Star Trek: 24th Century Crossover - 018 - Section 31 - Disavowed
Page 9
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.”
“Which is exactly what we want them to do.” Trom clasped one gloved hand onto the pilot’s shoulder. “Stay sharp, Yoab. This is all part of the plan.”
The pilot nodded. Satisfied that Yoab was calm and focused, Trom walked back to his command chair, only to see his second-in-command, Crin, beckon him to the aft engineering station. Trom made a point of not hurrying; he walked calmly to Crin’s side. “What is it?”
“Our cloaking device is barely functional.” He pointed at a few screens of data above the console. “It’s leaking dangerous radiation into our lower decks, and one tachyon sweep at less than half a light-year will leave us completely exposed.”
Trom considered his options. He hated all of them. With a jab of his thumb, he opened a channel to main engineering. “Command to engine room. Status report.”
Solt’s voice crackled over the intraship channel. “Repairs continuing, sir.”
“Do we have weapons or shields yet?”
“Not for six hours, at least.” The chief engineer sent up a screen of estimated repair times for the ship’s compromised systems. “Unless you want to shut off life support and propulsion in the interim, in which case we can have shields in two hours and weapons in four.”
In spite of all the times Trom had heard engineers try to be funny, he had never once found their unique brand of droll sarcasm amusing. “Maintain life support and propulsion for now. Prioritize tactical repairs and keep me apprised of your progress. Command out.” He closed the channel before the engineer could sneak in another retort.
Rem joined him and Crin at the sensor console. “The vessel that’s hunting us is definitely a wormhole ship. It’s just what we came for.”
Crin nodded at the screens of damage-repair estimates. “Unfortunately, their timing couldn’t be worse. If our intel about their armament is correct, they could shred us right now.”
“We’ll take her down soon enough,” Trom said. “But not until we’re ready.” He turned away from Crin and Rem to snap orders across the command deck. “Yoab, set evasion pattern mara and take us as far from the wormhole ship as possible, one-quarter impulse.”
“Yes, sir.”
Trom turned back toward Crin and Rem. “Now isn’t the time to force a confrontation. But when our repairs are complete, we’ll strike—and make that ship ours before its crew has the slightest idea what’s happened.”
Twelve
Bashir emerged from the transporter beam almost as soon as he had realized the process had begun. The dematerialization sequence had engaged in silence, and the rematerialization protocol ended the same way. A faint ephemeral flash was all that had marked his and Sarina’s transition from their villa on Andor to wherever Section 31 had just taken them.
Cole stood a couple of meters from the transporter platform and regarded Bashir and Sarina with an inscrutable expression. Next to him was a trim Vulcan woman whose prominent bangs and stern countenance matched Sarina’s description of her handler, L’Haan.
She said with cool disdain, “We took the liberty of deactivating your phaser, Doctor.”
He reached reflexively for the phaser holstered on his hip. A quick inspection verified the weapon had been neutralized. Bashir threw a sour look at his hosts. “What’s wrong? Don’t you trust me?”
Cole seemed amused. “Just as much as you trust us.”
The agent’s cynical honesty coaxed a crooked smirk from Bashir. He stepped down off the platform, and Sarina followed.
L’Haan intercepted them. She lifted a small tricorder-like device and scanned them. A few seconds later, she switched off the scanner and stepped back beside Cole. “They’re clean.”
Cole kept his eyes on Bashir as he answered his cohort. “Just as I said.” He gestured toward the door to his left. “Shall we?”
Bashir sneaked a glance at Sarina, who reassured him with a furtive nod. He flashed an insincere smile at Cole. “By all means.”
Cole moved toward the door, which slid open ahead of him with a muted swish. Bashir and Sarina followed him out of the transporter room, and L’Haan trailed them into the gradually curving corridor. The passageway was wide enough for three people to walk abreast, and its overhead was high, nearly three meters. Aside from some white numerical markings on thick black placards mounted on the walls beside the doors the quartet passed, there was no signage to indicate what might lie behind any of the closed portals. Adding to the monotony, the walls, floor, and ceiling were all the same shade of dark gray.
“I don’t recognize this class of ship,” Bashir said.
A sly backward glance from Cole. “Who said we’re on a ship?”
The agent’s denial had no effect on Bashir’s conclusion. “Spartan surroundings. The ambient hum of life-support systems. A high-frequency buzz of plasma conduits. Air filtered to the point of being practically antiseptic. The millisecond delay in resistance from artificial gravity. All of which suggests we’re either on a starship or a space station.”
From behind came L’Haan’s cool reply. “So why assume it’s a ship?”
“The ultrasonic vibrations caused by a sudden jump to high warp speed. I didn’t hear it, but I felt it, roughly five and a half seconds after Sarina and I beamed aboard.”
Cole aimed a knowing smirk back at L’Haan. “I told you he was good.”
“I remain unimpressed.” She met Bashir’s glance. “Any space-service veteran could have made that deduction with such a wealth of information at hand.”
Bashir felt compelled to mock her arrogant dismissal. “O, ye of little faith.” He and Sarina followed Cole into a turbolift. After L’Haan stepped in with them, the doors closed.
Cole commanded the lift into motion. “Deck Four, Section Two.” There was a slight lurch of momentum as the lift car accelerated upward, and then all sensation of movement abated as the passenger car’s inertial dampeners kicked in. An awkward silence settled over the group.
There was no point trying to gauge the car’s movement, Bashir decided. It was too well insulated, both inertially and acoustically, for even his enhanced hearing to derive any useful clues as to how far they were traveling, their velocity, or their direction. He turned his head and lifted his brow to catch Cole’s attention. “What’s our destination?”
“You heard me direct the lift car.”
“No, I meant, where is the ship headed? Where are you taking us?”
His inquiry seemed to exasperate Cole. “You’re new to the organization, Doctor. In time you’ll learn not to ask those kinds of questions. When there’s something you need to know, you’ll be told. Assume all unspoken details are irrelevant.”
“That seems . . . inefficient.”
“It’s called compartmentalization, and it’s a big part of why the organization has persisted and remained operational for as long as it has.”
“How long is that?” Another inquisitive arch of Bashir’s eyebrow drew a scowl from Cole. Bashir accepted the silent rebuke with a frown and a nod. “I see. Need to know. Right.”
Cole and L’Haan volleyed peculiar looks. After a moment, he sighed. “We don’t mean to quash your enthusiasm, Doctor. The organization is excited to welcome you into its ranks. But you’ll need to adapt to our way of doing things if this relationship is to go smoothly.”
It was Bashir’s turn to affect an arch tone. “I never said I was joining you.”
“Self-deception is a terrible thing, Doctor. I suggest you accept the new status quo.”
Bashir remained resolute. “I agreed only to act as an adviser. Nothing more.”
L’Haan’s voice was low and cold. “You say that now. But when you see what we have to offer, I think you’ll reconsider. Few have ever come so far only to turn
back.”
Her colleague reached out and pressed a reassuring hand onto Bashir’s shoulder. “She’s right. Like it or not, you’re one of us now. And your life will never be the same again.”
As the turbolift came to a halt, Bashir mused that Cole’s promise might be the first truthful statement he had ever heard from a Section 31 operative. “So then . . . what now?”
“Now?” The turbolift doors opened, and Cole ushered Bashir and Sarina into another dim gray corridor. “Now we show you how the universe really works.”
* * *
Induction into “the organization,” as Cole referred to it, took less time than Bashir had expected. Unlike his initial acquisition of a Starfleet security clearance, Section 31 hadn’t needed him to provide voiceprints for analysis, retinal patterns or fingerprints for scanning, or any other form of biometric confirmation of his identity. Apparently, they had already appropriated all that data from Starfleet’s records, along with copies of his recent transporter patterns.
As intimidating as they were, he had to respect their efficiency and thoroughness.
Despite having told Bashir and Sarina not to pack bags, Cole had grudgingly consented to beam up a single duffel for each of them. Bashir inspected the contents of his bag in the quarters he shared with Sarina and found that most of his personal effects had arrived intact. Only a few items had been confiscated: his medical tricorder, his phaser, and a compact holographic scanner he had hidden inside a hypospray canister in his medkit satchel.
The organization’s message was clear: they knew all his tricks, including the ones he hadn’t even thought of yet. So much for hoping to capitalize on one of their mistakes.
Unexpected was what they had left for him, on the bed.
One of their trademark black leather uniforms.
Bashir had been reluctant to pick it up. He had wanted to reject any gift from this self-appointed cabal of lawless agents, but none more so than their uniform. Everything about the jacket, from its styling to the flat darkness of its material, projected hostility. These were the colors of his enemy. Even knowing he had come here to infiltrate them, he hesitated to put it on.
Sarina watched him as he stood in front of the mirror, wearing the sleek black trousers but still holding the jacket in front of himself. “It’s time, Julian.”
He looked at her reflection, hoping he could think of some reason to refuse to cooperate. None came. He wished he could put on his old Starfleet uniform and flaunt it like some kind of magic charm against this garment of violence, but he’d forfeited that privilege.
This is what has to happen.
He looked his mirror image in the eye as he donned the black jacket and secured it shut over the dark gray T-shirt that hugged his lean torso.
All at once, he felt the change in his carriage. It was a subtle thing: a lift of his chin, a narrowing of his eyes, a straightening of his back. It came with wearing a uniform. After more than two decades in Starfleet, he thought it likely this was how his subconscious would react to knowing he was dressed in any uniform. It filled him with a sense of purpose, a renewed concept of identity and power. It was not the vestment of his youth, but seeing himself in Section 31’s black garb filled his soul with the same intangible reward: pride.
I hate everything they stand for. But I miss being part of something so badly that wearing even this evil skin feels better than roaming the galaxy as a civilian.
He took a breath and quieted the chaos of protest from his conscience. Then he turned away from the mirror to face Sarina. She stood before him, also attired in the subtly textured black leather pants and jacket of the organization. Before this evening, Bashir had never seen Sarina in the Section 31 uniform. He found the sight of her bedecked in the form-fitting leather both exciting and alarming. He swallowed his desire and steeled himself for what was to come.
“I’m ready. Let’s go.”
Cole stood waiting for them in the corridor outside. “Right on time. If there’s one quality the organization appreciates, it’s punctuality.” He started walking. “This way, please.”
They followed him into a turbolift. The ride to Deck Ten was brief. He led them through some more generic gray passageways and through a parting pair of double doors into a briefing room. Three other agents were seated on the far side of the table.
Cole made curt introductions as he motioned Bashir and Sarina toward adjacent empty seats on the near side of the long oval table. “Everyone, meet agents Julian Bashir and Sarina Douglas.” He let Bashir and Sarina sit down, and then he continued. “Doctor, Agent Douglas, allow me to present the rest of our team.” He gestured at the other agents as he spoke, starting with the Vulcan woman at the far left. “This is Agent Sakonna. We recruited her from what was left of the Maquis after the Dominion War started. Her specialty is infiltration.” In the middle was a thirtyish man who appeared to be human; he had light brown hair, a square jaw, and a boyish mien. “This is David Webb. His specialties are munitions and close-quarter combat.” The third and last agent looking across the table was another young male human with a thin face, dark hair, and a steely gaze. “Agent Ken Kitsom is also trained in close-quarter battle, as well as counterintelligence ops.”
The trio of agents greeted Bashir and Douglas with nods but no words. Just looking at Kitsom and Webb, Bashir could sense both men were trained, remorseless killers.
Sakonna, however, shed her aloof persona almost instantly. “It really is you,” she said to Bashir. “I have great respect for your actions on Andor, Doctor—and for the sacrifices you made as a result. Your moral calculus was both logical and exemplary in its bravery.”
He was caught off guard by such effusive praise from a Vulcan. “Um . . . thank you.”
Cole sat down on Bashir’s right. “Let’s get to business, please.” Using an interface on the tabletop, Cole called up a series of reports that recapped what Bashir and Sarina already knew about the operation: that the Breen had launched a mission to the alternate universe to steal a wormhole-drive jaunt ship. Bashir surmised the recap was being provided for the benefit of Sakonna, Webb, and Kitsom, whose keen attention to the briefing suggested it was new to them. Bashir and Sarina’s interest perked up as Cole moved past the basics into new intelligence.
“Here’s what we know for certain, so far. Approximately twenty-seven hours ago, the Breen used an apparatus of Tzenkethi design to open a rift in the barrier between universes. This occurred just over the border between Breen and Federation space.” An annotated star chart filled the wall monitor at the head of the table. Cole pointed at a red icon on the map. “We’ve pinpointed the source of the rift as an interstellar research post the Breen call Ikkuna Station. The rift was open only briefly, but long enough for them to move a Reikin-class fast-attack cruiser through it, into the alternate universe. This is the same kind of ship that attacked Earth during the Dominion War, and it’s armed with the same energy-dampening weapons that wiped out our fleet at the Second Battle of Chin’toka. The vessel has been identified as the Tajny, and we have reason to think it’s crewed by a company of Spetzkar—elite Breen military commandos.”
A moment of silence gave those facts time to sink in. Then Cole switched off the wall screen, stood, and moved to the head of the table. “Available intel suggests the Breen are out to capture a wormhole-drive vessel from the alternate universe, but we have no idea which ship. Nor do we know where, when, or how they plan to stage that assault. What we do know is that we can’t permit them to succeed.”
Webb lifted his hand. “Are we planning to deploy into the alternate universe?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of operational support can we expect over there?”
Cole frowned. “None. Once we cross the dimensional barrier, we’ll be on our own. And as familiar as the alternate reality might look, I assure you, it will be foreign territory. Tread with care, people.”
The next query came from Kitsom. “What’s our tactical profile?”
Sakonna arched one thin eyebrow. “Is this to be a one-way expedition, Mister Cole?”
“Perhaps. My superiors have decided that our return is not a priority. Keeping this technology from the Breen—and, by extension, the Typhon Pact—is our primary objective.”
The Vulcan nodded. “Understood.”
“You’ll each be issued a sensor scrambler to mask your life signs, a comm interceptor for intelligence gathering, and a transporter beacon in case you need a fast exfiltration. As for weapons—” Cole paused at the sight of Bashir’s raised hand. “Yes, Doctor?”
“If I might be permitted to inquire . . . have you shared this information about the Breen with Starfleet Intelligence or the Federation Security Agency?”
Cole let slip a cynical laugh before he re-composed himself. “Doctor . . . they’re the source of our intelligence. Unfortunately, thanks to recent laws enacted by the Federation Council, and regulations put in place by Starfleet Command, both agencies are legally barred from conducting operations—clandestine or otherwise—in the alternate universe.”
His revelation baffled Bashir. “Why?”
“A reaction to blowback from certain recent operations involving your former colleagues on Deep Space Nine. Whatever the rationale was for the legislation, it’s black-letter law now. Which means that if the Breen’s mission in the alternate universe is to be stopped, we’re the only ones left who can do it.” A smirk punctuated his point. “Any further questions, Doctor?” Bashir shook his head. No one else had anything to add. Cole nodded. “All right, then. Get ready, everyone. We’ll be at Ikkuna Station in less than three hours—and we’ll be hitting them hard, fast, and for effect. Dismissed.”
Thirteen