by David Mack
“Hold them in the brig until we know what they want.”
Picard knew better than to ignore Troi’s keen empathic senses, especially when they pertained to people whose motives were less than clear—but the anarchic era of the rebellion was in the past. Frontier justice was no longer the code they lived by. They were sworn to obey and to uphold the law of the Commonwealth. “We can’t detain them without reason, Deanna. Merely being from the other universe is not a crime. Legally, they’ve done nothing wrong.”
“That we know of,” Troi grumbled.
“Precisely. That we know of. The law requires evidence of wrongdoing to charge someone with a crime, or to deprive him or her of liberty. And at the moment, we have none.”
K’Ehleyr tilted her head at a rakish angle and cracked a wan smile. “Which isn’t to say we have nothing of interest. I had Kadohata run background checks on our guests, to see if we knew anything about their counterparts in this universe. I sent you the results. Have a look.”
Picard activated his holographic terminal to the ship’s computer. It automatically scanned his retina and genetic profile to confirm his identity, then presented his command interface. He opened the message K’Ehleyr had routed to him. Several dossiers appeared in new holographic extensions of the interface, which wrapped around him in a shallow curve. At a glance, he recognized all the faces attached to the files: Cole, Bashir, Douglas, Webb, Kitsom, and Sakonna. Then he noticed the one thing all their records had in common. “They’re all dead.”
“Yes, they are.” The lanky half Klingon pointed at the various files; the holographic screens appeared translucent on her side despite being nearly opaque on Picard’s. “Sakonna and Douglas both died at the Battle of Empok Nor—the same battle where the Alliance captured General Bashir. Webb and Kitsom were freedom fighters who were killed while trying to liberate Betazed. And Cole was one of hundreds the rebellion lost when Terok Nor was destroyed.”
Knowing that his guests all were alternate-universe echoes of people who had died in this one sent a subtle chill down Picard’s spine. It was as if they were hosting ghosts. Then the rational portion of his mind rebelled against superstition. “Could this be coincidence?”
“Maybe,” K’Ehleyr said. “But I have to say, Mister Cole and his group don’t strike me as the sort of people who leave anything to chance.”
Picard closed the dossiers and deactivated the holographic screens. “You think they knew before they came here that their counterparts in this universe were dead.”
Troi seemed convinced. “It would be a sensible precaution for a covert-ops team. If they know ahead of time that no one in their team has a double here, they reduce the risk of their group being infiltrated by a look-alike who can fool a biometric scan.”
“I’ll admit, it’s an interesting notion, but it’s hardly proof of hostile intent.”
Discouraged looks passed between Troi and K’Ehleyr. The first officer crossed her arms. “How do you wish to proceed, sir? Should we cut them loose?”
“I said we can’t hold them, Number One. I didn’t say give them the keys to the ship.”
Her mood took a turn for the mischievous as she sensed Picard’s true intentions. “Sir?”
“Their vessel is docked aboard the ShiKahr, correct?” Off the first officer’s nod, Picard continued. “The report I saw from Mister Barclay and his engineering team suggests Cole’s ship is in dire need of repairs. It seems to me we could assist with those repairs—and offer to host Mister Cole and his team here on the Enterprise until the work is complete.”
Troi’s frown became a sly smile as she caught on. “And if we happen to glean a few secrets about the latest Breen starship designs—”
“Or the newest Romulan cloaking technology,” K’Ehleyr interjected.
“Or whatever else Mister Cole and his team have seen fit to bring with them to our universe,” Picard said. “I think we’d have to call that a serendipitous reward for our generosity.”
K’Ehleyr looked amused. “I’ll have Barclay assemble repair teams right away.”
Troi feigned concern. “It would be a shame to fix Mister Cole’s ship only to find out the Breen had booby-trapped it. Maybe I should lead a security team to sweep its interior.”
Picard dispatched his two most trusted officers with one shared order: “Make it so.”
Twenty-one
The solarium was a riot of living color. Flowers in full bloom dotted the vines wrapped around the trellis over the entryway. Planting boxes erupted with new blossoms, and the trees were heavy with ripening fruit. Outside its force field–reinforced walls of transparent aluminum, the grounds of the Elemspur Monastery were lush and vibrant with as many shades of green as there were in Bajor’s pristine seas. Every breath Saavik took was perfumed with floral scents and the rich fragrance of dark soil that was freshly turned and ready for planting.
The only sour note in the enclosed garden came from the unyielding visage of the Founder. She and her counselor, Weyoun, sat opposite Saavik and Chairman Eddington. Looming behind the two Dominion dignitaries was the Jem’Hadar known as Taran’atar.
Looking back at the Honored Elder from behind Saavik and Eddington was their chosen bodyguard, Nyyl Saygur, a Brikar with a body like a large hill and a voice like a rockslide in a thunderstorm. Although Saygur had extremely high density for a humanoid, he wore a gravity compensator on a belt around his waist; with its assistance, the hulking Brikar could move with shocking speed and grace without sacrificing any of his fearsome native strength. Whether he had the nerve to prevail in his staring contest against Taran’atar, only time would tell.
The Founder broke the uncomfortable silence that had prevailed since the solarium’s doors had been closed to guarantee the meeting’s privacy. “I was profoundly dismayed to learn of the actions taken by the captain of the Enterprise.”
As the Commonwealth’s elected representative in the room, Eddington was responsible for answering the Dominion’s head of state. “Could you be more specific?”
“There is no need to be so coy, Mister Chairman. We both know what we’re discussing.”
Eddington struck a deferential note. “I don’t assume to know the minds of others.”
His deflection only sharpened the edge of the Founder’s manner. “Your starship commander granted legal and political asylum to Doctor Julian Bashir of the parallel universe. He did this knowing full well that we are seeking Bashir’s immediate extradition.”
“Captain Picard’s log shows that Doctor Bashir made a formal petition for asylum,” Eddington said. “The captain was well within his authority to grant that request.”
The Changeling’s slow burn of anger intensified. “By what right do any of your people claim authority over this matter?”
“Bajor is a charter member of the Galactic Commonwealth. As such, it falls—”
“At the time of Odo’s murder, it was a protectorate of the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance. Because that political entity no longer exists, any retroactive claim to jurisdiction over Terok Nor is voided. Further, because Terok Nor was destroyed while still technically a possession of the Alliance, neither Bajor nor your Commonwealth has any right to assert authority in this matter.”
Saavik saw from the reddening of Eddington’s complexion and the throbbing of the veins in his temples that the chairman was losing his patience with the Founder, but she was reluctant to interrupt him without cause. He leaned forward as his voice began to grow in volume. “We can sit and argue over jurisdiction as long as you like, Madam Founder. But the fact is, we have jurisdiction on Bajor, and our laws give us retroactive jurisdiction, whether you like it or not. No matter how weak you might think our claim to authority, I guarantee: yours is weaker.”
“Do you think us unfamiliar with your laws, Mister Chairman? Our finest Karemma and Vorta barristers studied your civil and criminal codes in preparation for this visit. I think you will find that because Doctor Bashir—a citizen of a foreign state�
�killed a Dominion citizen while under the jurisdiction of a political entity that no longer exists, the formerly secondary jurisdiction of the Dominion now obtains primary status, and by virtue of precedence trumps any retroactive authority your government might now choose to assert, regardless of Bajor’s accession to such. In other words, custody of Doctor Bashir rightly belongs to the Dominion.”
“Prior to his request for asylum, that might have been a correct interpretation of our laws. But the fact is, asylum was requested and granted. Until you satisfy our terms for extradition, he’ll be under our protection.”
The Changeling’s body language resembled that of a coiled serpent tensing to strike. “How can we negotiate for extradition when we have no treaty in place?”
“Perhaps this would be a good time to resume our talks, then.”
“Of all the impudent—”
“Madam Founder,” Saavik interrupted. “Might I offer a suggestion?”
The Changeling delegated her reply to Weyoun with a dismissive glance. The Vorta leaned forward with his hands folded together in a pose of mock obeisance. “Forgive us. We remain unclear on what role you play in this discussion.”
“The same as yours,” Saavik said. “Senior counselor.”
Weyoun bowed his head like a corrected pupil. “I see. Carry on.”
“Perhaps both our concerns could be addressed by trying Doctor Bashir in a Commonwealth court. An impartial jury—”
“Impartial!” the Founder snorted.
Saavik remained aloof from the room’s rancor. “I assure you, Madam Founder, our people would have no reason to favor him or disfavor him. He is a stranger, not only to our worlds but also to our universe.”
“But he is a solid, just like the rest of you.”
“It might surprise you to learn that ‘solids’ feel no sense of communal identity such as your people suggest. If the Dominion can present compelling enough evidence to persuade a jury of Doctor Bashir’s guilt, he would be sentenced accordingly.”
Distrust infused Weyoun’s reply. “Meaning what, exactly?”
“If he is convicted of murder, he would face lifetime imprisonment.”
The Vorta shook his head and waved one hand. “Unacceptable. The penalty for murdering a Founder is death.”
“Corporal and capital punishment are banned in the Galactic Commonwealth.”
Weyoun raged, “But his crime wasn’t committed against one of your people, it was committed against one of ours! And not just any person, a Founder.”
Saavik was confused. “I fail to see why such a distinction would be legally relevant.”
The Vorta gestured emphatically as he struggled to explain himself. “How would you feel if someone your people considered sacred was murdered in the Gamma Quadrant by a stateless actor from another universe? Then, when agents of your Commonwealth finally identified the culprit in custody aboard a Jem’Hadar ship, the Dominion refused to let the criminal face your justice. Would you be so calm, then? Would you demur and let others dictate terms to you?”
The elderly Vulcan woman refused to be baited or browbeaten. “First, Mister Weyoun, the Commonwealth does not venerate any individual, class of persons, or species above any other. It considers all sapient life sacred. So much so, in fact, that the state has been denied the power to end the lives of individuals under its authority. Murder is murder, regardless of whether it is committed by an individual, a group of persons, or the state. Second, I would be more than satisfied to see such a person face criminal charges in a Dominion court of law, so long as the proceedings were public, impartial, and conducted according to strict rules of evidence, and the sentence imposed was humane and proportional to the offense.”
“In other words, you lack the will to mete out real justice and fear to let others exact the retribution that you cannot. Your moral cowardice sickens me.”
“Weyoun!” the Founder snapped. “Enough.” She sighed. “It seems, Mister Chairman, that we remain at an impasse. A most regrettable outcome.” She stood, and Weyoun did the same. The Founder turned to leave, but she paused to look back at Eddington and Saavik as the duo rose from their seats. “You and your Commonwealth have ventured down a perilous road. You are about to learn that defying the Dominion comes with dire consequences.”
The foreign dignitaries made a swift exit from the solarium. Eddington and Saavik watched them leave, and then he turned to her, his face drawn with dismay. “Now what?”
“We prepare for the worst. Because I predict that’s exactly what’s coming.”
* * *
On the edge of the Denorios Belt, the Bajoran wormhole exploded into view, a blue flower unfolding in the endless night of space. As the throat of the wormhole dilated, a glorious fountain of light spilled from it, a white jet of pure energy coursing from the azure storm of ionized gas that ringed the wormhole’s maw. It was one of the most beautiful of all the galaxy’s wonders, and it captivated Jean-Luc Picard every time he saw it.
Standing on the bridge of the Enterprise, he marveled at the furious majesty of the wormhole depicted on the viewscreen, even though he suspected the moment was about to take an unwelcome turn. Then the pillars of light streaming from the wormhole darkened with the silhouettes of dozens of enormous warships. Ominous shadows coursed in formation and made wide swooping turns to clear the way for the steady stream of ships that followed them.
Troi monitored the new arrivals from the tactical console. “Seventy-five Jem’Hadar vessels, ranging in size from attack cruisers to battleships, have joined the Jem’Hadar fleet holding station four hundred thousand kilometers from the wormhole.”
K’Ehleyr leaned toward Picard from her chair on his right. “They sure know how to make an entrance, don’t they?”
“I can’t deny it’s an impressive display of power. But we can’t afford to be goaded into a mistake, Number One. It’s possible this is all just for show, an empty bit of saber rattling.”
On the viewscreen, the wormhole contracted and twisted in upon itself with alarming speed. It vanished with a final flash of light, leaving only a star-flecked expanse of darkness. The Jem’Hadar fleet was lost in the yawning gulf of the cosmos—until the image on the viewscreen was magnified to reveal the fearsome Dominion warships in crisp detail. Within seconds, Picard noticed signs of shifting parallax in his view of the fleet from the Gamma Quadrant, and he deduced what was happening before Troi reported it.
“The Jem’Hadar fleet is moving,” Troi said. “It’s on a direct heading for Bajor—and us.”
Picard knew the crisis at hand might have repercussions far beyond the fate of his ship and crew. This was no time to act rashly, or to make decisions in a vacuum. “Lieutenant Commander Troi, hail Chairman Eddington on Bajor. Make it clear this is an emergency.”
“Aye, sir.” Troi keyed in the command. After a few seconds she said, “Channel open.”
“Mister Chairman,” Picard said. “We have a rather tense situation developing in orbit.”
Eddington sounded as unflappably calm as always. “Let me guess, Captain. A sizable force of Jem’Hadar reinforcements has come through the wormhole?”
“Precisely, sir.” Picard checked the tactical details with a look at the command screen next to his chair. “The combined Dominion fleet is en route to Bajor. ETA, five minutes.”
“Captain, I want the Enterprise and the ShiKahr to maintain their positions in orbit. Do not fire unless you are first fired upon. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mister Chairman.”
“Good. Carry on. Eddington out.”
A palpable air of anxiety took root on the bridge as the channel closed. Picard took the shift in the collective mood as his cue to stand and address his officers. “Friends, this is a test of not just our resolve but also of our restraint. Our leaders and our people are depending on us to stop this situation from escalating into armed conflict. The Jem’Hadar fleet will try to provoke us by approaching Bajor. Its commanders will try to intimidate us w
ith their superior numbers. But the purpose of our mission, the reason we are here, is to safeguard these negotiations. If we attempt to meet this force in kind, we risk destroying any chance of a diplomatic solution to—”
His call to arms was cut short by a staccato series of brilliant flashes on the viewscreen. In less than ten seconds, two dozen of the Enterprise’s sister ships jaunted into the system, each through its own self-generated artificial wormhole. The Commonwealth reinforcements arrived already in near-perfect formation, between Bajor and the approaching Dominion forces. A few seconds later the Dominion fleet slowed and came to an abrupt halt.
Alerts chimed on Troi’s console. “We’re picking up audio communications between the Jem’Hadar fleet commander and Captain Siddiqui on the Syrinx.”
Despite his well-founded dread at what he might hear, Picard gave in to his curiosity. “On speakers, Commander. From the beginning.”
The Dominion commander’s voice was feminine, articulate, and as cold as vengeance. “Attention, Commonwealth vessels. This is Eris. I have orders from the Founder to bring our fleet into orbit of Bajor. Cease and desist obstructing our approach.”
“Eris, this is Captain Shiraz Siddiqui of the free starship Syrinx. Any attempt to bring your fleet into orbit of Bajor is a violation of the protocols for this treaty summit. You and your fleet are ordered to withdraw at once to your assigned coordinates adjacent to the wormhole.”
Eris replied, “Our fleet will enter orbit, Captain, with or without your permission.”
“If your fleet attempts orbit without my permission, it’ll do so in the form of burning scrap. Stand down and return to your assigned coordinates, immediately.”
K’Ehleyr looked up at Picard with world-weary eyes. “You were saying something about ‘a diplomatic solution,’ Captain?”
He frowned at the high-powered standoff taking shape high above Bajor. I came to help broker a new peace, and instead I find myself with a front-row seat to a new war. He sat down and distilled his fears and regrets into one eloquent word, spoken under his breath.