Section 31 - Disavowed

by David Mack

  Tirana III.

  The mission had come full circle. Trom’s hard-won treasure was doomed to become the bait that would lure his countrymen to wrack and ruin. The SRD’s failure was now complete and guaranteed by the immutable laws of temporal causality.

  I am become the agent of my people’s destruction. I am history’s fool.

  Regardless, protocol had to be preserved.

  Trom drew his disruptor and shot Yoab in the head. The pilot’s corpse slumped over and fell to the deck.

  Alone at last, Trom took off his own helmet and cast it aside. Wreathed in fire, he cackled like a madman until the ship struck the surface, shattering its hull and expelling him and the remains of his men with the last of its air onto the barren world that fate had made their grave.

  Thirty-three

  Cold wind stung Regon’s face, which was still raw from its second cosmetic surgery in as many weeks. She was glad to be herself again, but the lingering pain was an unwelcome side effect of the procedure. To think—some people bear this for the sake of vanity.

  Kort stood at her side, his own Klingon visage restored to its former weathered glory. Together they gazed out across the rippled waters of the lake at the sun-splashed wreckage of Stratos. He buried his hands in his pockets and grunted. “Back where we started.”

  “It was always a long shot. We knew that going in.”

  He kicked a loose rock down the hillside toward the shore. “Of course we did.” He squinted against a frigid gust. “But I hate to walk away having accomplished nothing.”

  “I wouldn’t say we achieved nothing.” She favored him with a crooked smile. “Word is, Zolim’s been recalled to Tzenketh. It seems the Autarch wants him to explain why he advised the Taurus Pact to send three fleets on a fool’s errand to Bajor.”

  The news elicited a low rumbling laugh from Kort. “Serves the lazy old petaQ right.” He shot an approving look at Regon. “Maybe we made a difference, after all. Like old times.”

  “Like old times.” She offered him her hand. “Die with honor, Kort.”

  “I plan to.” He shook her hand. “But not today.”

  They parted ways neither allies nor enemies; they weren’t intimate enough to be friends, but their aims had always been too closely aligned for them to be rivals.

  We’re just two ghosts on the same road to an uncertain future, Regon decided.

  She didn’t know if their paths would ever cross again. Secretly, she hoped they would. But if this moment turned out to be their last farewell, she could live with that, as well.

  If her years of service to the Obsidian Order had taught her nothing else, it was that there were always far more terrible ways for things to end.

  * * *

  Never one for the niceties of diplomacy, Taran’atar remained alert but uninterested as the Founder concluded her treaty signing with the human leader of the Galactic Commonwealth. There were hundreds of persons in attendance, not counting the rather large contingent of Jem’Hadar that he had insisted be present throughout the Elemspur Monastery for security purposes. The civilians in the former monastery’s great hall all were riveted by the words and actions at the table on the ground floor, while the Jem’Hadar and their assorted counterparts from the Commonwealth’s military observed the crowd, ever vigilant for danger.

  Chairman Eddington inscribed his signature at the end of a ponderous document that, for reasons Taran’atar failed to appreciate, had been printed on a long, continuous roll of durable paper. Then the human rotated the document toward the Founder, who sat waiting with her own stylus. She favored Eddington with a faint, polite smile, and then she, too, signed the document. As soon as she lifted her pen, she handed it to Weyoun; Eddington handed his pen to Saavik. The treaty was rolled up and whisked away by a tall, regal-looking Andorian of a feminine gender. The audience filled the hall with sustained applause.

  The Founder stood, and so did Eddington. They shook hands and exchanged a few brief words, but they spoke too softly for Taran’atar to hear what was said.

  Ankan’igar stepped to attention beside him. “You have news from Eris.”

  Taran’atar retrieved his holographic eyepiece from his belt and fixed it into place on his head. It registered his retinal scan and then retrieved the message from his Vorta commander. Her update was brief, and its details were welcome. He turned off the eyepiece and put it away.

  The roar of applause tapered off. Eddington and the Founder said good-bye and went their separate ways, each retreating into the company of his or her entourage. Taran’atar timed his stride to slip in between the Founder and Weyoun as they passed him. “Eris reports that the Taurus Pact fleets that have lingered just outside this system since the Breen’s attack on the Enterprise have set new courses—back to their points of origin.”

  His news drew an enigmatic smile from the Founder. “No doubt a decision they made the moment they heard we’d signed a nonaggression pact with the Commonwealth.”

  Weyoun added, with a droll touch, “There would appear to be a correlation between the timing of the two events. On the other hand, perhaps they merely had a change of heart.”

  “A most charitable assessment of the situation.” The Founder touched Weyoun’s arm. “Would you excuse us a moment? I need to speak in private with Taran’atar.”

  “Of course.” Half bowed, Weyoun withdrew in backward steps.

  The rest of the Dominion entourage melted away as the Founder led Taran’atar down a deserted hallway of the old religious retreat. Ensconced in stony shadows, she stopped and turned to confront him. “Do you know why I want to speak to you, First?”

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t care to guess?”

  It was an odd question. The more he thought about it, the more it felt to him like an accusation. “It would not be my place.”

  Her face registered benign disappointment. “I am aware of your recent moments of initiative, Taran’atar—your willingness to anticipate my desires and prepare accordingly.”

  Shame overwhelmed his thoughts. “Forgive me, Founder. I was wrong to presume I could know your mind. I sought only to serve.” He bowed his head. “I will have Second Ankan’igar take my life as punishment for my hubris.”

  “You will do no such thing.” Her rebuke stunned him. “Look at me, Taran’atar.” She waited until he raised his head and met her stare. “I have long been curious to know what a being of your unique experience and potential might be capable of, in different circumstances.”

  “I do not understand.”

  She studied him with an almost compassionate air. “Not only were you born without a natural dependency on the white, you have lived longer than any other Jem’Hadar in history. No other member of your kind has your experience, your discipline, your unique constitution. Now the Great Link wants to know whether you have the ability to learn and adapt to a life other than the one for which you were bred. That is why you will be remaining here in the Alpha Quadrant when our ship returns home.”

  “Will the Commonwealth permit my regiment to remain on their soil?”

  The Founder shook her head. “Not your regiment, Taran’atar. Only you. I have decided that you’ll stay on as part of Ambassador Weyoun’s entourage.”

  He thought he understood now. “As a bodyguard.”

  “Not as such, no. I want you to learn about the peoples of the Alpha Quadrant—in particular, those who have banded together to form the Commonwealth. In short, the role I have in mind for you would be more that of a . . . cultural observer.”

  It was difficult for him to conceal his revulsion at the prospect. Purely out of reflex, his posture stiffened, and he lifted his chin. “I was designed and born to be a soldier. I earn my life through service and battle. Without those duties, I will have no purpose.”

  The Founder smiled. “Your purpose will be to learn to live as a free being.”

  The very notion paralyzed him. “I have no idea how to live such a life.”

  Sh
e answered as she walked away. “That’s all right, First. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  * * *

  Despite a lifetime of being spoiled by the miracles of Federation medicine, Bashir had to admit a profound respect for the sickbay facilities of the Commonwealth’s jaunt ships. It had been less than three days since he had been narrowly plucked off the ShiKahr by the Enterprise’s subspace transporter. He had returned from the mission suffering from multiple disruptor wounds. His injuries had been excruciating as well as life-threatening. Had they been attended to in a Starfleet sickbay, he might have expected to feel lingering phantom pains for up to a week after his treatment. Instead, he had been restored to peak physical condition within a few days.

  Maybe I should have taken notes.

  Doctor Tropp, the Enterprise’s grouchy Denobulan chief medical officer, wasn’t keen on small talk, however, so all of Bashir’s attempts to wheedle some insights into how the man had achieved such exemplary outcomes had been rebuffed with grunts and grumbles. He switched off the display above Bashir’s biobed and pointed at the door. “You’re done. Get out.”

  By the time Bashir replied, “Thank you, Doctor,” he found himself talking to Tropp’s back.

  So much for professional courtesy.

  The main sickbay doors opened. Captain Picard entered, followed by Saavik and Sarina. The captain beamed at Bashir. “I trust you’re feeling better, Doctor?”

  “Quite. Thank you, Captain.” He added with a nod to Saavik, “Director.”

  The Vulcan tilted her head toward the door. “Come. We can talk on our way.” Without waiting for him to agree, she turned and made her exit. Picard and Sarina followed her.

  Bashir trailed them into the corridor. “Where are we going?”

  “The subspace transporter room,” Picard said. “From there, the two of you will be heading home.”

  In contrast to the deserted passageways Bashir and Sarina had seen on the ShiKahr, the corridors of the Enterprise bustled with activity. Its multispecies crew looked very much like those Bashir had come to know when he served in Starfleet. Being surrounded by such diversity working in harmony filled him with a nostalgic yearning for the career he had sacrificed in the service of his conscience and the name of duty.

  He quickened his step to walk beside Picard. “Remarkable ship you have here.”

  “Yes, it is.” A shadow of remorse passed over his stately features. “As was the ShiKahr. A pity she had to be destroyed—but better that than to see her fall into the wrong hands.”

  Double doors parted ahead of Saavik, who ushered them into the subspace transporter room. “We owe you both a debt of gratitude. You risked your lives to prevent the Breen from finishing their mission. Thanks to you, we were spared the risk of sacrificing many ships and lives to stop them.”

  “Just cleaning up our own mess,” Sarina replied. She paused at the steps to the transporter platform, then turned to face Saavik. “But y’know, this might not be the last time a problem from one of our universes bleeds into the other. If you’d like, I could suggest to my superiors at Starfleet Intelligence that they set up an intel-sharing program with you.”

  Saavik shook her head. “That won’t be necessary, Miss Douglas. We’ve been sharing information and coordinating our activities with Starfleet Intelligence for a few years now. That’s how we came to know of Mister Cole and his organization.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? Because I don’t think either of you appreciates the danger they pose to you. Their resources are not unlimited, but they are formidable, at least on the level of clandestine operations. Until now, you’ve underestimated them.”

  “A mistake we won’t repeat,” Bashir said, “thanks to you. Now that we know they’re aware of our plans, we can adjust our strategy accordingly.”

  “For your sake, I hope that’s true.” Saavik reached into a pocket of her robe and took out two small cylindrical devices. She handed one each to Bashir and Sarina. “These are quantum transceivers. If you choose to continue your mission to destroy Section Thirty-one from within, you’re going to need them. They work by sharing signals between quantum-entangled subatomic particles. Their transmissions cannot be intercepted or blocked.” She pointed at their controls. “Use the white buttons to contact each other from across any distance—even across the barrier between universes. Use the red buttons to contact me, if you need help from Memory Omega.”

  Bashir and Sarina pocketed the transceivers. “Thank you,” Bashir said. “For everything.”

  Saavik accepted their gratitude with a subtle bow of her head, and then she stepped over to the master control console. She keyed in a few commands, and the cavernous compartment trembled with the low vibrations of tremendous energies. “I’m going to beam you to a top secret subspace transport platform in your own universe, one located on the surface of Bajor.”

  “Wait,” Bashir said. “There’s a subspace transporter on our Bajor?”

  Captain Picard smiled. “As she said, we’ve been busy—and so have your comrades.”

  Saavik asked Sarina, “I trust you can devise an explanation that will satisfy your Section Thirty-one handler?”

  “I’ll think of something.” She took Bashir’s hand and led him up the steps to the subspace transporter platform. Looking back, she patted the transceiver in her pocket. “And just so you know—these things go both ways. If you ever need us, feel free to call.”

  Saavik arched one eyebrow. “We just might do that, Miss Douglas.” She tapped a pad on her console. “Energizing.”

  Now that Bashir knew what subspace transporting felt like, he knew to exhale rather than hold his breath before the coils charged to full power. When the oppressive grip of the annular confinement beam took hold of him, the pressure felt slightly more bearable on his empty lungs.

  A beautiful curtain of light fell between him and the subspace transporter room inside the jaunt ship Enterprise—

  * * *

  —and then the radiance dimmed, the sound faded, and the pressure melted away. As form and color returned to the world around him, Bashir saw that he was in a subspace transporter chamber very similar to the one he had left, but with two major differences.

  The first was the two banners suspended on the far wall, facing the platform: the official flags of the Third Republic of Bajor and the United Federation of Planets.

  The second was the stunned-looking Bajoran behind the console that faced the platform. He wore a Starfleet uniform with lieutenant’s pips. Gaping at Bashir and Sarina, he stammered and tripped over half-formed words. “I, uh, you—but—this—”

  “We know exactly how you feel,” Bashir said.

  As he and Sarina stepped off the platform, the Bajoran found his voice. “Hang on! Who are you? Where did you come from?”

  Sarina answered as she and Bashir walked out the door.

  “Trust me, Lieutenant. You don’t want to know.”

  Thirty-four

  Sarina and Julian materialized in front of their villa on Andor. She felt as fatigued as she had ever been. The couple’s unexpected arrival at a top secret Starfleet Intelligence facility on Bajor several days earlier had stirred up considerable attention, and containing the news had proved to be a difficult and delicate task. Only after SI had provided them with new, ironclad identities and nondescript clothing had they been cleared to book passage home on a civilian transport.

  Eight days and three ship transfers later, they had beamed down from Andor’s orbital transit hub, each of them carrying only a half-filled shoulder bag, and been delivered to within meters of their own front door. Julian plodded toward the house. “It’s good to be home.”

  She trudged after him, up the slight incline. “Dibs on the bath.”

  The front door unlocked as it sensed their approach. Julian opened it, took two steps inside the foyer, and stopped.

  Noting his rigid posture and tense demeanor, Sarina halted in the doorway. “What’s—”

&n
bsp; She saw what it was—or, to be more precise, who. Seated in an armchair in the living room, facing the foyer, was L’Haan, her Section 31 handler. The Vulcan woman sat with her legs crossed and her fingers steepled in front of her chest. “Welcome home.”

  Sarina tossed her shoulder bag into the corner by the door and stepped forward, between Julian and L’Haan. “We’ve had a long trip. Can this wait?”

  “Of course. My apologies. Please, take a few hours to unpack and shower while I sit and wait for the courtesy of your attention. After all, it’s not as if my time has any value.”

  Vulcans might not have invented passive-aggressive sarcasm, Sarina mused, but they’ve clearly raised it to an art form. She looked back at Julian and nodded. He frowned at Sarina, set down his bag, and shut the front door. They walked together to the sofa opposite L’Haan and sat down. Sarina met her handler’s cold stare in kind. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “I’m here for your after-action report.” L’Haan reached inside her black leather tunic and took out a small device. She pressed a button on its side. A red light on its top indicated that it was recording. She set it on the coffee table between them. “Where is the rest of your team?”

  “Lost in action.” Sarina chose her words carefully. Telling the truth, even while withholding vital details, would help her avoid the facial microexpressions that betrayed lies. “We were forced to complete our assignment on our own, without their help.”

  “How were they lost in action? Please be specific.”

  “We were following the Breen cruiser when it came about and attacked us. They crippled our ship. Julian and I were left adrift in space until the Breen beamed us to the jaunt ship they’d captured during the battle. After that, we were their prisoners.”