by David Mack
It wouldn’t take long for the network’s engineers to deduce what Shar had done, or from where, so he knew he would have to make the most of this infiltration of their system. Using a suite of Starfleet cyberwarfare applications on his tricorder, he broke into the ANS system as an administrative user and locked out anyone else with top-level authority.
As he’d expected, his efforts triggered alerts almost immediately. They’re very good, he observed. But not good enough. He uploaded the audio recordings snagged by his Ferengi contact into the ANS system and marked them as public access files, a designation that meant they were to be shared over unencrypted networks with all of the planet’s news services and made freely available to the public at large. The data transferred in less than a second, and he uploaded a Trojan horse application that would hide backup copies of the recordings under various names throughout the network and restore any deleted primary copy within seconds. Don’t even bother trying to kill this bit of truth; it won’t stay dead, no matter what you do.
All that remained now was to add his own, personal touch.
He activated the RECORD function on his tricorder.
“People of Andor: My name is Thirishar ch’Thane. Many of you know who I am. For those of you who don’t, I work at the Science Institute with Professor Marthrossi zh’Thiin. She and I, and many others, have been working these past three years to devise a cure to our centuries-long fertility crisis using the Shedai Meta-Genome data provided by the Tholians.
“Many of you are demanding to know why we seem no closer to a cure today than we did three years ago. I had my suspicions, as did many others, but it was not until today that my worst fears were confirmed. Presider Ledanyi ch’Foruta and his Treishya allies have blocked our access to portions of the data provided by the Tholians, in the hope that slowing our research will harm the political fortunes of the Progressive Caucus and give the Treishya an unbreakable hold on power in the capital. Our lives have become the stakes in their cruel political game.
“I have uploaded to the public news nets a recording made less than an hour ago, of communications between our government and four starships currently in orbit: the Imperial warships Ilmarriven and Tuonetar, the Starfleet vessel Aventine, and a private freighter, the Parham. Traveling on the Parham was my friend and former crewmate Doctor Julian Bashir. He requested asylum on Andor so that he could bring us the cure to our fertility crisis, a cure that he devised based on data and research that I shared with him a few weeks ago. The Treishya and their political allies denied Bashir’s request for asylum, and Presider ch’Foruta, in defiance of the Parliament Andoria, handed Bashir over to Starfleet without any kind of due process.
“Starfleet and the Federation will tell you lies about Doctor Bashir. They will call him a criminal, a spy, a deserter, a thief, a traitor, a liar with delusions of grandeur. But I assure you that he is none of those things. He is a man of genius, vision, and principle who has risked everything he had, and all that he ever will have, to bring us help in our hour of greatest need. Julian Bashir is no traitor, he’s a hero—our hero.
“So why is our government turning him away? Why not grant him the courtesy of reviewing his case? If he’s mistaken, or if he’s lying and I’ve been deceived, then by all means extradite him. But if, as I believe, he speaks the truth and has the cure, we must welcome him. We must not let the Federation, or Presider ch’Foruta, deny us this glimmer of hope.
“I tried, many years ago, to suss a cure from the turnkey gene of the Yrythny genome, which I’d found in the Gamma Quadrant; I failed. I know many of you blame me for tragedies that were caused by that research; some of you resent me for filling your hearts with false hope. I understand your anger. I deserve it. But now I must ask you to trust me, one last time.
“March on the capital. Today! Now! This minute! Contact your members in Parliament. Tell them it’s time for the presider to step aside and let wiser heads guide our fate. Because, my fellow Andorians, this time . . . the future of our civilization truly hangs in the balance.
“Decide. And act.”
He stopped the recording and uploaded his message into the ANS network—then triggered an all-channels signal interruption to make sure every active monitor on the planet would hear what he had to say. No doubt the recording would be picked up by other news services and repeated, ad nauseam. Whether it would prove sufficient to goad a once-proud but now tired and despairing people into decisive action, only time would tell.
Running footsteps and shouting voices echoed behind the emergency stairwell door. In a few moments, Shar knew, the roof would be swarming with armed private security.
He clutched the tricorder to his chest and walked to the roof’s edge.
A metallic bang cut through the wind noise as someone kicked open the stairwell door. Shar triggered his tricorder’s built-in emergency beacon.
An angry thaan with beady eyes and a sharp chin charged forward, his sidearm aimed at Shar’s face. “Whatever you’re holding, drop it! Hands up! On your knees!” More armed guards poured out of the staircase behind him. They fanned out to either side of the leader, all of them brandishing potentially lethal weapons with the trembling hands of underpaid amateurs.
Shar stepped up and back, atop the low barrier wall that ringed the roof’s perimeter. An indicator light on his tricorder’s screen switched from red to green.
Then he stepped backward, off the roof.
He imagined their horrified faces, their silent slack-jawed shock. After a few seconds, one of them would muster the will to look over the edge, only to see . . . no sign of him.
The annular confinement beam negated his momentum as it took hold of him, and his blurred view of the cityscape washed to white before fading to reveal the familiar accoutrements of a Starfleet transporter room. Behind the transporter control console, a wide-eyed young human woman whose uniform was marked by crimson trim and an ensign’s pips regarded him with curious suspicion. Standing in front of the console and aiming a phaser at him was a green-scaled, black-haired Takaran woman. Next to her was a familiar face.
“Sam!” Shar stepped forward, arms outstretched to embrace his old friend Bowers.
The brown-skinned, shaved-headed human man held Shar at arm’s length. “Sorry, Shar. I’m afraid the reunion has to wait.” He turned to the Takaran. “Place him under arrest.”
• • •
In all her life, zh’Tarash had never seen a scandal erupt so quickly into riots—but then, until now, she had never seen a scandal in which the very survival of her species had been at stake.
Shar’s message had spread like fire through paper, igniting the fuses on fears old and new around the world in the span of a few hours. His vid and the communication recording he’d uploaded seemed to be the only things that anyone on Andor was watching, or talking about, or writing about. He’d struck his rhetorical blow at midday in the capital. Now, as the sun dipped below the horizon, millions of enraged Andorians had descended upon Lor’Vela. They had come in private transports, or on the maglev trains, or through the planetary transporter network. It was terrifying to zh’Tarash how rapidly their numbers had swelled to fill the streets and plazas.
Now the mob had surrounded the capital building. Even within the protected space of the parliament’s meeting chamber, there was no escaping the low and ominous chanting of the people outside. All their rallying cries bled into a wall of noise, a sonic tide that felt as if it might crest the barricades and swamp them all at any moment.
Tonight the Andorian people were white-hot with fury, a blade burning bright, fresh from the forge—and Kellessar zh’Tarash was determined to be the hammer that would give them a new edge and a stronger temper. It was time to strike, before their passions cooled.
The presider and his lackey speaker had forced the Parliament Andoria into recess, but this time they had overstepped their bounds. Tall with pride, zh’Tarash strode down the main passageway to the meeting chamber’s upper-tier entrances. Wal
king just behind and to either side of her were her allies, Ulloresh th’Forris, leader of the Unity Caucus, and Narwanit ch’Szaan, leader of the New Restoration Party. Marching behind them was every member of their respective parties, the entirety of the Loyal Opposition, as well as a majority of the unaligned Alliance party—and, hounding the procession from its flanks, a gaggle of journalists and correspondents from every news service on Andor.
A male Trill reporter, whom zh’Tarash thought looked too young to be out on a school night, thrust a pen recorder toward the Progressive leader while speed walking backward beside her. “Leader zh’Tarash, what do you hope to accomplish while the Parliament is in recess?”
“You need to brush up on the bylaws of the Parliament Andoria, young man. If a majority of the elected ministers are present and wish to do so, they can compel the speaker or the presider to gavel parliament back into session. And if they refuse, or if neither can be reached in a time frame deemed reasonable, a pro tem speaker can be appointed to open the proceedings.”
The reporter perked up, sensing the story was bigger than he expected. “Why would the speaker or presider refuse to gavel Parliament back into session?”
“Ask them. Here they come now.”
She lifted her chin, and the reporter nearly tripped over his own feet as he turned to see Presider ch’Foruta and Speaker ch’Lhorra leading the members of their governing coalition—the Treishya, True Heirs of Andor, and Visionists—down the main passageway from the opposite direction. For a moment, the two groups resembled armies converging, and zh’Tarash reflected on an old Andorian saying: Politics is merely war by other means. Then the great portals of the meeting chamber swung open to admit its elected members, and like rivers diverted, they flowed down the tiers and segregated themselves into their ideological tidal pools.
The media crowded into the public galleries that looked down on the chamber. Surveying the room from her desk, zh’Tarash drew a deep breath; the air was heavy with fear and charged with rancor. Everyone knew why they were gathered, and zh’Tarash felt a grudging respect for ch’Foruta and his partisans that they had chosen to face this moment head-on rather than seek to delay the inevitable.
Speaker ch’Lhorra picked up his gavel, cracked it thrice against its block, and declared to the chamber, “The Parliament Andoria stands in session.”
Before the speaker had finished his sentence, zh’Tarash was on her feet. “Cha Speaker, I move for a vote of no confidence against this government.”
“Seconded,” interjected Unity Leader th’Forris.
The speaker said what was required of him in a glum and tired croak of a voice. “Voting shall commence at once and will last until all members present have voted or abstained.”
On an ordinary vote, the various whips might spend an hour or more cajoling votes from the more reluctant members of their respective parties, trading favors or wielding threats as circumstance dictated. But this was no ordinary vote; this was a radical moment, a mirror image of the debacle that had set Andor on a lonely and self-destructive path three years earlier. This, zh’Tarash hoped and prayed, would be remembered as the day that Andor reclaimed its heritage.
The tolling of a sonorous bell signaled that voting was completed. A glance at the chrono confirmed what zh’Tarash had expected: less than twelve minutes had elapsed since her motion. All eyes turned to the speaker, who reviewed the vote count, which was visible for all to see on a display above the presider’s dais.
The outcome was already known, but protocol had to be observed.
“The motion carries. This government stands dissolved.” He struck his gavel once.
It was ch’Szaan’s turn to stand. The head of the New Restoration Party rose and lifted his voice to fill the chamber. “I move for the formation of a new governing coalition, uniting the New Restoration Party with the Unity Caucus, the Progressive Caucus, and the Alliance Party.”
Zh’Tarash called out, “Seconded!”
“Motion carries,” th’Forris declared. “Members of the named parties: Confirm or reject this new coalition. Voting will continue until all members present have voted or abstained.”
As quickly as one government had fallen, another rose to take its place. Within minutes the votes had been cast and counted, and the new coalition was confirmed.
The speaker set down his gavel and left it behind as he exited his dais. Above him, the presider also withdrew without fanfare. No doubt they would retire to their offices and collect their personal effects, escorted by capital security as a matter of protocol.
Watching from the fourth tier, zh’Tarash wanted to feel overjoyed. A few days earlier, a political upheaval such as this would have seemed impossible—as impossible as a cure for the fertility crisis. Now she stood at the summit of Andorian politics, and hope for her people seemed almost within reach. On its face, it was a moment that should have felt like victory.
Unfortunately, now she and her peers had to contend with a bloodthirsty mob on their doorstep, a Tholian envoy who would pressure them to bend to the Typhon Pact’s whims, and a shortsighted hawkish Bajoran ideologue who saw bullying Andor and its people as his ticket to the Federation presidency. There were few moments when it was ever good to be in charge of a government, but this seemed to zh’Tarash like the worst possible moment to assume responsibility for running Andor.
So be it. If change is all they want, change is what we’ll give them.
She sat back and savored the moment. Perhaps it would be a good day, after all.
Twenty-five
“What the hell is happening on Andor? Is this more of Starfleet’s excellence on display?”
Not many people enjoyed the privilege of shouting at Admiral Akaar. His wife was one; the other two were the sitting President of the United Federation of Planets and, when necessary, the president’s chief of staff. As the head of Starfleet endured the verbal abuse of Ishan Anjar and his Tellarite lackey Galif jav Velk, he kept his temper in check by telling himself that these two were only temporary occupants of the Federation’s executive office.
Unless Ishan wins the special election, his inner pessimist reminded him.
“To the best of my knowledge, Mister President, neither Captain Dax nor any member of her crew had anything to do with the political shift in the Parliament Andoria.”
“A political shift? Is that a new euphemism for ‘radical upheaval’ you just invented?”
Akaar let his exhaustion mask his fading patience with stony indifference. “Given that the membership of the Parliament Andoria remains unchanged despite the realignment of its internal factions and the fact that the transfer of power occurred legally within the parameters of Andor’s parliamentary procedure, ‘shift’ seemed the most apt description of the situation.”
Ishan stewed in his anger on the other end of the subspace channel. Velk, at least, was keeping a cooler head on his side of the split-screen communication. “Admiral, we sent Captain Dax to Andor to prevent Bashir and his outlandish claims from becoming a political issue.”
“We understand that, sir. However, there was only so much that could be done to restrict the flow of information in that scenario. And I think it should be noted that Captain Dax and her crew demonstrated exceptional restraint in not retaliating when they were fired upon by rogue Andorian forces. Had they shot back, this crisis could have escalated far more dramatically.”
Velk took it upon himself to answer for Ishan. “The president pro tem and I appreciate all their sacrifices and courage, Admiral. What’s important now is containing the situation and keeping control of the narrative for the press and public.”
“If you say so.”
Ishan cocked one eyebrow. “How long until Aventine reaches Earth with Bashir?”
“The Aventine is too badly damaged to leave orbit. I’ve sent the Falchion and the Warspite to rendezvous with her within the hour and to take custody of Bashir.”
“That’s all well and good, but how long until A
ventine departs?”
“The current estimate is just under two days, sir.”
The stern-faced Bajoran shook his head. “That won’t do, Admiral. The political climate on Andor is far too volatile to risk any further contact. I want the Aventine homeward bound with Bashir, even if your other two ships have to tow her home at warp one.”
“Captain Dax might object to that, sir.”
“Then make it an order. This won’t be a subject for debate. I want both Doctor Bashir and the Aventine back at McKinley Station by the time I return on Starfleet One.”
A grudging nod. “As you wish, sir. Regarding the political situation on Andor, I think we might consider taking this opportunity to lift the embargo as a gesture of goodwill.”
Ishan turned defensive. “Excuse me?”
“This change in the governing alliance shifts the tenor of the Andorian government in a way that might be favorable to us, sir. With the Progressive Caucus leading the new governing coalition, there might be a chance to normalize political relations with Andor and maybe even broach the possibility of bringing them back into the Federation. If you were to rescind the trade sanctions you imposed and give me permission to end the embargo—”
“Absolutely not. The change in the Parliament Andoria only proves my policies are working even better than expected.”
“With all respect, sir, the political situation on Andor is complex and driven more by internal factors than by external pressures. To ascribe credit for the parliament’s realignment to a unilateral policy that has barely had time to—”
“Admiral, why are we talking about this?” interjected Velk. “I don’t recall your portfolio including oversight of interstellar trade policy or external diplomatic missions. Did I miss a meeting? Were those cabinet responsibilities recently reassigned to your office?”