by David Mack
The transmission ended, terminated from the Jem’Hadar’s side. The image on the screen reverted to the threatening profile of the hulking Dominion battleship.
Already exhausted, Picard settled into his command chair with a heavy sigh.
So much for diplomacy.
* * *
The news was not unexpected, but it sank Bashir’s spirits all the same. “An hour?”
“Less than that now,” Picard said. He stood in front of Bashir and Sarina, who sat together on the sofa, their hands entwined. “We have just under forty-nine minutes until the Dominion makes this a contest of arms rather than one of ideas.”
Bashir absorbed that with a slow nod. “And the Taurus Pact?”
“Poised to make the most of our diplomatic failure. If this goes as badly as I fear, we could lose more than half the Commonwealth’s fleet—as well as Bajor.”
The notion of seeing another Bajor fall beneath the jackboot of an alien occupation made Bashir sick. “This has gotten out of hand.”
“I quite agree,” Picard said. “It feels as if the vultures are circling.” He had the demeanor of a man defeated. “This was to be a peace summit. A negotiation for trade and exploration.” He looked away, out a view port, at the stars. “All lost because neither side wants to compromise its principles. Theirs are too old, too entrenched. Ours are too new, too fragile.”
Sarina turned her pleading gaze toward the captain. “What if we found a way back to our universe? If we go away, the problem goes away, right?”
Picard shook his head. “It’s not so simple. At this point, there is almost no way you can return to your universe without our help. In which case, I, my crew, and the Commonwealth as a whole would be complicit in aiding your flight from the Dominion. Your disappearance now would provide just as much of a pretext for war as the crisis we already have.”
“He’s right,” Bashir said to Sarina. “Running away won’t solve this. If anything, it’ll make it worse.” He looked at Picard. “I think there’s only one solution to this problem.”
“I can’t ask you to do that, Doctor.”
“No one has to ask. I should never have put you, or your crew, or your people in this predicament at all. I caused this. It’s my duty to resolve it.”
Sarina grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “Julian! You can’t be serious.”
Bashir let go of Sarina’s hand. “I can’t let two civilizations go to war when I have the power to prevent it. I won’t let billions die just to preserve the chance that I might be spared.” He stood and shook Picard’s hand. “Thank you, Captain, for everything you and your crew have done. I’m in your debt. But effective immediately, I formally withdraw my request for asylum, and I ask that you convey the following message to the Founder.” He swallowed hard and mustered his courage to say what needed to be said.
“Please tell her . . . I surrender.”
Twenty-six
The waiting was the worst part. Bashir knew it would take time for his message to wend its way through the appropriate channels, but as the minutes dragged past he was living in slow time.
One immediate consequence of his surrender was that he had been separated from Sarina, escorted out of the guest quarters by armed security personnel and locked in the Enterprise’s brig. Captain Picard had assured him the change was only a formality, a matter of protocol and not a judgment on the merits of the Dominion’s accusations. Bashir wanted to believe him, but it was difficult to hang on to hope in the gray isolation of solitary confinement.
The door to his private section of the brig slid open. He expected to see a phalanx of armed Jem’Hadar, and perhaps a Vorta, come to haul him away to a sham tribunal.
A single person entered and stood on the other side of his cell’s force field. Bashir stood and faced her. “Director Saavik, I presume?”
The old Vulcan confirmed his guess with a bow of her head. She eyed him like a biologist studying a lab specimen. “Captain Picard says you wish to surrender to the Dominion.”
Bashir nodded. “That’s right.”
“A noble decision, Doctor, but an unnecessary one.”
He was taken aback by her coldness. “I disagree. Countless lives are at stake.”
“Including your own. You will be safer with our protection than without it.”
“But at what cost? Never mind the price in lives. As a matter of principle—”
“You’re acting illogically, Doctor.” Her eyes followed him as he began to pace the short length of his cell. “As formidable as the Jem’Hadar fleet is, Memory Omega has the power to obliterate them—and the Dominion they serve. I won’t deny that the Commonwealth will suffer casualties, but our losses will be negligible compared with the Dominion’s. So why give yourself up to them when our strength supports your asylum?”
He stopped pacing and faced her. “Because this isn’t about strength. Justice isn’t decided by power. It isn’t born through the force of arms. It comes from people of conscience taking responsibility for their own lives—and accepting the consequences of their actions.” He saw in Saavik’s empty stare that she didn’t understand his point. “I don’t care who prevails in your fight with the Dominion, or with the Taurus Pact. I don’t care who suffers the most casualties. What I care about is the fact that anyone is being asked to suffer or die because of me.”
Saavik pondered his argument in silence for a few seconds. “We could facilitate your return to your universe and tell the Dominion you escaped.”
Bashir let slip a derisive huff. “You really think they’d believe that? I know I wouldn’t. But even if you could persuade them that I’d eluded you, they might still hold you accountable. The same carnage would unfold, regardless of my absence.” An unpleasant truth nagged at him. “I think we also need to consider that the Dominion might be in the right on this.”
A confused look. “How so?”
“Weyoun and the Founder have a sound basis for legal jurisdiction.”
“Then why did you request asylum?”
He found it hard to meet Saavik’s stern gaze, so he looked at his feet instead. “Because I was afraid. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s the truth.” With effort, he looked her in the eye. “Captain Picard encouraged me to ask for asylum, and I reacted out of fear.”
“Fear of what, precisely?”
“That I won’t receive a fair trial at the hands of the Dominion. That I’ll be standing accused in a culture that still employs the death penalty. That they might not consider my plea of self-preservation a legitimate defense.”
She frowned. “Given the circumstances, those are reasonable concerns.”
“Maybe. But they’re not enough to justify letting millions, or possibly billions, of sentient beings die just so I can walk away.” He sighed and shook his head. “I’d rather stand alone before a court of harsh justice than live with knowing I’d allowed so many to suffer and perish because I lacked the courage to account for my own actions.”
Saavik nodded slowly. “Thank you for your honesty, Doctor. It seems to be an increasingly rare commodity in these dark times.”
“You’re wel—” His answer caught in his throat as he watched Saavik shimmer and liquefy. The craggy lines and weathered details of her face melted away, and her dark gray robes fused with her body, until she was a radiant form of golden fluid. It was a phenomenon Bashir had witnessed many times before: the transmogrification of a Changeling. When the transmutation was complete, he found himself facing the Founder.
She turned toward a small panel mounted on the bulkhead beside her. “Come in, please.”
The door behind her opened. Captain Picard entered, followed by the real Saavik, Weyoun, and Taran’atar. It gave Bashir a jolt of déjà vu to see the Jem’Hadar again after all these years and to realize this was not the being he had known on Deep Space 9 but an even older and more experienced creature, one tempered by a very different life in this universe.
The Founder looked at Saavik and Pi
card. “I am satisfied with the sincerity of Doctor Bashir’s answers. Are you satisfied, as well?”
Picard and Saavik gave nods of concurrence. The captain regarded Bashir with a bittersweet countenance. “I have no doubt of Doctor Bashir’s honorable intentions.”
“Nor do I,” Saavik added.
The Founder looked at Bashir. “Doctor, do you still wish to surrender to our custody?”
“I do.”
Picard turned off the force field. Taran’atar handed Weyoun a pair of magnetic manacles. Bashir stepped forward and offered his outstretched hands. The Vorta clamped the manacles around Bashir’s wrists. The metal rings closed with a low clack. They were cold against his flesh. “Doctor Bashir,” Weyoun said, “I arrest you for the killing of the Founder known as Odo.” He faced Taran’atar. “Escort Doctor Bashir back to our command ship.”
Taran’atar seized Bashir by his shoulder. The Jem’Hadar’s grip was tight enough that Bashir knew it would leave a bruise.
As Bashir was led out of the brig, Picard whispered to him in passing, “Bon chance.”
In the corridor, a trio of Jem’Hadar soldiers fell into step around Bashir, grim escorts for what he expected to be the last journey of his life. Following them to his fate, he felt his fear fall away, along with his hope. All that remained was the cold comfort of knowing he had done what he knew to be right. If this sacrifice was to be his last measure of devotion to the Hippocratic Oath, it was a burden he was proud to accept.
I’ve made my mistakes. Committed my sins of action and omission. But whatever else history might tell of me . . . at least now it can say I deserved to be called a doctor.
* * *
There was barely time for Bashir to glimpse the stark, empty passageway on the other side of the doorway as the Jem’Hadar soldiers pushed him into it. As soon as he had cleared its threshold, the door behind him snapped shut with a hiss and bang, plunging the narrow passage into darkness. The only light was a crimson glow cast upon the door at the far end. His instructions from Taran’atar had been simple and clear: “Walk to the far door and, when it opens, step through it to the other side.”
His footsteps echoed in the pitch-black confines. He reached the far door and stood before it, wondering how long it would take to open. No one had told him what to expect on the other side. He didn’t dare to imagine it for himself.
The door opened.
A narrow walkway stretched away in front of Bashir and led to a small disk-shaped platform suspended in a starless sea of black. The edges of the path were demarcated by pale yellow lines that shone with the soft glow of fluorescent chemicals. The Founder’s voice resounded in the yawning emptiness that surrounded the widow’s walk. “Enter, Julian Bashir.”
He crossed the narrow bridge to the circular platform. When he turned to look back, he no longer saw the door through which he had entered—nor any sign of the walkway. He was alone on a tiny island of firmament in the void.
Again, the Founder’s voice filled the formless darkness. “State your full name.”
“Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir.”
“Do you know the crimes of which you stand accused before this tribunal?”
He had come willingly, but that didn’t mean he had to make this easy for them. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
“You are accused of causing the wrongful death of the Founder known as Odo. Before we review the evidence, do you wish to confess to your crimes?”
“No, I do not.”
“Very well. Weyoun, please present the prosecution’s opening statement.”
A dim light came to life somewhere high above Bashir, on his right. The Vorta sycophant Weyoun stood upon a small, low-walled balcony. He was lit from below, giving his features a sinister cast, and his voice was amplified to the point where its sonic force hurt Bashir’s teeth.
“Fifteen years and twenty-two days ago—as measured in the standard calendar of the native culture of the accused—Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir was a guest aboard the Klingon-Cardassian ore refinery Terok—”
“Guest? I was a prisoner!”
“Silence!” bellowed the Founder. “Continue with the charges, Weyoun.”
The Vorta collected himself and picked up from midsentence. “. . . the Klingon-Cardassian ore refinery Terok Nor. During his sojourn on the station, he was employed—”
“Enslaved,” Bashir muttered.
“—as an ore processor’s assistant. During an emergency evacuation of the refinery level, Doctor Bashir stole a sidearm from one of the station’s Bajoran security personnel and used it to maliciously slay the Founder Odo.” He bowed his head. “With your permission, Founder, I shall now present evidence, in the form of firsthand witness testimony and an archived security recording of the killing.”
“Proceed.”
“My first witness is a fellow worker who was there during the evacuation.” Weyoun looked up. Bashir followed the Vorta’s eye line to a higher balcony that lit up to showcase a middle-aged Trill man. “Please state your full name, sir.”
“Vallo Lorom.”
“Mister Lorom, were you serving in the same section of the refinery as Doctor Bashir on the day and at the time the emergency evacuation occurred?”
The Trill looked around, his mien wary and fearful. “I was.”
“Did you see the accused, Doctor Julian Bashir, there at that time?”
“I did.”
“And did you witness his actions during the evacuation?”
A reluctant nod. His verbal answer was inaudible.
Weyoun snapped, “Please speak up, Mister Lorom. For the record.”
Lorom seemed to resent being barked at. “Yes. I saw him during the evacuation.”
“Did he arm himself at any point?”
“Yes. He took a disruptor from one of the guards.”
That answer brightened Weyoun’s mood. “Did you see Doctor Bashir use that disruptor during the evacuation?”
“Yes. He shot Odo.”
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that please? A bit louder?”
The witness raised his voice and stared daggers at Weyoun. “He shot Odo.”
“Thank you, Mister Lorom.”
Weyoun’s key light dimmed, and another brightened, opposite him. Bashir’s eyes adjusted to discern the fine gradations of shadow that surrounded him. He began to see that he was in a cylindrical chamber a few dozen meters in diameter and several dozen meters tall. When the light opposite Weyoun achieved full brightness, Bashir saw a female Vorta standing on a balcony. The Founder’s voice announced, “Eris shall stand in defense of the accused.”
“Thank you, Founder.” Eris looked up at the witness. “Mister Lorom, how did you come to be employed on the ore-processing level of Terok Nor?”
“I was arrested on suspicion of terrorist action against the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance.”
“Would you say your employment in the refinery was voluntary or coerced?”
Lorom seethed. “I was led to work every morning at gunpoint, and taken back to my cell each night the same way. You can call that coerced, if you like. I call it slavery.”
Weyoun cut in, “Objection! Relevance?”
“All will be revealed in time,” Eris said. “But I’m prepared to move on.” She looked back at the witness. “Mister Lorom. You say that you saw Doctor Bashir kill Overseer Odo. When the incident occurred, where were you, exactly?”
“He was in front of me on the way to the exit. An arm’s length away, if that far. If I hadn’t ducked, he might have shot me.”
“So you were facing Doctor Bashir, and you had an unobstructed view of him?”
“That’s right.”
“And at the time Doctor Bashir fired the shot that killed Odo, were you facing Odo?”
“No, he was behind me.”
“Thank you, Mister Lorom.” Eris looked up into the darkness. “Nothing further.”
The light shining up at Lorom went dark, stealing him from sight. Eris�
�s light dimmed, cloaking her in shadows as Weyoun’s light returned to full strength.
Weyoun pivoted toward a lower balcony and a new witness, an athletic Bajoran man. Unlike the first witness, this one had a proud and wrathful quality to his bearing. More alarming to Bashir, he knew this man’s counterpart in his own universe, but until now he hadn’t realized this was one of the souls he had encountered during his previous visit to this universe.
The Vorta smiled at the witness. “Please state your name.”
“Major Cenn Desca.”
“Major Cenn, were you present when Overseer Odo was killed?”
“I was.” Simple words, but Cenn had infused them with great anger.
“In your own words, please tell us what happened that day.”
Cenn stole a hateful look at Bashir, then directed his answer to Weyoun. “I was a junior deputy with the Bajoran security force on Terok Nor. Odo was my supervisor. On the day he was killed, I was standing guard on the ore-processing level. I saw Odo talking with one of the workers”—he pointed at Bashir—“that man, Julian Bashir. Then there was an explosion and an alarm. Odo said it was a thorium leak. He ordered us to open the security doors and evacuate the level. I was helping workers toward the exit when someone hit me—first in the gut, then on the back, just below my neck. By the time I knew what had happened, Bashir had taken my sidearm from its holster. He moved toward the exit with the other prisoners. Just before he reached the exit, he stopped, aimed, and fired at Odo. That one shot destroyed Odo. He just . . . exploded. There was nothing any of us could do to help him.”
Weyoun absorbed the testimony with a sympathetic expression. “Thank you, Major.” He shot an insincere smile at Eris. “Your witness.” His light faded as hers came up.
Eris squinted at Cenn. “Major, did you pursue Bashir as he moved toward the exit?”
“I tried, but he warned me off by waving my disruptor at me.”
“So you kept your distance?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you at any point turn your back on him?”
“While he was holding a deadly weapon? Of course not.”