Buzz. “Unable to comply.”
“Computer, why?” Candlewood asked. “Why can’t you execute the program?”
“Participants are not authorized to run Bashir Sixty-two.”
“What?” Nog said. “How can that be? We were just running the program.”
“Computer,” the science officer ventured, “reauthorize Commander Nog and Commander Candlewood to execute Bashir Sixty-two.”
Buzz. “Unable to comply.”
“Computer, override all program lockouts,” Nog tried again. “Run in diagnostic mode, authorization Nog Beta Three Five Five Three.”
Buzz. “Unable to comply.”
The confusion Nog wore on his face mirrored what Candlewood felt. Experience told him that software errors could prove intricate, difficult to diagnose, and therefore challenging to correct. He didn’t know what had gone wrong with Bashir 62 and Vic Fontaine, but something clearly had.
Two
Transition Management
i
* * *
The fist-sized stone struck the lighting scaffold at the rear of the stage, sending out a loud ringing over the crowd. Vedek Solis—tall and regal in his long white robe, with thinning hair that betrayed his advancing years—whirled toward the sound, then peered back out at those who had assembled to listen to his address, as though he could pinpoint whoever had hurled the rock. In the foreground on the display, attendees at the front of the gathering also turned to search for the culprit. Suddenly, the image shifted, rushing around to focus on two men shoving each other. Several other people tried to step in and put a stop to it, but then one of the men leveled a roundhouse punch at the other. The picture shook, then canted to one side before the recording went black.
From where he sat in front of the captain’s desk, Commander Jefferson Blackmer spun in his chair, away from the viewscreen on the opposite bulkhead and toward Ro. “I know that looked bad,” he said, “but it could have been worse.” He had been telling himself that since Dellasant had contacted him at the end of delta shift to inform him about the incident, which she had picked up from the Bajoran communications network. It did not escape his notice that on his first full day as Deep Space 9’s official executive officer, Bajor appeared on the verge of descending into sectarian conflict. As the former security chief of the starbase, Blackmer automatically thought about what measures could be put into place onboard to ensure that any such violence did not spread to DS9. Of the nearly thirteen thousand full-time residents, a majority hailed from Bajor.
“Was anybody hurt?” Ro asked.
“I spoke with one of my contacts in Hedrikspool law enforcement,” Blackmer said. “She told me there were a dozen fistfights, some minor injuries, and a number of arrests, but they’re more concerned about what might lie ahead.”
“I can understand why,” Ro said. “Solis Tendren is a well-respected vedek, but he’s also the most prominent supporter of the Ohalavaru. If he’s facing threats of violence, it means that some mainstream Bajoran adherents are willing to cross the line between peacefully protesting and taking up arms.”
“And if some are,” Blackmer said, “more could follow.”
Ro nodded her head, then picked up a padd from her desk. “Part of the problem,” she said as she activated the device, “might be that, in the last few weeks, the ranks of the Ohalavaru have swelled.” She handed the padd across to Blackmer. He studied the chart on the display, which showed that the number of Bajorans who identified as Ohalavaru had increased by a third since the falsework had been discovered.
“That’s got to make the establishment nervous,” Blackmer said. The Ohalavaru believed that what they found beneath the surface of Endalla supported their view that the Prophets were not gods.
“I think it might be more unnerving for the laity,” Ro said. “I spoke with First Minister Asarem yesterday, obviously before all of that took place in Ilvia.” The captain gestured toward the viewscreen on the bulkhead behind Blackmer. “She firmly believes that once the scientists and engineers begin their research efforts on Endalla, under the watchful eyes of both traditional and Ohalavaru vedeks, tempers will ease.”
“I’m not so sure,” Blackmer said. It seemed to him that the more attention the falsework drew, the more tensions would mount on Bajor. He said as much, and the captain agreed. “The good news is that Vedek Yevir stood up in the Assembly this morning and condemned the violence aimed against the Ohalavaru.”
“Yevir, not the kai,” Ro said. “I guess that Kai Pralon is attempting to stay above the fray. I think she wants both sides to view her as the spiritual leader of Bajor, regardless of their beliefs or hers.”
“That might be difficult to accomplish with the Ohalavaru,” Blackmer said. “She’s part of the traditional religious establishment. Her fundamental conviction that the Prophets are divine completely contradicts the primary tenet of the Ohalu texts.”
“That’s true,” Ro said, “but the kai also supports the Ohalavaru’s desire to study the falsework. That goes against the wishes of many of Pralon’s traditional followers, who want the site secured and closed to visitors of any kind.”
Blackmer set the padd down on the captain’s desk. “It sounds like they’re scared of learning the truth about the falsework . . . and maybe about the Prophets too.”
“Of course they are,” Ro said. “Look at what it did to Desca.” Six weeks earlier, his faith shaken to the core in the wake of the Ohalavaru discovery, Colonel Cenn Desca, DS9’s first officer, had resigned his position in the Militia and departed not only the starbase, but the Bajoran system.
“I know,” Blackmer said. “But I don’t think most people are as devout as Cenn.”
“Believe me, there are plenty of pious Bajorans,” Ro said. “But I’m not even sure you have to be that deeply religious to oppose seeking out the truth.”
“That doesn’t make much sense to me.”
“Doesn’t it?” Ro asked. “The truth isn’t always a positive thing to people. Just imagine finding out that something you’ve held dear in your life, something around which you’ve organized your existence—and it doesn’t even have to be religion—imagine finding out that it’s a lie.”
“I’m sure it would be difficult.”
“That sounds like an intellectual assessment,” Ro told him. “Try envisioning it from an emotional perspective.”
Blackmer thought about it. “Honestly, I’m not sure I can.”
“I’m not sure I can either,” Ro said. “Maybe that’s just who we are. But we both saw firsthand how it devastated Desca. He might have been orthodox, but he wasn’t stupid or mentally unbalanced. He was a product of his upbringing, which took place at a time when Bajorans desperately needed to believe in the Prophets as gods. When your home is invaded, when your lands are occupied by a brutal enemy . . . when you don’t know where your next meal is coming from, or if, when it does come, that there will be enough food for everyone . . .” The captain stared past Blackmer, the look in her eyes distant, her voice growing quieter. “When you and the people you know, the people you love, are pressed into servitude . . . when people are tortured or killed . . . the belief in a higher power, the hope that faith engenders, can be a very powerful thing.” Ro blinked, then met her exec’s gaze once more.
“I don’t know what to say, Captain. I never really thought about the Bajoran faith in those terms.”
“It’s not just the people of Bajor,” Ro said. “Similar stories range across worlds. And it wasn’t the Occupation that brought the worship of the Prophets to Bajor. My people have believed in Them, in Their divinity, for a long time. Like in many places, there was a need for people to explain the world, to understand life, to cope with suffering and seek a better tomorrow. I lived through the Occupation, so I know how much it impacted Bajor, how great the need for the Prophets was.”
Blackmer understood, but
something confused him. “You say Bajor needed the Prophets, but, if you don’t mind me saying so . . . you’re not a believer.”
“I try not to label myself, not to limit myself,” she said, a bit forcefully. She took a moment to carefully fold her hands in front of her and place them on the desk. When she continued, she had reined in her agitation. “No, I haven’t always held to the divinity of the Prophets. I suppose I still don’t, even though I’ve been coming to appreciate Them and Their abilities, no matter how They’re characterized. My point is that many people don’t want their beliefs tested, and some, no matter what the scientists conclude on Endalla, still won’t change their minds.”
“So the mainstream Bajoran faithful and the Ohalavaru have that in common,” Blackmer said, not without a sense of irony. “How long will it be before the examination and analysis of the falsework can begin?”
“Just a matter of days, I think,” Ro said. “It shouldn’t take long to establish a shirtsleeve environment on Endalla.” Blackmer knew that the Bajoran Militia had already started efforts to seal the subterranean chamber on the moon, and to establish both an atmosphere and full artificial gravity within it—practical considerations that did nothing to reduce the societal stresses on Bajor. The first minister had also taken the unusual step of requesting that the Federation government and Starfleet refrain from offering assistance; Asarem wanted such a sensitive issue resolved solely by Bajorans, specifically to avoid any suspicion of outside influences.
“Should I include the unrest on Bajor in the report?” Blackmer asked. As the new first officer, he would be drafting the monthly status for Starfleet Operations.
“Definitely. What happens there can have an impact here,” the captain said. “Vel has comm briefings scheduled for this afternoon with Gandal Traco and Ranz Vecta. Make sure to include whatever he learns.” Like Blackmer, Lieutenant Aleco Vel had just been promoted to his new position; he would serve DS9 as its official liaison to Bajor. As a part of those responsibilities, he would be speaking on a regular basis with Minister of State Gandal, Minister of Defense Ranz, and their subordinates.
“Aye, Captain.”
“Is there anything else?” Ro asked.
“Just Doctor Boudreaux’s final medical report on Vedek Kira,” Blackmer said. “The lab tests have been completed and he’s given her a clean bill of health.”
“Good,” Ro said. “Include her arrival in the report, but mark it classified for now. We’ll keep her return confidential until she’s had a chance to inform the people close to her.”
“Aye.” Blackmer stood up and headed toward the door that led to the Hub, but as the panels parted, he slowed. He had served as Ro Laren’s interim executive officer for the past month and a half, but he realized that when he stepped into DS9’s command-and-control center, he would for the first time do so as Cenn Desca’s permanent replacement.
“Jeff,” the captain said from her desk. He stopped and glanced back at her. “You’re ready for this.”
“Aye,” Blackmer said. He allowed himself a small smile, grateful for Ro’s encouragement. “Thank you, Captain.” He continued into the Hub, ready to assume his new position on Deep Space 9.
ii
* * *
When the door signal in her office chimed, Ro had made it only halfway through Dalin Slaine’s report on the deficiencies of Deep Space 9’s weapons and defensive systems during the crew’s encounter with the shape-shifting Ascendant life-form. The strategic operations officer had spent the past five weeks studying the sensor logs collected during the incident, when the starbase’s phasers and quantum torpedoes had failed even to make contact with the attacking force, much less stop it or slow it down. Likewise, DS9’s standard shields had proven incapable of impeding the shape-shifting entity’s advance, as had the thoron shield, despite that the latter had been designed specifically to prevent the incursion not just of energy weapons, but of physical objects.
Zivan Slaine had not only investigated those inadequacies, she had consulted with engineers, tactical and security officers, physicists, chemists, materials scientists, and other of the crew in an attempt to design modifications to improve the effectiveness of those systems. Although the attack had resulted in no casualties and no damage to DS9, that had been the choice of the communal Ascendant life-form. Since that shape-shifting amalgam had subsequently taken up residence in the wormhole, that meant it remained a potential threat to the starbase—even though Ro believed that the Ascendants had found the place they belonged and would not stray from there.
The captain had made it only halfway through Slaine’s recommendations because she’d needed to read several sections multiple times. Ro had passed the basic engineering and physics courses at Starfleet Academy, and she’d successfully completed the rigorous Advanced Tactical Training, but the technical nature of the report exceeded her ability to easily understand it. The work impressed her, and if the second half matched the first in quality—and she had no reason to think that it wouldn’t—she decided that she would include a special note about it in the packet of review materials that the Cardassian Guard had requested her to complete.
Slaine had served under Ro’s command for almost three years, but technically remained on detached assignment from the Cardassian Union’s military. On a recent visit to DS9 aboard his ship, Trager, Gul Macet had informed Ro that Slaine had probably earned an elevation in rank from dalin to dal—the Starfleet equivalent of lieutenant commander to commander—but that such advances typically accompanied a rise to second-in-command of a starship or a space station, or even to the command of a smaller vessel. Ro would hate to lose her strategic operations officer, but if life had taught her anything, it was that people moved on. And until I ended up on Deep Space Nine, that was always true of me too.
The door signal sounded a second time, stirring Ro from her thoughts. She checked the time on her padd and saw that more than an hour remained before her next appointment. Captain Marcel Javier, the commanding officer of the Achilles-class U.S.S. Diomedes, which had docked at DS9 earlier that day, had asked to meet with Ro during his crew’s leave on the starbase. Thinking that either she or Javier might have gotten the time of their meeting wrong, she said, “Come in.” The door that led out into the turbolift corridor opened, but the Diomedes captain had not yet come to call on her.
Quark had.
As soon as the door opened, he entered, clad in a crimson moiré jacket, its two breast panels clasped together by a circular gold medallion. Just looking at him, Ro knew why he’d come, and she felt immediately guilty. It had been months since she and Quark had spent any time alone with each other, though he had invited her to do so on several occasions. Ro’s affection for him hadn’t changed, but the demanding responsibilities of making the Frontier-class DS9 operational and then commanding it had left her little personal time to spare.
But I’ve made time for Dans. More than a month earlier, Ro had begun a romance with Doctor Altek Dans, a man who had emerged from the wormhole in an evanescent Orb of the Prophets, evidently from some period deep in Bajor’s history. She hadn’t had all that much time for Dans either, but their relationship had progressed enough that she’d resolved to tell Quark about it—particularly before he learned about it from somebody else. Somehow, though, Ro had so far failed to speak with him.
“Captain,” Quark said as he stepped up to her desk. While he never called her by her given name in public, he usually did so in private. His use of her rank in the privacy of her office might signal his disappointment, perhaps even his anger, at her recent aloofness.
“Hello, Quark,” Ro said. She girded herself not only to apologize for essentially ignoring him of late, but also to tell him of her budding relationship with Dans. He sat down in a chair in front of her desk, but when he spoke, it had nothing at all to do with her.
“You know that I’ve been trying to locate Morn,” he said. Quark proceeded
to tell her about what had happened the previous night during his conversation with the private investigator he’d hired. Ro thought he might want her to intervene with the authorities on Janus VI to help find out what had happened to Mayereen Viray. Instead, he grumbled about his lost investment, which the captain found callous, even for a profit-driven Ferengi, and especially for Quark, who had revealed to her a far more caring side.
“You have my sympathy,” Ro said, trying to give him the support he seemed to need.
“I don’t want your sympathy, Captain,” Quark said, sounding offended. “I want your help.”
“Oh,” Ro said. “Well, I can contact law enforcement in Geopolis and report the incident to them so that they can try to find Viray and make sure she’s all right.”
“What?” Quark said. He cocked his head to one side in apparent confusion. “Don’t you see what’s happened?”
“I know what you just told me,” Ro said. “Is there more to the story than that?”
“That’s what I asked myself last night,” Quark said. “I kept thinking about all the payments I made to Viray, about how she kept telling me she was on the verge of catching up to Morn. I paid for her time—a lot of her time—and for her to travel all over the quadrant.”
Ro didn’t quite see Quark’s point. “You spent your profits in the service of a good cause,” she said. “Morn’s your friend, and I know you’re concerned about him.”
“I am,” Quark said, “but now I’m concerned about my latinum: Mayereen Viray has been duping me.”
“What?” Ro asked. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been anxious for a long time about paying that woman,” Quark said. “She kept sending me vague reports about Morn’s whereabouts and movements, always asking me for more and more latinum so that she could follow him to the next planet. She did the same thing last night, telling me that Morn had just left Janus Six, and that she needed funds immediately so that she could pursue him.”
The Long Mirage Page 5