Section 31 - Disavowed

by David Mack

  His warning seemed to have the desired effect on Tran. “I assure you, Thot Trom, when you return, the rift will be open, and it will be stable—and we’ll have corrected the flaw in the shield nutation frequency. You have my word.”

  “Your word? How nice. I feel better already.” He closed the channel with a tap on the console, then stalked back to his off-kilter command chair. Damn the lab rats and their promises. He sank into the chair and lamented his shattered command deck. They’ll be the death of us all.

  * * *

  Omega Prime’s senior staff looked up as Sherlas Rokaath barged into the conference room. Most of the faces around the table registered surprise or annoyance at the Zakdorn. Saavik regarded him without emotion as he looked at her, his alarm evident in his gray eyes.

  He held up a padd. “Forgive the intrusion, Director. I have urgent news.”

  She motioned him toward the far end of the conference table, opposite her. “Proceed.”

  With a few taps on his padd, Rokaath called up a star chart on the full-wall display behind him. “We’ve had another cross-dimensional breach, at the same coordinates we detected yesterday.” He used his padd to emphasize different details and produce new information on the wall display as he continued. “This was no accidental event, and it was not produced by natural phenomena. We’ve monitored this sector since the previous event, and we’ve detected signs of persistent disruption. Based on the energy levels involved, we deduced that someone or something was working to facilitate a high-mass transfer from the close parallel universe to our own. Specifically”—the image of a starship appeared on the display—“a warship capable of carrying more than a hundred personnel.”

  The senior staff sat forward, their faces taut with concern. Most worried of all, if the furrowing of his shaggy brow was any indication, was Kol jav Megh. The sable-maned Tellarite logistician squinted his black eyes at the image on the wall. “Is that a Breen ship?”

  “We think so.” Rokaath highlighted small details of the image. “There are some minor deviations from known Breen ship classes, but the general configuration is consistent with their design aesthetic. Its quantum signature confirms it originated in the other universe.”

  Veen, the director of extradimensional surveillance, stared in dismay at the image. “We had no idea the Breen were developing this kind of technology, in that universe or any other.” The round-faced Bolian clasped his beefy hands over his bald pate. “Where did they get it?”

  An answer came from Inglis Arkell, the head of Memory Omega’s scientific research division. “Look at the gravimetric deformations that define the rift’s mouth.” The dark-haired Trill woman keyed in commands from her interface at the table and overlaid a wire frame of the cross-dimensional rift’s invisible subspace geometry. “That was made by a Tzenkethi-designed wormhole generator, one modified to breach dimensional membranes.”

  “That makes sense,” said Dannis Palancir, the director of counterintelligence. “In their universe, the Breen and the Tzenkethi are members of a military and economic alliance known as the Typhon Pact. It’s analogous to their membership in our universe’s Taurus Pact, except theirs also includes the Romulans and the Kinshaya.”

  Fallanooran th’Sirris, Omega’s chief military strategist, twitched his antennae as he spoke. “Never mind the alt-history. If this was a deliberate incursion, what are the Breen after?”

  Rokaath shrugged. “No idea. We’ve picked up some limited comms between the ship and something on the other side, but we haven’t been able to break their encryption yet. We could be looking at a scout, an explorer—”

  “Or an invasion,” interrupted Ruxin Ejor, Omega’s political liaison to the Galactic Commonwealth. The young Bajoran was the newest member of the senior staff. The others tolerated his habitual pessimism for only one reason: his dire predictions frequently proved to be prescient. Today he directed his ire at th’Sirris. “We have most of the Commonwealth’s forces standing by for a showdown with the Dominion. You think it’s a coincidence that this”—he searched for a word and was frustrated not to find it—“whatever this is, showed up now?”

  “Correlation is not evidence of causation,” Arkell interjected.

  Ruxin remained irate. “This isn’t some science experiment, Inglis. This is the real world. When two events coincide in a way that can get you killed, odds are it’s not a fluke, it’s by design.” He aimed his pointed stare at th’Sirris. “So what’re you prepared to do about it?”

  Saavik chose that moment to intercede. “He will do nothing until I order it, Mister Ruxin.” She turned attention back toward Rokaath. “Is Observer Mullins continuing to monitor the intruder’s actions?”

  The Zakdorn looked abashed. “Negative. Intense gravimetric distortion caused by the breach disrupted our ability to focus the quantum window on those coordinates. The only way to track the intruder would be to dispatch a jaunt ship to intercept it.”

  That turned Saavik back toward Megh. “What ships are ready to launch?”

  The Tellarite lifted his bushy eyebrows. “None of them.”

  His protest drew a dubious glare from th’Sirris. “Nonsense. You have four ships waiting to leave Erebus Station. Merge their flight-test crews for one mission and have them investigate.”

  “Leave the logistics to me, Falla.” Megh became apologetic as he turned toward Saavik. “Even if we united all the test-flight personnel, we’d barely have a skeleton crew for one ship.”

  “That might be enough,” Saavik said.

  Rokaath leaned in to object. “I disagree, Director. Megh is right to be concerned about deploying an understaffed jaunt ship. If these intruders are hostile, sending an untested, understrength crew to deal with them might prove disastrous.”

  Saavik was unmoved by their protests. “It is not my intention to send them on a combat mission, Sherlas. Their orders will be to intercept, observe, and gather intelligence. Nothing more. Even a skeleton crew can execute such a limited mission profile. Who can we send?”

  Megh picked up his padd and reviewed his files with a frown. “The ShiKahr.”

  “Very well. Send me a list of candidates for the command crew, and have the ship ready to jump to the breach coordinates as soon as possible.”

  The Tellarite bowed his head. “Yes, Director.”

  “Everyone else,” Saavik said, “task your divisions with learning all they can about this incursion. I want preliminary reports by tomorrow morning, with response protocols. Until we know more, treat this as an unplanned first-contact scenario.”

  Ruxin met her order with wary cynicism. “And if the visitors turn out to be hostile?”

  Rokaath gave voice to the unpleasant truth everyone in the room already knew. “Then we’ll need to be prepared to face new wars on two fronts instead of just one.”

  Ten

  “Wake up, Doctor.”

  Cole’s voice jolted Bashir from a fitful sleep. He sat up in bed. “Computer: lights.”

  Sarina tumbled out of bed into a defensive crouch as the room’s wall-mounted lights came up slowly, dispelling the darkness. They faced the black-clad Section 31 operative, who stood at the foot of their bed. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his relaxed but confrontational body language projected an air of smug superiority. “Sorry if I startled you.”

  Bashir scowled. “No you’re not.” He and Sarina had expected this visit, but their anticipation hadn’t made Cole’s intrusion any less unwelcome in the wee hours of the morning. “Why can’t you use the comm or ring the door chime like a normal person?”

  “My way has more finesse.”

  “I think we have differing definitions of that word.”

  A dismissive wave. “I didn’t come to talk semantics. The situation I mentioned during my last visit is evolving.” Cole picked up Bashir’s bathrobe from the foot of the bed and tossed it to him. “You weren’t interested in a hypothetical threat to Federation security. Now we have a confirmed threat. Are you ready to
listen now?”

  “That depends. Are you ready to stop talking in circles?”

  “Do you recall the artificial wormhole technology the Tzenkethi developed?”

  Bashir nodded as he got up and donned his robe. “The one they tried to use at Bajor?”

  “That’s the one. The Breen repurposed it to open a portal to the alternate universe. Nine hours ago, they sent a fast-attack cruiser manned by an entire company of their elite Spetzkar commandos through a rift they created from an interstellar science station on our border.”

  Sarina slipped into her own bathrobe without taking her eyes off of Cole. “Why would the Breen launch a military operation into another universe?”

  “To capture something they failed to acquire here. Last year, the Breen executed a massive disinformation campaign against the Federation. They burned countless assets, including one of their top secret intelligence programs, all so they could steal the wreckage of a single starship that crashed on a planet under Federation control.”

  Cole held up a short, slim metallic cylinder, which Bashir presumed the agent must have had hidden in his palm or up his sleeve. He used it to project a hologram in the air between himself and Bashir and Sarina. A grainy, indistinct sensor image appeared—the faintly visible outline of a starship’s fractured hull. “These scans of the downed vessel on Tirana Three were made by the Enterprise-E, moments before they fragged the entire site to prevent the Breen from escaping with a partial salvage of the wreck.”

  Sarina and Bashir edged closer to the projection. Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape. “What makes this worth so much trouble and effort?”

  “Intel from the alternate universe indicates this is something known as a jaunt ship. It generates its own artificial wormholes and is capable of making instantaneous jumps across almost any distance within the galaxy, and across vast reaches of the void outside it. This is what enabled the Terran Rebellion to prevail against its oppressors.”

  Imagining the possible applications of such a technology, Bashir understood why Section 31 was treating its potential acquisition by the Breen as a crisis. “A fleet of ships with drives like these could project force anywhere in the galaxy, without warning.”

  “Never mind the fleet, Doctor. All one would need to do is use these wormholes to bombard distant planets with a hail of photon torpedoes. Attacks could drop in beneath an enemy’s defenses and glass their planets before they knew what was happening.” He switched off the hologram. “If the Breen capture one of those ships and reverse-engineer it, they could wipe the Federation and its allies off the map in a matter of weeks. From a tactical standpoint, they’d become invincible.”

  It was a sobering prospect, one that compelled Bashir to grasp at alternative readings of the evidence. “Are you certain the salvage operation and this latest mission to the alternate universe are related?”

  “All the evidence points to it. Less than three weeks after the Breen operation on Tirana Three failed, they started pouring resources into their dimensional-rift project on Ikkuna Station. And the same scientist who ran the Tirana Three op is in charge of this one: Thot Tran.”

  Sarina stood close against Bashir’s back while keeping her focus on Cole. “Cut to the chase. The organization has plenty of operatives. Why do you need Julian?”

  “Actually, we want both of you for this mission. And I should think the reasons would be obvious. You two are the only Federation agents who have ever successfully infiltrated the Breen military. Based on your debriefings, it’s clear you’ve both retained a moderate fluency in the written Breen language, and your familiarity with their customs and body language would be invaluable for covert operations inside their territory. Add to this, Doctor, the fact that you are one of the few people to survive a visit to the alternate universe, and you should understand why your name is at the top of our list.”

  “The experience you’ve cited qualifies me to advise your agents, not to be one.”

  Cole reacted with a wry smirk. “Your performance on Salavat suggests otherwise.”

  Bashir waved off the comparison. “Not an experience I’d care to repeat.”

  “No one’s asking you to. I understand you had misgivings after the fact, especially with regard to what turned out to be civilians employed at the shipyard. This mission is something completely different. You’d be up against a vastly superior force of elite military troops. There won’t be any innocents in the crosshairs this time.”

  “Am I supposed to take your word for it? Forgive me if I find you less than trustworthy.”

  A pained smile. “Fair enough. If you want to limit your role to that of an adviser, so be it. But your counsel will be needed in the field, and you will be required to carry a weapon, for the protection of your teammates if not for yourself.”

  “I still haven’t agreed to go.”

  “Now who’s playing games, Doctor? I know you’re going; she knows you’re going; and so do you.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  It felt to Bashir like Cole was looking right through his brave façade into his soul. “Because I know you better than you know yourself. You’re going to go because you can’t not go.” He glanced at Sarina, then met Bashir’s stare. “Get dressed, but don’t bother packing bags. We’re traveling light.”

  “What about my medkit?”

  “Leave it. From now on, Doctor, whatever you need, you’ll get from us.”

  Eleven

  The Alternate Universe

  “Captain, we’ll be exiting the wormhole in five seconds.”

  Hanalarell sh’Pherron, the captain of the free starship ShiKahr, acknowledged her flight control officer’s report with the slightest of nods and a renewed focus on the bridge’s main viewscreen. The blue chaos of the artificial wormhole raced past, a swirling blur so bright that it almost hurt to look at it. The Andorian shen squinted against the glare. Then it vanished, a curtain of energy abruptly pulled aside to reveal the familiar starry darkness of normal space. Nothing looked amiss, but sh’Pherron knew how deceiving appearances could be. She swiveled her command chair toward her chief of security. “Any sign of our cross-dimensional visitors?”

  Ensign Riaow checked the readouts on her tactical console. “Negative, Captain.”

  “Run another sweep. Omega wouldn’t have sent us here for no reason.” She rotated her chair forward again. The vista pictured on the holographic main screen was empty and serene. “Helm, are we sure we’re in the right place?”

  “Positive, sir.” Lieutenant Zareth superimposed the ShiKahr’s coordinates on the viewscreen image. “We came out of jaunt precisely on target.”

  The ship’s Vulcan first officer stepped away from his sensor console and moved to sh’Pherron’s side for a consultation at a discreet volume. “Captain, regardless of our knowledge of the Breen in this universe, we have no way of knowing the capabilities of a Breen vessel from the other universe. I recommend we proceed with the utmost caution.”

  “I agree, Turak. Reconfigure the sensor array for a wide-area tachyon sweep.”

  “That will take approximately ten hours to prepare, Captain.”

  “Then you’d best get started, Commander. In the meantime, run all available sensor protocols for detecting cloaked vessels.” Turak nodded his understanding and returned to his post while sh’Pherron doled out further orders to the crew. “Mister Zareth, program a search pattern. Start in a tight radius around the reported position of the dimensional breach, and extend the search area gradually.”

  “Aye, sir.” The Chelon plotted the ship’s course with the broad, scaly digits of his huge leathery extremities, which resembled hands in only the most general sense.

  How can he work the helm with those stumps? It was a mystery sh’Pherron decided was better left unsolved. “Commander Turak, contact Memory Omega. Confirm that we’ve arrived, and that we’ve begun the search. Ensign Riaow, proceed on the assumption that we’re hunting a cloaked vessel. Take us to Yellow Alert, c
harge shields, and set all weapons to ready standby.”

  Her officers confirmed her orders quickly and set themselves to work. Despite the vast emptiness of space pictured on the viewscreen, sh’Pherron refused to relax her guard. I played it fast and loose at Alzoc Prime, and I nearly got my crew killed. I won’t make that mistake again.

  Some youthful spark of optimism deep within her wanted to believe this was all just a fool’s errand—that there was nothing to be found in this sector of the void except trace gases and stray neutrinos. But the hard-edged survivor instinct that had sustained her through a childhood yoked in slavery, an adolescence spent in rebellion, and a young adulthood mired in war told her there was someone else out here with her and her crew. Someone lurking unseen in the darkness, watching the ShiKahr. To what end sh’Pherron didn’t know, but she was determined not to call off the hunt until she found her prey—and learned for herself what its motives really were.

  * * *

  It was difficult for Trom to read the mood of his crew—just one more reason for him to resent and despise the snout masks they all were forced to wear as core elements of the Breen social costume. Further complicating the matter was the tendency of Breen vocoders to strip emotional cues from one’s voice, rendering all conversations in the same flat mechanical monotone. It made it hard for Trom to gauge when morale might be waning and in need of reinforcement.

  Then there were the moments when no mask could hide his troops’ dismay.

  Yoab stared at the overhead. His voice was hushed. “They’re hunting us.”

  “No need to whisper,” Trom said. “They can’t hear you through vacuum.”

  The Spetzkar pilot clenched his fists and continued staring upward, as if he could see through the Tajny’s bulkheads and across space to the enemy ship, which at this range would be invisible to the naked eye. “They’re executing a search pattern. They’re looking for us.”