by Andy Mangels
“Because the monks who watch over the symbionts have been doing that job for upwards of twenty-five thousand years,” Ezri said.
That struck Bashir as a complete non sequitur. “So?”
“So if anyone on Trill, outside of the most inside of government insiders, knows our people’s ancient past,” said Cyl, “it’s the Guardians.”
Bashir recalled that orders similar to the Guardians had preserved many important texts during the cultural self-lobotomizations that characterized Earth’s Dark Ages. But managing the current crisis still seemed a far more urgent priority than delving into the Kurlan mystery. And there was another consideration as well.
“I remember a Guardian named Timor from our visit here five years ago,” Bashir said. “He wasn’t terribly interested in the outside world, except for the occasional weather report. And he also wasn’t very forthcoming with information—even when we needed it to save Jadzia’s life.”
“Under the current circumstances, I don’t think it’ll be too hard to convince the Guardians that the stakes are a bit higher today than they were back then,” Ezri said.
“And if they agree to let us reveal some additional information about the Kurlan/parasite connection,” Cyl said, “some of the neo-Purists might take that as a gesture of good faith from the joined. The ones that aren’t completely crazy, that is.”
Bashir was well aware that continuity of memory was of supreme importance to most Trills, joined or unjoined. A reverence for the accurate accounting of history was an ingrained Trill characteristic that probably motivated the radicals as much as it did Ezri and her colleagues.
Still, he wasn’t at all certain that Ezri and Cyl were doing the right thing under the current circumstances.
“Have you considered that you might turn up some information that further vindicates the radicals’ paranoia?” he asked, now concerned that Ezri might well face dangers far greater than the mere wasting of time.
She sighed impatiently, and Bashir could sense her rising anger—and perhaps a hypersensitivity to being second-guessed as the one in charge of this mission.
“I don’t have time to debate this with you right now.”
Whatever she finds at Mak’ala, he thought, she’ll have to decide afterward whether to reveal it—or to bury it again, the way Audrid helped cover up the initial discovery of the symbiont-parasite connection.
Having kept his genetically engineered nature carefully hidden for so many years, he felt he could speak authoritatively about the keeping of secrets. “Please, Ezri. Think for a minute about what you’re about to do. Suppose you discover some entirely new unknown horror from your people’s past. What will you do then?”
He couldn’t help but consider the past horrors unleashed by ill-considered genetic engineering. Such techniques had not only essentially created Bashir himself, but had also spawned the Eugenics Wars. Khan Noonien Singh. Ethan Locken. The Jem’Hadar.
And, apparently, the parasites of Kurl.
“What will you do then?” he repeated. Softly. Imploringly.
Ezri regarded him in silence for a protracted moment, her cerulean eyes smoldering with anger.
“Report to Emergency Response, Doctor,” she said in by-the-book tones, ducking his question. “Ask Mister Gard to help you if you have trouble finding your way around.”
“At least let me treat those phaser burns on your hand before you leave,” Bashir said. Since the firefight near the speaker’s platform balcony, she hadn’t slowed down enough to receive any real first aid.
“I promise to take care of it on the way to Mak’ala,” Ezri said coolly, obviously unconcerned with her admittedly minor injury. Without another word, she turned and exited the office, with General Cyl at her side.
It’s your mission, Ezri, he thought, his ire rising at the brusqueness of her rebuff. I sincerely hope you haven’t just completely fouled it up.
8
The emergency medical kit shimmered into solidity on the floor of Talris’s office, and Bashir bent to retrieve it. Popping open the top, he made a quick inspection to make sure Ezri hadn’t left anything essential on the runabout; at the same time, he hoped she’d taken a moment to treat the burn on her hand before depleting the Rio Grande’s medical supplies. He was almost glad in a way that he no longer had his combadge; he felt such frustration with the woman he loved just now that he didn’t imagine any further immediate conversation was going to help matters between them.
Using a comm unit in the late Senator Talris’s office, Gard informed Ezri and Cyl that the medical equipment had arrived safely. “Good luck,” he said, and then hesitated a moment. Finally, he added, “Doctor Bashir wishes you both the same.” Then he tapped the console, ending the transmission.
Over his shoulder, Bashir shot Gard a petulant look.
“You seem to be taking her actions personally,” said Gard. “I can understand your position. But you must understand hers.”
Bashir stood, hoisting the medical kit over one shoulder. “What I understand is that she and the general seem more concerned with ancient Trill history than they are with dealing with the violence on the streets.”
“You’re probably right. But General Cyl is also trying to get to the bottom of what the neo-Purists are agitating about. He’s trying to get at the truth.”
Bashir felt his ire steadily rising. “The truth? The only truth I’m interested in at the moment is that the streets are becoming drenched in blood.”
Gard nodded solemnly. “The truth is a complicated thing sometimes, isn’t it? Haven’t you ever had a secret you felt you couldn’t share with anyone, because you knew . . . you knew that it would change everything?”
Bashir attempted to control his reaction. Does Gard know about my genetic enhancements? Had Ezri told him? Or Jadzia? He had indeed concealed the fact that his parents had resequenced his genetics decades earlier, and keeping that secret had cost him dearly over the years.
Whether he knew Bashir’s secret or not, Gard’s tone contained no condemnation as he continued. “Even if you haven’t covered up aspects of your life, surely you’ve kept confidences in the course of your duties as a Starfleet officer. Surely you’ve concealed actions or decisions that could have caused grave damage if they were revealed.”
“You seem to be talking about yourself, Mister Gard.”
Gard nodded, allowing that. “As you’ve no doubt already learned from Dax, I’m not like most joined Trills. Rather than redefine my life with every new incarnation, my existence has always been about one thing: neutralizing aberrant joinings.”
“Like Joran.”
“He wasn’t the first,” Gard said. “And it’s important to understand that while Joran Belar was troubled, neither he nor Dax were dangerous individually. Had he never been joined, or perhaps if he’d been matched to a different symbiont, Joran might have lived a long, full life without ever having harmed anyone. It was the unique combination of Joran and Dax that made them violently unbalanced. Such things are rare and unpredictable, even given the rigorous tests and screenings of the initiate program. But every so often, despite the Commission’s best efforts, an apparently healthy joining unexpectedly gives rise to a monster.”
Though Bashir was familiar with the unfortunate story of Joran Belar, he found that his curiosity was becoming roused. “How often does that happen?”
Gard shrugged. “Centuries can pass between such aberrations. Spotting them requires constant vigilance.”
“And you’re the one who maintains that vigilance? You alone?”
“Not exactly. A number of us keep watch. But whenever a threat comes to light, I’m the one who deals with it. It’s what I’ve always done.”
Bashir felt he was beginning to understand. Still, he didn’t much like it. “I imagine that’s why you maintain such a low profile most of the time. When you’re not assassinating heads of state, that is.”
Gard appeared oblivious to the jab, making Bashir wonder what sort of person could pursue a c
areer of this sort and remain sane—and for multiple lifetimes, no less.
“Maintaining secrecy is important,” Gard said. “For reasons I’m sure you can imagine, the aberrations have to be contained before word of their existence can get out. That’s the only way our society can maintain faith in the system that enables us—even a tiny minority of us—to enjoy the serial immortality of joining.”
“That’s why there aren’t more like you,” Bashir said, and Gard responded with a silent, affirmative nod.
Bashir released a long, frustrated breath through his nose; he found that his disgust with the ingrained Trill propensity for cultural secrecy was becoming harder to conceal. And the most damnable thing about it was that the reasons for concealing aberrant joinings seemed so eminently sensible. He already knew that the Symbiosis Commission feared the symbionts would become slaves or black-market commodities if it ever became generally known that joining was possible among half the Trill humanoid population instead of the official one-in-a-thousand figure; what might some Trills do if they were to learn that some apparently healthy joinings could produce lethal sociopaths, however rare their occurrence might be? Unscrupulous opportunists might seek to investigate and exploit that potential, while others might turn against the symbionts entirely.
So the Commission keeps it a secret. They lie. Bashir knew better than most how naturally lies could come. Especially when they came to be regarded as necessities of survival.
“What about your previous hosts?” Bashir asked. “Other Trill symbionts are guided by the needs, ambitions, and desires of the humanoids they join with. But you’re telling me that your hosts set all that aside to pursue the goals of the Gard symbiont.”
“It’s entirely voluntary, I assure you,” Gard said. “The screening process for my hosts is even more stringent than that of the regular initiate program. When the Commission finds the right match for Gard, that potential host is brought into the loop, and is allowed to make an informed decision.”
Bashir felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen; Gard’s story brought to mind uncomfortable recollections of Section 31’s periodic efforts to recruit him into their unofficial—and ethically questionable—intelligence operations.
“Have any of Gard’s potential hosts ever declined the honor?”
“Only once,” Gard said.
“And what happened to the candidate?”
Gard’s eyes narrowed at the unspoken accusation. “What makes you think something happened to her?”
“Because, given your people’s obsession with secrecy, I have to assume either that her memories were wiped, or that she was killed. Which was it?”
Gard didn’t answer. But he didn’t avert his eyes from Bashir’s hard stare.
The moment stretched, until Bashir said, “All right. Let me ask you something else, then. How many hosts have you had?”
Gard displayed a small, enigmatic smile. “Let’s just say the number is a good deal higher than any other joined Trill you’ve ever heard of.”
Bashir nodded. “And you remember all of them?”
Gard hesitated, then made an admission that Bashir found surprising. “No. Beyond a certain point, I can’t remember anything. Whether that’s a consequence of my symbiont’s longevity or a security measure I’ve never been briefed about, I’m not certain. Nor do I care. My role, my function, is all that matters. In fact, I can’t remember ever doing anything else.”
Bashir found the idea of an existence that stretched so far back into the depths of time both exhilarating and frightening. He wondered what it would be like to have personal origins as ambiguous—and perhaps even as ancient—as the earliest joined Trill.
Or as ancient as the parasites. The insight came to him with the suddenness of a lightning strike.
“Then, is it possible . . .?” His voice trailed off as he struggled to formulate his inchoate question.
“Yes?” Gard’s mild expression betrayed the patience of the ages.
Bashir caught his breath. “If these aberrant joinings are truly as rare as you say, might your role have originally come into existence for an entirely different reason?”
“What are you suggesting, Doctor?” Gard asked, in a manner that made it clear he knew exactly what Bashir planned to say next.
“I’m wondering if you were created originally to detect and deal with joined parasites. Like Shakaar.”
“That would imply a very ancient connection to Trill,” Gard said, nodding thoughtfully. “And equally ancient knowledge about the threat the parasites pose.”
Bashir adjusted the medical kit on his shoulder. The faint sound of screams and phaser blasts outside reminded him that he needed to get moving. “Yes, it would. Do you think it’s true?”
Again, Gard smiled his enigmatic smile as he escorted Bashir back to the foyer door that fronted Talris’s office. “I think, Doctor, that some things should never be forgotten.”
* * *
After giving Bashir directions to the hospital, Gard excused himself, saying he needed to return to the security center. He gave Bashir his personal comm key in case the doctor needed to reach him. The night-shrouded streets in front of the Senate Tower were still in the grip of pandemonium as Bashir exited the building.
Bashir hadn’t gone twenty meters before a police officer tried to turn him away. After he displayed his medical equipment—and made loud mention of his Starfleet credentials—he was free to proceed. Fifty paces later, after skirting a police blockade, he was stopped again by another contingent of officers.
“I am a Starfleet medical officer,” Bashir said in mounting exasperation. “And I’m needed right now at Manev Central Hospital’s Emergency Response Department.”
The burly officer who seemed to be in charge squinted disapprovingly at him, as though he were a six-foot talking bug. “I don’t know why Starfleet would be here. This situation is Trill business.”
Maybe if the Trill government had done a better job of managing its “business,” then Starfleet wouldn’t need to be here, Bashir thought.
Aloud, he said, “I told you, I am a Starfleet medical officer, and I’m expected at the hospital. Why don’t you call there and see if they want you to turn me away?”
The police officer grunted, then turned away and spoke into a wrist-mounted communications device. Less than a minute passed before he turned back to Bashir. “Apparently they are expecting you,” he said, his voice sounding no friendlier than it had before. “You evidently have some friends in high places. I’m supposed to assign a member of my unit to escort you there.”
“Thank you,” Bashir said acidly, though he was sorely tempted to tell the man he could find his own way. He waited, impatient.
“Asal, make sure that this doctor gets to Manev Central,” the commander said to one of the other nearby officers, a solidly built woman outfitted in scuffed black body armor.
“Yes, sir,” Asal said.
Moments later, Bashir was following Asal through a side alley. They continued for some time, weaving in and out of dark alleys and dimly lit side streets, avoiding any further crowds or major obstacles.
Asal nodded, then pointed forward down the alley toward the warm glow of nearby street lamps. “A few more blocks and we’ll be coming out near the hospital.”
“Good, thanks,” Bashir said. He followed the officer silently, his mind processing her comments along with the cacophony of tonight’s uprising.
They rounded a corner and saw three figures slumped in the shadows. Asal leveled her phaser at them. “You there. Stand and identify yourselves!”
One of the figures rose haltingly, and in the dim light Bashir could see it was a young girl, perhaps eleven years old. “I’m Dula Seng, and this is my mother and brother. They’re both hurt. They can’t stand up.”
Bashir began to approach, pulling his medical tricorder out. “I’m a doctor. I can help—”
“Wait, Doctor Bashir,” Asal said, interrupting. “We don’t know if
they’re armed.”
“Please,” the teenage boy on the ground pleaded. “They wouldn’t help us at the hospital. My mom is very sick.”
Bashir looked over at Asal. “I’m going to help them.” She nodded curtly, still holding her weapon at the ready. He crouched to begin scanning the scarcely breathing woman.
“What happened?” he asked the girl.
“We were at the Najana Library when all the yelling started outside. Mama was trying to get us home, but we kept getting caught in the crowds. They sprayed something on the protesters, and Mama started having a hard time breathing.” She gestured toward her brother. “Dapo couldn’t walk very well either.”
“They turned us away from the hospital because Mama isn’t joined,” he said, his tone almost venomous.
After running a quick tricorder scan to check for possible drug incompatibility reactions, Bashir deftly withdrew a hypospray from his medical kit and set it for lectrazine.
“Are you sure it wasn’t because they thought you might have been with the protesters?” he asked as he worked.
The boy was silent, regarding him with baleful eyes. Bashir crouched beside the mother, pressing the hypospray gently against her neck. The drug hissed home, and the woman gasped loudly in response. A moment later her breathing began to steady.
Bashir turned to the boy. “Your turn. Seems like you might have a touch of your mother’s allergy to anesthezine. That appears to be the active ingredient in the gas they sprayed on the crowd.” He wondered how many other Trill in the crowd had experienced similar seizures.
The boy winced as the hypo hissed into his neck. Then he looked surprised. “Hey, that didn’t hurt much at all.”
Bashir gave him a slight grin, then turned back toward the mother. Her eyes were now open, and she appeared to be trying to get her bearings. “You’ll be all right, ma’am. You were having a reaction to the gas the police were using. Your children tried to get you help.” And were refused, a small voice inside him shouted. “Luckily, we happened to come along.”
“Thank you,” the woman replied in a weak stammer.