by David Mack
Weyoun pivoted toward Picard. “Our investigation also revealed that Odo’s killer was an interloper from another universe. Because we assumed we would never have a chance to face him, we decided to hold the powers of the Alpha Quadrant blameless for this heinous crime. But now, providence brings us this gift: an opportunity for justice, at last!”
Troubled looks passed among the Enterprise officers. Picard faced Weyoun. “What, precisely, do you mean by that?”
“Captain Picard, on behalf of the Dominion, I demand the immediate and unconditional extradition of Doctor Julian Bashir, so that he can stand trial for the murder of Odo!”
Nineteen
It galled Thot Trom that he and his men had been forced to slink away from a fight. From a tactical standpoint, retreat had been the best option. He had withdrawn his troops with only a few fatalities. Now they were safe aboard the Tajny, which drifted, cloaked and radio silent, within the Denorios Belt, well hidden from the probing sensors of the jaunt ship Enterprise and its Dominion allies. When a new opportunity to attack presented itself, Trom knew he would have at least nearly the full strength of his Spetzkar company at his command.
Regardless, he was angry. And he wanted answers.
He entered the Tajny’s briefing room with long strides and no patience. “We had our prize, and then it was taken from us. Someone explain to me why.” He looked down the plotting table ringed with his senior officers, then pointed at his second-in-command. “Crin, you start.”
“After-action review of our sensor logs suggests there were undetected comm signals passing between the Enterprise and the ShiKahr.”
“What type of signals?”
“Ultralow frequency, encrypted subspace radio pulses.” Crin tapped on the interactive surface of the oblong plotting table and called up an annotated sensor report on its central holographic display for everyone to look at as he continued. “It’s a system similar to the one Ikkuna Station used to warn us about the Federation team on the Królik.”
Trom spent a few seconds reviewing the projected data. “Backdoor command codes. We missed some kind of challenge-and-response, so they used this to take remote control of the ShiKahr and locked us out.” He looked at Solt. “How do we prevent that next time?”
The chief engineer traced a few lines in a schematic on the table’s display. “To receive that type of signal requires a special antenna. We can disable it next time.”
“I presume you’ll know where to find it.”
“It would be part of the main comm array. Once we find its input node on the transceiver router, we can trace that back to the antenna, and to any backups it has.”
“Good.” The next commando in Trom’s sights was his computer specialist and second officer. “Rem, is it possible there might be some other frequency the Commonwealth crews could use to hijack a jaunt ship from us?”
Rem shook his head. “No. Their computer cores are shielded against outside signals, and we’d be able to monitor the other comm channels. Now that we know about this security exploit, we won’t let them use it again. We’ll be ready for them next time.”
That was an answer Trom could accept, so he shifted his attention to someone new. “Karn, how did their boarding teams reacquire control of the ShiKahr so quickly? You assured me we had all the key areas of the ship secured.”
The tactical specialist shifted his weight, a telltale sign that he was nervous. “We aren’t entirely sure, sir. I’ve reviewed some of the recordings from our teams’ helmet comms, and as far as I can tell, they followed procedure. At the first sign of hostile transporter signals, they engaged the shroud circuits on their armor and assumed ambush positions.”
“And yet most of those men are dead, Karn.”
An anxious nod. “Yes, sir. A few of them reported picking up trace signals of other shrouded personnel shortly before being engaged by the enemy. My current hypothesis is that the Commonwealth starship crews also possess personal stealth technology—perhaps even one superior to our own. They also seem to possess superiority in their small-arms technology.”
Karn’s bad news drove Trom to pace while he considered his response. “If we can’t rely on a technological advantage, then we’ll need to exert tactical superiority the next time we board one of those ships. Work up a battle plan that neutralizes the enemy crew as quickly as possible.”
“What about prisoners?” Karn held up his padd. “You said we had orders to bring back prisoners familiar with the operation of the jaunt ship.”
“Countermanded. The lab rats will have to reverse-engineer it on their own.”
An obedient nod. “Understood, sir.”
Trom tapped the tabletop to summon a control interface. He relayed images of the two jaunt ships over Bajor, plus a slew of sensor data, to the central display. “As if we don’t have enough hurdles to clear on this mission, we’ve just uncovered a new one. Energy readings from the two jaunt ships indicate they’re both upgrading their deflector harmonics and shield geometry to negate the effect of our energy dampener. It was a nice trick the first time we used it, but these people learn and adapt much faster than the Federation did during the Dominion War. So not only have we lost the element of surprise, we’ve also lost our most effective weapon.” He looked around the table at his command team. “Suggestions?”
A deathly silence followed. No one said it, but Trom imagined them all thinking the same thing: Abort this disaster of a mission and go home.
“While you’re all thinking that over, consider this, as well: the Jem’Hadar battle fleet is dead set on denying us passage through the Bajoran wormhole. In other words, not only has our mission just gone from insanely difficult to damned near impossible, but even if we somehow pull it off, we currently have no way home. So I need you all to collaborate on two new tactical plans: one for how to breach a jaunt ship’s defenses and then secure it against counterattack, and one for drawing the Jem’Hadar out of position and clearing us a path to the wormhole.” He checked the ever-advancing chrono in the corner of the plotting table’s display area. “And I need both plans as soon as possible.” He switched off the plotting table and stepped back. “We reconvene in eight hours.” Groans of discontent were muffled by helmets with momentarily muted vocoders. Trom felt the slump in his officers’ morale. He did his best to project confidence. “I know starting from zero isn’t easy, and it’s not what we were counting on. But I, for one, don’t plan on going home empty-handed—and neither should you. Dismissed.”
Twenty
Two security guards—one Andorian, one Kaferian, both male—escorted Bashir through the corridors of the jaunt ship Enterprise. They had collected him at the temporary quarters he shared with Sarina, now that they had been separated from the rest of the Section 31 team, and they had walked on either side of him, leading him through turns at several key intersections and what had felt like the longest, most awkward turbolift ride of his life.
They stopped at a closed door. The insectoid Kaferian pressed one clawed manus against the visitor signal. While awaiting a response from the compartment beyond the portal, Bashir noted the nameplate mounted above the door’s control panel: PICARD, CAPT. J.
The captain’s deep voice answered over the door’s comm, “Come.”
The door slid open. The Kaferian entered, and the Andorian motioned Bashir inside. He followed the Kaferian while the Andorian stayed a few steps behind him.
In rapid fashion, Bashir took in the details of the captain’s quarters. Muted illumination was augmented by reflected light from Bajor’s surface through the sloped view ports along one side of the main compartment. The furnishings were simple but looked comfortable and clean: a table with four chairs, a sofa, a desk with a holo-projector mounted on its surface. Wall-mounted shelves were lined with old books and a few pieces of antique-looking bric-a-brac. A few small objets d’art sat alone on certain shelves or were mounted on the bulkheads. Through an open doorway, he saw a neatly ordered bedroom; beyond that, a pri
vate lavatory and refresher nook.
Picard stood next to the main room’s replicator, whose mellisonant whoosh of creation was just finishing. The captain picked up a small cup and saucer and walked toward Bashir. He nodded at the two guards. “That will be all. Please wait outside.”
The security officers exited without question or even a word of acknowledgment. Picard waited until the door closed before he spoke again.
“Can I offer you something, Doctor? Tea, perhaps?”
A polite wave of rejection. “No, thank you, sir.” Even though Bashir was no longer in Starfleet, old habits proved hard to overcome. Such as calling a superior officer sir.
The captain set his tea on the dining table, pulled back a chair, and, with a gesture, invited Bashir to join him. They sat across a corner from each other.
The older man took a slow, careful sip of his hot beverage. “It seems we have a delicate situation on our hands.”
“I wasn’t aware ‘delicate’ was a synonym for ‘explosive’ or ‘potentially disastrous.’ ”
Picard cracked a half smile. “I’ve also been surprised to learn how versatile that word can be when used in a diplomatic setting.” He took another sip of his tea. “Are you familiar with the abilities of Betazoids?”
“I am.”
“My chief of security is half Betazoid.”
Bashir risked a deductive leap. “An empath?”
“Precisely. She assures me that Mister Weyoun is quite sincere in his belief that you are a fugitive from Dominion justice and that this isn’t merely some ploy for advantage at the negotiation table. However, I’m not prepared to hand over a free sentient being to a foreign power about whose legal system I know very little, merely on the accusation of one man.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Captain.”
Picard’s expression turned grave. “However, I am obliged to investigate.”
A slow nod. “I understand.”
“As we speak, Mister Weyoun is asking his superior, the Founder, to lodge formal charges against you and to petition the government of the Galactic Commonwealth for your extradition. Before that happens, I would like to hear your side of the story.”
Bashir shook his head. “There’s not much I can add to what he’s already told you, except that I acted in self-defense. I was being held as a slave on Terok Nor. When the alarm sounded, people were running in every direction. It was total chaos. I saw a chance to steal a disruptor from a guard’s holster, so I did. Overseer Odo—the Changeling—saw me. He drew his weapon and aimed at me. I aimed back at him, and I fired first. Then . . .” The memory was so grotesque and disturbing to Bashir that it took him a few seconds to articulate it. “He exploded.”
“Exploded?”
“The weapon was set to kill, but I didn’t know that before I fired. If I had, I would have changed it to a stun setting. Anyway . . . where most humanoids would have vaporized, Odo’s body just erupted. It was one of the most horrible things I’ve ever seen. But there was no time then to dwell on it, so I ran. I kept running until I found Kira so we could get off the—”
“Intendant Kira?”
“No, Major Kira. The one from my universe. We came through together, by accident.”
“I see. Go on.”
“Well, that’s all there is.”
Picard frowned. “So, Weyoun calls it murder. You call it self-defense.”
“It was self-defense.”
The captain shook his head. He stood, picked up the teacup and saucer, and carried them back to the replicator. He touched a button on the control panel, and the machine dematerialized the cup and saucer in a whirlwind of glowing particles and a rush of pleasant high-pitched sound. “Cases such as this have unpredictable outcomes, Doctor. Your fate is likely to rest not with the evidence but in the sympathies of your judges.”
Bashir stood, paced a few steps away from Picard, then turned back. “Weyoun said the Dominion’s agents had acquired copies of Terok Nor’s security files from an archive on Bajor. If those files are as accurate as he claims, they’ll prove my innocence.”
“Perhaps.” Picard’s mien turned more glum by the moment. “Such files can be tampered with. But even if they depict events as you claim, we have no idea how Dominion law works. Its people revere the Founders as if they were deities. They might not consider self-preservation to be an affirmative defense when it comes to the death of one of their own.”
Those were sensible points, Bashir realized. The prospect of being held accountable for murder in spite of the facts gave him a new reason to be wary of his every word and deed in this universum incognitum. “What do you suggest I do?”
“I would humbly recommend you apply to the Commonwealth for asylum.”
“Excuse me?”
Picard held up his open hands, as if to forestall an argument. “I can’t promise you’d be spared charges or a trial, but you might stand a better chance of a fair hearing in our courts than in theirs. The Commonwealth is a civilization of laws, Doctor, but it’s also one of compassion.”
“Do you really think the Dominion would let me go that easily?”
“I’m no solicitor, but Terok Nor was a Bajoran possession at the time of your alleged offense. Now that Bajor is a member of the Commonwealth, events that transpired here in the past but are brought to light only now would fall within our jurisdiction. Likewise, any jury that might be called to hear your case would be one with no love for the Alliance—or for slavery.”
“I appreciate your offer, Captain, but I have to ask: How would a grant of amnesty affect your ongoing negotiations with the Dominion?”
Picard waved off the query. “That’s not your concern.”
“I can’t just accept that. I’m not sure I’d want my fate to be the reason a vital treaty discussion fails.”
This time, the captain looked away and permitted himself a low, cynical snort of derision. “This has been an extremely complicated negotiation, Doctor. There are hundreds of reasons it might fail.” He calmed himself with a deep breath, then he turned back toward Bashir. “I should also make clear that I can’t promise the Commonwealth will grant your request—or, if they do, that they’ll shield you forever. If the Dominion can show that it has sufficient cause to bring a criminal case against you, and that their system of justice meets our standards of evidence and reasonable doubt, then the Commonwealth Assembly might vote to authorize your extradition.”
“I have to say that sounds more than fair.”
“I agree. But unless you ask for our help, you’ll have no legal standing here—and we’ll have no right to refuse the extradition request, which could arrive at any moment.”
“All right, then.” Bashir adopted his most formal tone of voice. “Captain Picard, I request asylum aboard your vessel, and within the Galactic Commonwealth.”
Picard stepped forward and shook Bashir’s hand. “Request granted, Doctor.”
* * *
No sooner had Picard emerged from the turbolift onto the bridge of the Enterprise than he saw K’Ehleyr and Troi converge to intercept him at his command chair. He preempted their questions and protests with a raised hand, a stern look, and two words: “Ready room.”
The two women accepted his request with dour looks. They walked ahead of him toward his private sanctum, which was located just off the forward starboard quarter of the bridge. Its portal slid open. K’Ehleyr and Troi stepped inside and parted to let Picard pass between them on his way to his desk. As he sat down, they moved closer, and the door shut behind them. K’Ehleyr’s trademark veneer of calm was shattered by a sudden flaring of her temper. “Is it true you granted that doctor asylum? Without consulting us?”
He met her criticism with an arched eyebrow. “As the commanding officer of this ship, I am afforded a certain measure of latitude—particularly in matters of life and death.”
The lanky first officer reined in her emotions before she replied. “Yes, sir. I understand that. But offering the doctor protection
could jeopardize our talks with the Dominion.”
“I’m well aware of what’s at stake, Number One. But I won’t let political expediency deprive this man of his right to due process. He is entitled to face his accusers and mount a defense, and I plan to ensure he has that opportunity.”
Troi waded with caution into the conversation. “Still, it might have been prudent to vet this man before inviting him to take refuge aboard the Enterprise.”
Picard considered Troi’s post facto advice. She had been his companion for many years before they had signed on to help lead the Terran Rebellion to victory; they had saved each other’s lives many times, and he loved her as if she were his own daughter. Consequently, her disapproval cut him more keenly than K’Ehleyr’s had. “You’ve interviewed him. Do you think he represents a threat to this ship, or to the Commonwealth?”
“I’m not sure. He seems to speak truthfully about the incident with the Changeling on Terok Nor, but I sense he’s hiding greater secrets.”
K’Ehleyr snickered under her breath. “Who isn’t?”
“Be that as it may,” Troi added, “I’m less concerned about him than about his friends.”
Intrigued, Picard leaned forward to signal she had his attention. “Explain.”
Troi struggled to put her concerns into words. “I can’t describe it. Except for their leader, they exhibit no direct feelings of hostility, and I’ve yet to feel as if I’ve caught any of them in a lie. But they exude deception. They have a hidden agenda, and I think it involves us as much as it does the Breen.”
Her vague warning drew a sarcastic glare from K’Ehleyr. “Really? You think a team of covert intelligence operatives has a hidden agenda?”
“Mock me if you like, but I know they’re not being honest with us.”
Picard intervened to stifle what promised to be a pointless debate. “Deanna, assume that the agents from the other universe are misleading us. What do you suggest we do?”