by S. D. Perry
“It isn’t really in the mature form yet,” Locken explained. “There’s a short gestation period and then it enters the larval stage and begins to grow very rapidly.”
“You mean it’s a baby,” Ezri said.
Locken began to laugh, giddy with delight. “That’s wonderful, Lieutenant. Really. Never lose that sense of humor and you’ll be fine, but also be sure you don’t confuse it with unnecessary sentimentality. The Jem’Hadar don’t care.”
A pair of robotic arms yanked the netting tightly around the infant, then lifted it high and carried it away deeper into the factory. Bashir guessed it was placed in some sort of feeding chamber where it was maintained until it entered the “larval” stage.
“How quickly can you produce them?” Bashir asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.
“Not as fast as I’d like,” Locken said. “I’ve improved the process to the point where a new batch—usually a couple of dozen—is produced every week.”
Bashir watched Ezri flinch at the use of the words “process,” “batch,” and “produced,” but he felt he was getting valuable information and he didn’t want Locken to stop talking. “Usually?” he asked. “But not always?”
“There are problems sometimes,” Locken explained. “We do a quality-control check just before the incubation period ends and I’ve found that the reengineering I’ve worked into the genetic code doesn’t always take. It’s strange—it’s almost as if the Founders knew someone would try this someday and configured the code to fight off any restructuring.”
“You’re talking about the sequence that makes the Jem’Hadar obey you?” Bashir asked.
“Yes. It’s the main sequence I check, but not the only one,” Locken said. “Have you seen any information about transcription error rate in the Dominion? I imagine Starfleet would be very interested in something like that.”
Bashir said no, and began to ramble on about Starfleet attempts to get information out of Vorta while simultaneously calculating how many Jem’Hadar Locken could have produced in the weeks since he took over Sindorin. “So you have, what, two hundred adult Jem’Hadar now?”
“One hundred eighty-two,” Locken corrected. “And about fifty immature units. The incubator is very, well, I guess ‘fussy’ is the word, and I haven’t been able to train the Jem’Hadar to tend it. It’s not the sort of thing they excel at. But that will be changing soon. I’ve been distracted by other problems, but it won’t be much longer before I go into full production. Soon, there will be more Jem’Hadar here than I’ll know what to do with. Though, naturally, I know exactly what I’ll do with them.” He glanced at Ezri and asked, “What’s wrong, Lieutenant? No pithy comments about not counting my Jem’Hadar before they’re hatched?”
Ezri, who was still staring into the first chamber, trying to see where the robot had taken the unborn Jem’Hadar, turned to Locken and stared at him, her face locked into a rictus of loathing. Her mouth opened and she struggled to speak, but, finally, all she could do was turn her back to the incubation chambers, her shoulders hunched, her arms wrapped around herself.
Locken followed without comment, stopping only to glance at Bashir with an expression that said, What shall we do about her? “She doesn’t understand,” Locken said, amused by Ezri’s revulsion. “She thinks genetic engineering is perverse, unnatural. Yet, I would be willing to wager she doesn’t have any problem with traveling the cosmos in a faster-than-light ship or using medical technology to cure diseases or correct birth defects.” He raised his voice to make sure Ezri could hear him. “But let me ask you both this: Does anyone in your immediate family have an artificial limb or organ? Perhaps a device that augments their hearing or vision? How about something as basic as a heart monitor?”
Ezri said nothing, but Bashir could tell that Locken had her attention.
“But genetic engineering—what is that? Isn’t it just another advance in technology? We’ll use it on plants. We’ll even use it on animals, the lower-order animals at any rate. Am I wrong or don’t many terraformers use algae ponds filled with genetically enhanced microorganisms that hyperproduce oxygen? Aren’t there a million similar examples of controlled genetics throughout the Federation?”
Ezri turned, but her face was set, implacable.
“Everything changes, Lieutenant, everything evolves,” Locken said, his voice calm and even, as if he were lecturing a slow, disobedient child. “Sometimes, we need to give evolution a boost, a little tweak, and most of the time we decide that’s fine—unless it’s ourselves we’re doing it to. Then, it’s unnatural and immoral. Do you know what I think, Lieutenant? I think the laws that govern these areas are unnatural and immoral, not to mention hypocritical and absurd. What is it they call these laws, Julian? A ‘firewall’? What an evocative word that is. Fairly enflames the senses, doesn’t it? And do you know what I see going up in flames?”
Bashir, as if caught in a hypnotic spell, could not resist answering. “No,” he said. “What?”
“Our genetic potential,” Locken said softly. “We could be better than we are, but only if we’re not afraid. The Federation has grown feeble, its strength sapped by weak-willed politicians who are too concerned with public opinion to make the tough decisions. The Klingons, the Romulans, the Breen—they can all smell the Federation’s fear, taste its weakness. It’s only a matter of time before the barbarians descend on the Federation and tear it apart like the Huns overriding Ancient Rome. It will happen. It’s only a matter of time—and afterward it’s only a matter of who’s left to pick up the pieces.”
Locken turned to look down into the chambers beneath his feet, then pressed his hands and face against the glass. “Plato had the right idea. You’ve read The Republic. The Federation—or this miserable rabble that the Federation has become—needs us, Julian. It needs philosopher kings—enlightened men and women who will rule wisely, but with courage and daring.
“‘Philosopher kings’?” Ezri asked mockingly. “‘Enlightened men and women’? Like Khan, you mean, and his genetically engineered elite. Right—there was an enlightened group. I’ve seen the two-dees, read the histories: the food riots, the ‘genetic cleansings,’ the camps. Do you really think…?”
“Winners write history, Lieutenant,” Locken interrupted, pitching his voice low and cutting through Ezri’s vehemence. “I thought you knew that. And no one knows anything with absolute certainty about that era. Yes, Khan made some mistakes, but think about what he might have accomplished if he’d had a chance. Think about what might be different today.”
“Like what?” Ezri asked, exasperated. “Precisely what would be different?”
Locken’s face flushed a deep scarlet. He clenched his teeth and Bashir saw tears spring into his eyes. Locken turned away and took several deep, shuddering breaths. When he turned around, Bashir saw no sign of emotion in his face. The rage or sorrow or regret—whatever it had been—was gone, replaced by a pure, crystalline light. “Like what, Lieutenant? How about all the lives that would have been saved if Julian and I were the norm and not the exception?” He faced Bashir, making his case directly. “Think about all the human lives that have been lost since Khan’s time in battles with the Romulans, the Klingons, the Cardassians, the Tzenkethi, the Borg. If Khan had won, the Federation would be much more powerful today, the Dominion would never have stood a chance, and New Beijing would never have happened.”
Ezri flashed Bashir a look that said more than words ever could. If she had been holding a phaser, Bashir suspected, she would have shot him on the spot. Not for personal reasons, not for the sake of vengeance or hatred, but for the same reason anyone would kill a diseased wild animal that had found its way into a nursery school: because it was the only thing to do.
Locken was still looking at Bashir. “It isn’t too late, though. That’s my point in all this. We can’t fix the past, but we can learn from it to shape the future. We could do it together, Julian. You and I together could re-create humanity in our image.”
>
Bashir felt something rise up within himself, and was as surprised as Locken when it expressed itself in an incredulous laugh. “You can’t be serious,” he said. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You’re just mouthing words. You sound just like the villain in every bad adventure serial ever written. Why would I ever consider helping you in this insane scheme? What could you possibly have to offer humanity that would make them want to follow you? Some vague promises of genetic improvement? Of invincibility?” He shook his head. “It’s not that simple, you know. You want to offer people some hope that genetic manipulation might improve their lives or the lives of their children? They have that now; the people of the Federation have those options available to them, but they’ve chosen not to take them. Perhaps the rest of humanity doesn’t have our lightning-quick minds or our sharp reflexes, but they do possess the ability to make moral decisions—and this is the decision they’ve made.”
Locken’s expression didn’t change as Bashir spoke, not a blink or a wince showing that the man had heard or understood a word he had spoken. But then he shook himself, strode forward, and brushed past Bashir. “Follow me,” he said. At the very end of the corridor, he pulled the control unit from inside his coat and pressed it into a recessed panel on the wall. After keying in a code sequence, a section of wall slid open and Locken beckoned for Bashir to look inside.
“You said that I had nothing of value to give to humanity,” he said proudly. “How do you think humanity would respond to this?” He must have activated another key on his control unit, because the lights came on and Bashir suddenly found himself facing a duplicate Locken.
He was standing, or rather floating, in a large transparent tube. There was a breathing mask over his face and several monitoring devices were stuck to his arms, chest, and groin, but there was no mistaking the red hair and the dark eyes, despite the fact that the eyes were empty of intelligence. Then Bashir stepped to the side and saw behind the first tube another just like it with another floating body. And behind that tube was another and behind that another. He could not see to the back of the room, but there could be no doubt that Locken had been busy.
“Clones?” Bashir asked. “Have you lost your mind, Locken? Clones? Who cares? Cloning technology has also been available for hundreds of years. It doesn’t mean anything if you can’t transfer the intelligence, and that sort of engrammatic work is…” He hesitated, then, in hushed tones, said, “You’ve figured it out.”
Locken grinned. “Almost,” he said. “I have the theory worked out. The Dominion left behind traces of the technology they use to copy Vorta minds into their clones, but Vorta and humans—the physiology is very different. It almost looks like their brains were designed to facilitate the transfer process, but I think I know what needs to be done. The work you did with the Klingon—Kurn, I think his name was—that might be key.”
Bashir’s mind began to race. It was a fascinating concept and he could see exactly how his work on Worf’s brother would be useful. Against his will, Bashir began to ponder the possibilities. What wouldn’t humanity agree to in exchange for the promise of immortality?
And then there was a stir behind him as Ezri stepped forward, her gaze locked on the tube, her jaw clenched. “He’ll never help you,” she said, turning the full force of her disdain on Locken. “He’d never set himself apart like you have and try to tell humanity that he knows what’s best for it. And he’d never engineer a race of beings to worship him like a god. You obviously don’t know anything about him.” She turned to look at Bashir, obviously expecting a cocky grin, a thumbs-up, or some other mark of solidarity…and found herself instead seeing the last thing she expected.
Uncertainty.
Locken, amused and triumphant, said only, “Obviously, Lieutenant, you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.”
“Oh, gods…” Dax whispered, then spun on her heel and ran down the corridor.
“Don’t worry,” Locken told Bashir. “She can’t go far. I locked the other door.”
“I wasn’t…worried,” Bashir mumbled. “I…I’m just very tired now.”
“I understand,” Locken said gently. “It’s been an eventful day and you obviously have a lot to think about. Sleep on it and we’ll see how things look in the morning.”
Bashir listened to the sound of Ezri’s footsteps echoing down the corridor. He knew he should run after her, confront her, try to explain what had happened, but all he could think about was how weary he was of always having to explain everything and how it seemed it always took so long for everyone to understand even the simplest things. And now, a new sound: Ezri pounding on the door. She wanted out. She wanted to go away. She didn’t want to listen. He couldn’t see her at the other end of the dark corridor, but he could feel her anger, her frustration, her fear.
He felt something inside him begin to slip loose, to tumble forward, to slide into the dark expanse. “Yes,” Bashir said, staring into the abyss. “I guess we’ll see how things look in the morning.”
Chapter Thirteen
“What is this place?” Ro called up to Kel. “It seems familiar.”
The Ingavi released his grip on the branch he was dangling from and dropped headfirst ten meters, snagging another branch a mere two meters above the ground and swinging himself up into a seated position. “Do not speak too loudly,” Kel said. “The Jem’Hadar have claimed this area for their own and though they do not come here every day, they come often enough.”
The sun would rise soon, Ro knew, and soon they would have to make a decision: stay under cover until nightfall and rest or continue to the spot where the Ingavi thought the runabout had gone down. Kel said it was still a few hours’ hike, and while it seemed sensible to stop and rest, part of her wanted to press on.
“If the Jem’Hadar come here, why are we going this way?” Taran’atar asked, stepping into the clearing and dropping his shroud. He had been slipping away about once an hour—“reconnaissance,” he said, though Ro wondered what he could be finding out that their arboreal spies could not.
And spies they had—in abundance. Kel had been true to his word; he had found them an army, though there was still a question about how effectively Ro and Taran’atar could use them. In the end, they could end up being nothing more than cannon fodder and that thought tore at Ro. What right did she have to ask these people to die? Certainly, they seemed willing enough to fight, but could they truly understand what they were about to face? She shook her head and tried to focus.
“There is something here,” Kel said, “that you need to see.”
“Quickly,” Taran’atar snapped. Kel dropped to the ground and bounded up the trail a couple of dozen meters, then suddenly veered to the right. Above them, in the highest branches of the canopy, Ro heard their Ingavi army take a collective breath, then release it in low, grunting hoots that reverberated in the branches and seemed to shake dew from the leaves.
They walked through the dense brush over uneven terrain for several minutes, Kel first, followed by Taran’atar, then Ro last. Even in the dim predawn light, she saw signs that this narrow trail had once been well traveled by the standards of the forest. There was something familiar about the place, too; she had been here before, on her previous visit, though there was something dreamlike about the memory.
The trail opened out into yet another grove of huge trees. There must have been a cold spring nearby, because a heavy mist clung to the place, cloaking the ground up to the height of two meters. The fog didn’t drift, but seemed only to ripple in the breeze like heavy gray curtains.
“Do you recognize this place now, Ro?” Kel asked softly.
“Yes,” she said. “I remember now. I was brought here once. This is the oldest grove, the place where your people first settled when you came here.” She explained to Taran’atar: “The Ingavi chose to live in the kinds of groves we saw earlier because they felt they were all connected to this spot.”
“Physically or spir
itually?” Taran’atar asked.
Ro was surprised by the question, but decided not to comment. Also, she didn’t know the answer. “I don’t know,” she said. “I was never clear on that. All I know is that this is an important place for them, the forest at the heart of the forest.”
“I understand,” Taran’atar said. He turned to Kel and asked, “Why did you bring us here?”
In response, Kel only lifted his arm and pointed into the mist, directing Ro and the Jem’Hadar to enter.
“You won’t come with us?” Ro asked. “Show us what you want us to see?”
“My people do not enter this place anymore.” It was all he would say.
“Let us get this over with so we can continue our journey,” Taran’atar said.
“He wouldn’t lead us into danger,” Ro said.
“Not intentionally, no.” It was, Ro realized, almost a compliment coming from the Jem’Hadar. She wondered if Kel would care.
They strode into the mist and Ro quickly felt herself grow disoriented. The trees were closer together than they seemed from a distance and loomed up out of the fog, massive and somber.
“When you were here before,” Taran’atar asked, “was this place tended?”
“Yes,” Ro said. “They treated it like, well, a public garden, if you know what that is.”
Taran’atar nodded.
“Any group that passed near here would stop and groom it, keep it tidy.”
“But not anymore,” Taran’atar observed.
“Yes,” Ro said. “I see what you mean.” Dead branches and leaf litter crackled under her feet and the sound—or possibly the mist—gave her a chill.
They stopped, each realizing that they were near the center of the place, and looked around at the trees. The canopy overhead was so dense that Ro sensed it would be dim in here even at high noon, but enough predawn light was filtering through the branches that she was now able to make out a few details. Something at eye level winked, but then was gone. An insect? she wondered.