Star Trek: The Fall: A Ceremony of Losses

by David Mack

Noting the confusion on Bashir’s face, Shar added, “It’s the riots, Julian. Comm networks are failing all over the planet. Some are going down because of traffic spikes, and some are being crippled by physical sabotage of the signal routers.”

  Bashir pondered the problem and all its complexities. “What about the transporter system you used to beam us off the escape pod?”

  The professor shook her head. “Most industrial facilities are shielded against transporter beams. Routine counterespionage tactics since the Dominion War.”

  Bashir was perplexed. “Can’t you hail them? Ask them to lower their defenses?”

  That got a rueful chuckle out of Shar. “In the middle of a global uprising?”

  “Ah. I see. Never mind.”

  Professor zh’Thiin sighed. “The other problem is that the Treishya probably still want to stall the cure, to improve their chances of regaining control of the Parliament. The moment one of their people hears we’re sending out the cure’s pattern, they’ll cut the power to the pharmaceutical factories. The only way this works is if we can rapidly distribute the cure and get it into mass production before the Treishya have time to stop it.”

  A worrying thought occurred to Bashir. “But if they know I’m already on the surface, won’t they already be looking to block you from delivering the pattern to the manufacturers?”

  “That’s what we’re afraid of,” Shar said. “It’s also part of why I sent the escape pod toward Kathela. I’m hoping the Treishya are wasting time and manpower searching for us near the pod and looking for this lab on the wrong side of the planet.”

  The professor turned a concerned glance toward the scientists working on the far side of the lab. “There’s another risk we have to consider. Even if we can restore data-line connections to the manufacturing facilities, sending out a signal this huge to multiple recipients will make it easy for the Treishya—and anyone else—to trace it back to this site. Assuming that ch’Foruta and his followers are itching for payback, we could be looking at a very unfriendly visit within an hour of sending out the cure. Getting murdered at night in the snow might end up being our reward for saving the world.”

  “Reminds me of an old Earth saying,” Bashir said. “ ‘No good deed goes unpunished.’ ”

  Shar replied, “That proverb has a long history on Andor, as well.”

  Bashir chortled at the morbid absurdity of their predicament. “I guess some concepts really are universal.”

  • • •

  Sequestered in her ready room, Dax passed each interminable minute hoping for good news from the planet’s surface. There had been reports on several Andorian military channels that the escape pod from the Parham had been recovered intact, but with no sign of any survivors. It seemed unlikely that anyone could have evaded detection fleeing on foot from the crash-landed pod, so Dax was left wondering whether its passengers had been plucked off the pod before it made planetfall—or if, perhaps, no one had survived to board the pod in the first place.

  Can’t think like that, she chastised herself. I have to hold on to hope.

  Her door signal cut through the maudlin silence. She took a breath, sat down at her desk, and cleared her thoughts. “Come in.”

  The door slid open, and Bowers entered. He stood at ease in front of her desk as the door closed. “Captain, I thought you’d want to know that the Falchion has arrived in orbit.”

  “I know. I saw them through my viewport.”

  Bowers looked out the viewport behind Dax. “Aha. Starship spotting the old-fashioned way.”

  “I go with what works. Something else on your mind, Sam?”

  He looked only mildly abashed at being so easily read. “Any fallout from your showdown with Captain Unverzagt?”

  Dax recalled her subspace conversation with Admiral Akaar, whose tolerance for crisis and controversy seemed to be nearing an end. “Not yet. But the day is young.”

  The first officer processed that news. “Can I ask why you let the Parham go?”

  “She was too far away for a tractor beam—not that we had one—and I didn’t think the situation merited the use of deadly force.” Memories of the Parham’s fiery end haunted her thoughts. “Unfortunately, the Warspite’s captain disagreed.”

  “I suspect the president pro tem had a hand in that outcome.”

  “Gee? You think?” She stood and turned to face out the viewport and admire the stark beauty of Andor. “Let Ishan make all the noise he wants. I stand by my decision.”

  Two soft tones from the overhead comm were followed by Lieutenant Kedair’s voice. “Captain, Commander, you’re both needed on the bridge.”

  “On our way.” Dax gestured at Bowers to lead the way. She followed him out the door to the bridge and felt the ambient tension ratchet sharply upward.

  As soon as the two of them had reached their side-by-side command chairs, Kedair looked up from the tactical console to report. “Captain, we’ve detected encrypted subspace signal traffic coming and going from both the Warspite and the Falchion. I’ve confirmed the source of the signal is Starfleet Command.”

  Alarm and suspicion traveled in swift whispers from one bridge officer to another. Dax turned to Bowers and leaned close to confer with him in a tense hush. “Why is Starfleet Command talking to our escort ships but not to us?”

  “Best guess?” Bowers glanced at the images of the Falchion and the Warspite on the main viewscreen. “Someone’s telling them to do something we won’t like, and since the powers that be no longer trust us to do as we’re told, we’re being cut out of the loop.”

  His explanation fit the facts, but Dax remained baffled. “But what are they gearing up to do? What can they do? Even if Bashir’s alive, he’s on Andorian soil.”

  “Maybe the people giving the orders don’t give a rat’s ass about that.”

  Mirren swiveled around from the ops panel. “Captain? We’re being hailed by the Falchion. Its captain says we’re to be towed out of orbit and into warp for the trip home.”

  “Like hell we are.” Dax strode forward, looking for a confrontation. “Put the Falchion’s captain on-screen, right now.”

  After a few seconds of futile tapping and confused reactions, Mirren looked back at Dax. “I can’t, sir. I’m getting nothing but static on all frequencies.”

  “That’s because the Falchion’s jamming our comms,” Kedair said. “Looks like someone wants us gagged for the ride home.”

  The Sabre-class starship grew larger on the viewscreen as Mirren reported, “They’re maneuvering into position for warp-capable towing.”

  Dax went back to her command chair, determined not to lay down without a fight. “Helm, evasive. Tactical, auxiliary power to shields. Mirren, get me eyes on the Warspite.”

  Bowers took his seat and advised Dax sotto voce, “We weren’t really in any shape for a fight with one ship, Captain. Maybe antagonizing two at once isn’t such a great idea.”

  “Who’s antagonizing? I’m just resisting. . . . For now.”

  Mirren split the image on the viewscreen to show the Falchion on one side and the Warspite on the other. “Captain, the Warspite is powering up her subspace antennas and main deflector dish. The Falchion has initiated a pursuit course and is accelerating to overtake us.”

  “Helm, keep us out of the Falchion’s reach.” She swiveled toward her Zakdorn science officer. “Gruhn, program a feedback pulse that’ll use the Falchion’s jamming signal to fry its own comms.” Looking at the evidence in front of her, Dax was forced to arrive at the logical conclusion. “Sam, they’re going after Julian, and their first move is to get us out of the way.”

  “Orders, Captain?”

  “Get the Falchion off our tail, and get us back in the game. And make it fast—if I’m right, Julian doesn’t have much time. Which means neither do we.”

  • • •

  Captain Steven Unverzagt—known as “Zot” to his close friends, none of whom he allowed to serve on his ship—epitomized the concept of
economy of effort. Seated in his command chair, hearing and seeing all that transpired around him, he was the still point at the center of the action that filled the bridge of the Warspite. He kept his eyes on the main viewscreen, watching the movements of the Falchion and the Aventine, even as he imagined a seemingly endless variety of possible outcomes to his ever-changing circumstances.

  His executive officer, Commander Sarjat Ramapoor, finished a whispered conference with Lieutenant Zimm, the Nalori chief of security, and cut across the bridge to Unverzagt’s side. “Captain, the Aventine is evading the Falchion’s attempts to take them in tow.”

  Unverzagt kept his eyes on the screen. “I can see that. Tell me something new.”

  “The Aventine has reinforced her shields and charged her phasers, and now she’s scanning us.”

  “Is she? If for nothing else, let’s give Captain Dax a small measure of credit for tenacity.”

  Ramapoor turned a worried eye toward the viewscreen. “Should we postpone the operation until after we’ve removed the Aventine from the equation?”

  “Absolutely not. She was never going anywhere. And to be perfectly blunt, we need her. I’m counting on Captain Dax to be my ace in the hole.” He checked the tactical update on the display to the left of his command chair. “Let’s see how much steel Dax really has in her spine. Order the Falchion to ramp up its jamming of the Aventine. Comms, sensors, the works.”

  “Aye, sir.” Ramapoor walked forward to relay orders to the operations officer, a fresh-faced Denobulan ensign named Korl.

  Unverzagt turned his chair just enough to shoot a sidelong look at the tactical officer. “Lieutenant Zimm. Is the cyberwarfare team ready to proceed?”

  “Yes, sir.” The Nalori, whose jet-black skin, teeth, and eyes contrasted so majestically with his pale aqua crew cut and drooping mustache, looked up with pride. “All teams report ready to engage Operation Bright Storm, on your mark.”

  “Begin. Tell me when we’ve finished Phase One.”

  Zimm transmitted the order to the ship’s cyberwarfare unit, which was safely ensconced on one of the Warspite’s lower decks, near the main deflector dish and sensor modules. Their mission profile was the model of simplicity: infiltrate, corrupt, and disrupt all of Andor’s extant medical information networks and their known or potential backups.

  The entire operation was anticipated to last only two to five minutes from initiation to completion. Once it was over, most of Andor’s civil and military information networks would be hopelessly crashed. The best estimates Unverzagt had seen for the Andorians’ projected recovery time was no less than two days.

  More than enough time to carry out Phase Two, Unverzagt mused. The next step in the operation involved locating Bashir’s precise coordinates on the planet’s surface, beaming down an armed covert operations team, taking him into custody, and beaming him back aboard the Warspite for his immediate journey back to Earth, where a military tribunal stood waiting.

  Ramapoor returned to stand beside his captain. “Andorian data networks are collapsing, sir. We should have information superiority in less than two minutes.”

  “Very good, Number One. Keep the strike team and transporter chief on hot standby.”

  “Of course, sir. But, if I might ask an operational question?” With a curt nod, Unverzagt cued the man to continue. “How do we plan to find Bashir before the Andorian military forces us out of orbit?”

  Unverzagt kept his eyes on the main viewscreen, on which the Aventine loomed larger with each passing moment. “As soon as all data networks on the surface are disrupted, order the Falchion to create a gap in their jamming signal, and to make certain it looks like an accident.”

  The first officer still did not seem to grasp the overarching strategy. “And then?”

  “And then, Number One . . . we sit back, and we wait.”

  Twenty-seven

  “What do you mean you can’t transmit the pattern?” Bashir hoped he had heard Shar wrong, because all his risks and sacrifices would be rendered meaningless unless the Science Institute could disseminate the quantum replication pattern for the Andorian retrovirus. “Is something jamming the channel?”

  The young chan grew more distraught the longer he tried and failed to make the comm terminal do his bidding. “It’s not jammed. I think it’s dead.”

  Nervous whispers susurrated among the scientists gathered behind Shar and Bashir. Professor zh’Thiin cut through the murmuring with a sharp-edged command. “Carri! Run a diagnostic on the network. Are we getting valid pingbacks from the other nodes?”

  Doctor sh’Feiran pushed her way free of the clustered researchers, found a free terminal, and started running simple tests. Bashir watched the shen’s face shift from hope to dejection in a matter of seconds. She halted the last test and looked up at zh’Thiin. “Nothing. No signal at all.”

  Shar leaned back from the terminal and slumped low in his chair. “That’s it, then.”

  Bashir looked back and forth between Shar and zh’Thiin. “What does this mean?”

  “It means someone shut down the planet’s entire data network,” zh’Thiin said. “Without it, there’s no way to transmit quantum replication patterns.”

  “Can’t we send the data over a standard subspace comm channel?”

  “Normally, yes,” Shar said. “Unfortunately, someone’s jamming all of Andor’s civilian channels, and our comm equipment isn’t capable of operating on military frequencies.”

  The precision and efficiency of the disruption left Bashir with no doubt who had caused it. “These are Starfleet information-warfare tactics.”

  Shar shook his head. “Just like they taught at the Academy—by the book.”

  “We’ll just wait them out,” zh’Thiin said. “It won’t take long for someone else to realize what’s happening. When they do, the Andorian military will force the Starfleet ships to leave.”

  Bashir and Shar exchanged grim looks of mutual recognition. The chan broke the news to his colleague. “We don’t have that much time, Professor. If we wait until the Starfleet vessels leave, the Treishya will use that delay to seize control of all the production facilities. If we lower our screens to try and call for help, the Warspite will lock on to our signal and come in force to capture Bashir—and the cure.”

  His bad news only added urgency to zh’Thiin’s resolve. “Then we’ll make multiple copies of the quantum pattern, one for each of us, and we’ll all leave here and split up. We’ll become couriers and bring the cure directly to the manufacturing sites.”

  Shar was more than dubious. “A sudden large-scale departure? They’d detect that for sure. And even if they didn’t, you know the Treishya won’t stop looking for us just because they’re out of the majority. They won’t let us deliver the pattern if they can stop us.”

  “He’s right,” Bashir said. “The only safe way to deliver the pattern is by transmission.”

  “Whatever we do,” Shar added, “we’d best do it soon. If Starfleet storms this lab before we get the cure disseminated, that’ll be game over.”

  A desperate plan formed in Bashir’s imagination. He leaned in beside Shar and pointed at the comm terminals. “Show me all the comm frequencies that are being blocked.”

  The chan called up the data on the screen. “What are you thinking, Julian?”

  Bashir made a swift perusal of the information, which confirmed his suspicions. “They’re blocking only Andorian frequencies.” He reached into one of his jacket pockets and pulled out the combadge sh’Pash had given him during his escape from the brig a few hours earlier. “Which means I should be able to contact the Aventine using this.”

  Shar raised his hands. “Hold on. Why hail the people who’re hunting you?”

  “Because I don’t think Ezri is the one jamming the comms or disrupting the data network.” Replaying the tragic confrontation in his memory, Bashir pictured which ships had fired at which time. “After we slipped the Aventine’s tractor beam and entered the atm
osphere, they didn’t chase us. But the Warspite did—they fired on us, and they were shooting to kill. And they’d have finished us off if the Aventine hadn’t stepped in to block their shot.” The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. “I think Ezri was trying to help us, and not just to preserve Starfleet’s rules of engagement. I think she’s the one person in orbit we can trust right now.” He met Shar’s doubt with his own unflagging certainty. “I have to talk to her.”

  “Julian, to do that, we’d have to drop the lab’s energy screen. The moment we do, we’ll show up on everybody’s sensors, Andorian and Starfleet alike. At that point, we might as well go outside and put a neon bull’s-eye on the roof.”

  Professor zh’Thiin shook her head and turned away. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I know it’s not an ideal solution,” Bashir admitted, “but I think it’s our only chance.”

  Fearful looks traveled from one set of eyes to another. No one seemed content to sit and await the bitter end, but neither were any of them in a hurry to hasten its arrival. Petrified, zh’Thiin looked at Shar for counsel. “You know this woman, don’t you? Can we trust her?”

  “I don’t know. We served together for a while, but I haven’t seen her in years.” He shifted the burden of accountability to Bashir with a single glance. “But she and Julian used to be in love. If anyone knows her, he does.”

  The gathered scientists turned their collective gaze toward Bashir. He had no idea what to tell them except the plain truth. “I can’t promise that Ezri will help us. I know that if she betrays us, this is all over. We can’t even contact her without giving away our position. That seems to be by design; I think someone, probably the captain of the Warspite, wants me to reach out to Dax. So in that respect, yes, I’ll be playing straight into his trap. I wish there was a better way, and that I could give you more reason for hope, but all I can tell you is this: Dax is one of the bravest souls I have ever known. Irrational as it might be . . . I believe in her.”

  Shar looked at zh’Thiin for a decision.

  The professor sighed and addressed the room. “What will be, will be. Shar, patch Doctor Bashir’s combadge into the comms and try to encrypt his signal to the Aventine, for whatever good it does. The rest of you, find weapons. I suspect we’re about to need them.”