grayth in the parliament chamber. It’s time to take a stand, Zha, and you’re the only one in a position to do so.”

  How brash of him! “It’s not as simple as that. Manipulating the process for advantage takes time. I’ll need to rally my allies and try to seduce vulnerable votes from the other side.”

  “Do what you have to, but do it quickly. We don’t have much time before Bashir arrives. If he gets here and we’re not ready, ch’Foruta will end up holding all the cards.”

  His sense of urgency was contagious. “I’ll try. But the gears of state grind slowly, and they never move without a cost. Making this happen will mean expending political capital.”

  “Well, if you’ve been saving it up, this would be a moment worth spending it on.”

  She couldn’t tell if his enthusiasm was the product of idealism, naïveté, or both. “So you say. But if I burn up all my favors and influence on this, and it ends up going wrong, the result would be political suicide. The Progressive Caucus would be ruined—and it might drag its allies down with it. Is that really a price you’re willing to pay?”

  The chan stood. “If your party and its allies fall, my colleagues and I fall with you.” He walked to the back door that led to her walled garden, turned its handle, and paused to look back. “On the other hand, if you back Bashir and it turns out he’s right, you’ll be known as the ones who saved all of Andor. Whatever you decide to do . . . I’ll be watching.”

  He opened the door, stepped out, and closed it gently behind him.

  After a second’s hesitation, zh’Tarash sprang from her chair and dashed to the back door. When she looked out into the lush confines of her garden, there was no sign of ch’Thane.

  She looked back toward the bedrooms and thought of Senn, and of Rane.

  Then she thought of all the Andorians who had been denied the joy of raising families.

  There would be katheka at the office, and no one would care if she didn’t shower today. She hurried back to her bedroom to get dressed.

  Zh’Tarash had a long day ahead. She planned to make it one to be proud of.

  Twenty-two

  Stepping inside a holodeck when it was in Stellar Cartography Mode felt to Ezri Dax like space walking without the encumbrance of an environmental suit. As soon as she was through the door, she felt gravity release its hold on her, and she drifted up from the deck into the enveloping simulation of interstellar space. Somewhere behind and below her, she heard the doors close, and the illusion was complete. She was alone, adrift in the endless vault of night, surrounded in all directions by all the stars known to Federation science.

  “Computer, bring me to the others.”

  The heavens pinwheeled and sped past as the simulation adjusted Dax’s vantage point relative to the simulation. As was typical in holodeck programs that were often shared by several personnel in a department, the Aventine’s computer had initially segregated Dax into her own partition of the program, in case her research objectives were different from those already in progress by other users. After a few seconds of vertiginous galactic adjustment, the starfield settled once more, and from the darkness emerged Helkara, Kedair, and Bowers. The trio was surrounded by several highlighted icons that represented ships and faint lines—most straight, some arced—that indicated the different vessels’ flight paths and anticipated headings.

  Dax took stock of the amassed evidence. “Where are we so far?”

  By virtue of rank and his colleagues’ silence, the burden of response fell on Bowers. “We’ve compiled this from every flight plan, tracking station report, starship sensor log, and long-range surveillance array we could scrape together.” The first officer gestured between two brilliant points of light. “We’ve identified all uncloaked starships traveling in the sectors between Bajor and Andor that are within range of a rendezvous with the Rio Grande in the past day.”

  Dax eyed the scant number of targets. “There had to have been more than this.”

  At a look from Bowers, Kedair said, “Computer: Overlay eliminated subjects.” All at once the simulation was choked with hundreds of icons and course trajectories. “We’re ignoring any ship that’s not traveling to Andor or that’s been stopped and searched during the window of time since we think Bashir abandoned the runabout.”

  An approving nod. “Good work. Let’s talk about what’s left.”

  The security chief glanced upward. “Computer: Remove overlay.” The simulation returned to the state it had been in moments before. Kedair highlighted three of the ships’ icons with quick taps. “Although we currently count ten ships as possible rides for Bashir, that’s based on the broadest available definition of ‘possible.’ These three would have to have risked warp core overloads in order to make the necessary deviations from their original course to meet the Rio Grande and then return to their original headings without losing ground. Since none of the sensor arrays monitoring this sector detected any unusual energy signatures co
nsistent with overdriven warp cores, I’d like your permission to rule these three out.”

  “Done,” Dax said, and Kedair dismissed the highlighted icons with a wave of her hand.

  Helkara highlighted three more vessels. “Although these could have made the rendezvous with the Rio Grande, I would suggest it is extremely unlikely that any of them did.”

  His certainty intrigued Dax. “Because?”

  “The first is a Sheliak commercial freighter. Given their extreme xenophobia, I would think it highly doubtful that they would offer Doctor Bashir, or any non-Sheliak, transportation to Andor, or to anywhere else. The second of these vessels is an automated cargo transport. While it’s not impossible that Bashir might have remotely accessed its navigational systems to arrange a transfer, he would find it a most uncomfortable conveyance, as it has no life-support systems, and no inertial damping outside its sealed cargo containers. It also is policed by robotic sentries that would be most inhospitable to an organic stowaway. As for the third vessel, it’s a Klingon battle cruiser, the I.K.S. ghung’HoH out of Mempa.”

  “Point taken.”

  With a sweep of his hand, Helkara made his three subjects and their data vanish.

  Dax looked at Bowers. “And then there were four.”

  “Three, in my opinion.” He tapped the icon for the ship closest to the Aventine’s position. “This is a Tholian battleship. If they’d intercepted Bashir, it’s a good bet they’d have destroyed the runabout. So I think we can rule them out.” He flicked the data point into oblivion.

  “What do we know about the last three?”

  “Unarmed commercial freighters,” Kedair said, “all with recent registry transfers to Ghidi Prime. Computer: Show registry and technical specs on remaining subjects.” Beside and beneath each of the three remaining icons appeared long scrolls of information: license and registration paperwork, recent flight histories, biographical data on their owners, commanders, and crews, as well as full ship schematics. “The Fortune’s Fool is a Ferengi-owned container ship, crew complement of forty-seven, and the fastest one of the bunch—but also currently the farthest from Andor.” She switched her attention to the second ship. “The Parham is a one-man boat. The owner’s strictly small-time, specializing in artisanal goods, custom cargo, and light courier work. It’s presently on course for Andor, ETA twelve minutes.” Her focus turned keen and cold as she noted the third vessel’s details. “I’ve saved my favorite for last: the Mogonus, an Orion merchantman with a long history of sentient trafficking, smuggling, and black-market ties. Its captain and crew have been implicated”—a note of resentment tainted her voice as she continued—“but never charged in more than four dozen unsolved acts of deep-space piracy.”