by David Mack
The Alternate Universe
More than fifteen years had slipped away since Kersil Regon had last set foot on Bajor. The Cardassian spy had never harbored much affection for the Bajorans’ culture. She found their art, music, and architecture uninspired, and except for hasperat, their cuisine was hopelessly bland.
The only fortunate circumstance of her present visit was that it had brought her to Hedrikspool Province, one of the hottest, most humid regions of the planet, the one that felt most like her beloved Cardassia. Located on Bajor’s southern hemisphere, just below the equator, the province was home to the planet’s largest wilderness preserve.
Standing in the center of that natural redoubt, surrounded by hundreds of hectares of lush rain forest in every direction, was the Elemspur Monastery—an ancient religious retreat that had become one of the Galactic Commonwealth’s best-defended sites for high-level political conferences. High stone ramparts circled the monastery’s interconnected buildings, whose defining elements included graceful arches, ornately sculpted façades, and high, elegant towers.
Regon could see little of the historical site from her vantage point more than half a kilometer away in the forest. This was as close as she and Kort had dared to approach, despite having taken the precautions of wearing camouflage and sensor-spoofing devices that would mask their life signs. He had told her to hunker down and wait while he circled the monastery’s perimeter in the hope of scouting a less treacherous approach or an undefended entrance.
She checked her wrist chrono. Almost an hour had passed. The sun would be up soon.
Atop the high ramparts, several pairs of armed guards moved in patrol patterns. At numerous points along the barricades, sentries stood watch. A peek through her holographic scope had confirmed her suspicion. The troops manning the walls weren’t Bajoran, nor did they hail from any of the slave races that now constituted the Galactic Commonwealth. These gray-skinned aliens had a fierce gleam in their eyes, and all of them carried energy rifles as well as axlike melee weapons. Their manner was that of professional soldiers. Born killers.
A low whistle in the darkness signaled her to expect Kort’s approach. Half a minute later he emerged from the night, a silent shadow drifting to her side. “This is as close as we can get.” He scowled at the alien soldiers guarding the monastery. “They’re everywhere.”
“There’s more to security than manpower. What about gaps in the sensor screen?”
The Klingon shook his head. “Solid as a rock. I’ve never seen anything quite like it, which makes me think these new visitors are behind it.”
It was dispiriting news, but Regon refused to give up hope. There had to be a way in. “I’ve heard rumors of underground passages between the monastery and the jungle. Maybe if we found one of the exit points, we could slip inside and pose as members of the civilian staff.”
“A fool’s errand.” Kort pointed at far-off locations in the rain forest. “Scouring the jungle in a search pattern’s out of the question. They have patrols outside the walls. I never saw them—to be honest, I never even heard them. But I smelled them. They were there.” His surgically altered face tightened as he frowned at the soldiers on the ramparts. “If they’re this thorough on the perimeter, I expect they’ll be just as methodical defending the interior.”
“But the Commonwealth’s forces are manning the main gate, aren’t they?”
A weary nod. “Yes, but they’re not taking chances, either. The rebels learned much from living under our rule. They’ve set up a double checkpoint at the gate itself, and another inside. From what I saw, they’re verifying everyone’s credentials, no matter who they appear to be.” He rubbed his smooth faux-Bajoran forehead. “It seems we let ourselves be butchered for nothing.”
Regon drew a deep breath of the muggy predawn air. The night’s breezes were rich with fragrances of rotting vegetation and sweet flowers, and the darkness was alive with the echoes of animal appetites, the sonorous buzzing of insects, and the plaintive musical cries of small birds. The rain forest was a lovely place, Regon decided. In some small way, she was relieved that she didn’t have to mar its beauty with her and Kort’s half-formed scheme to sow violence and chaos.
She pinched her nose’s freshly cast ersatz ridges. “What do you suggest we do now?”
“We can’t stay here.” Kort gestured vaguely to either side of them. “If their patrols keep pushing into the forest, they’ll find us sooner or later. I think it’d be best if we left before then.”
“Then we’ll head back to Jalanda.”
Kort’s eyes widened. He whispered through clenched teeth. “The capital? Are you mad?”
She extended her elbow and gave his arm a playful nudge. “Don’t be such a grouch. It’ll be like old times. Shadowing the junior attachés and the hungry young government staffers.”
He grinned, amused by old memories. “Ah, yes. Waiting for them to drink themselves stupid and spill state secrets as they vie for mates and bragging rights . . . Could be fun.”
“At the very least, it has to be better than sitting out here, waiting to get caught.”
He considered that and nodded. “That much is true.”
The Klingon in disguise skulked into the underbrush and beckoned her to follow. She stole after him, relying on slightly rusty decades-old training to avoid missteps that could betray their presence as they navigated through the overgrown foliage, back toward a seldom-used trail that would lead them north to their ground vehicle—and the road to Jalanda. As he turned back to speak, she cut him off with a simple declaration: “I’m driving.”
A low growl rattled inside his broad chest. He kept walking as he muttered, “I hate you.”
Regon smiled at the comfortable familiarity of the moment. Just like old times, indeed.
* * *
In all the years that Hanalarell sh’Pherron had commanded a jaunt ship for the Commonwealth, she had never been afforded the privilege of a direct audience with Saavik, the legendary director of Memory Omega who also, a century earlier, had been the last captain of the famed Terran warship Enterprise. It came as no surprise to sh’Pherron that her first audience with the famous Vulcan woman had manifested as an ass-chewing in front of her bridge crew.
Saavik’s face loomed larger than life on the main viewscreen. “Unacceptable, Captain. We verified an intrusion from the other universe. The ship responsible must be somewhere.”
It took all of sh’Pherron’s hard-won discipline not to resort to sarcasm or profanity. “My crew confirmed the breach event, Director, but the intruder remains at large. My tactical chief and I think the culprit is using a cloaking device, of a model unknown to us.”
“We have new cloak-penetrating protocols that might prove useful. My team at Omega Prime will upload them to your computer momentarily.”
“It’ll take some time to integrate the new protocols. Until then, we’ll widen our search area.” She considered keeping her next idea to herself, then chose to run with it. “We could execute the search far more quickly if we had another ship to share the workload.”
The Vulcan lowered her chin and glowered at sh’Pherron. “We have no ships to spare, Captain. If not for a confirmed breach, you would still be in spacedock at Erebus Station.”
“Understood. We’ll look forward to receiving those new cloak-hunting protocols. ShiKahr out.” A slashing motion of sh’Pherron’s thumb across her throat cued Ensign Riaow to close the special quantum communications channel to Omega Prime.
Turak left the sensor console to stand beside sh’Pherron’s command chair. “The new protocols are loading now, Captain. I can start a new sensor sweep of the area in two minutes.”
“Good. Let me know the moment you get a lead on our prey.”
“Of course.” The Vulcan first officer lingered a moment before lowering his voice to ask a question. “Captain, are you upset about something?”
She answered him in a hushed voice. “Is it that obvious?”
“
Yes, it is.” Like most Vulcans, Turak had a knack for getting to the point.
“I’m annoyed that Saavik refused to send reinforcements for the hunt.”
“I’m sure Director Saavik weighed all the relevant strategic and tactical considerations before arriving at her decision.” Turak recoiled from sh’Pherron’s sudden, poisonous stare.
She forced her stoic mask of command back into place. “Turak, to the best of your knowledge, how many times has a starship breached the universal barrier?”
He cocked an eyebrow as he searched his memory. “Only twice that I know of.”
“Exactly. The first was a small ship, little more than a glorified shuttle. But this—if the initial report from Omega’s right, it’s big, Turak. A warship.” Her stare narrowed and she felt her countenance take on a fierce edge as she gazed at the star-dusted sprawl of empty space on the main viewscreen. “And the fact that it’s come cloaked tells me it’s here looking for a fight.”
He turned his gaze toward the starfield. “A logical inference.”
“I hope I’m wrong, Turak. I really do. But in case I’m not, start running battle drills.”
She kept her eyes on the viewscreen as Turak left to carry out her orders. Was it possible that the cloaked interloper was merely a research vessel? A peaceful explorer? She couldn’t be certain it wasn’t. After all, logically speaking, almost anything was possible. But was it likely?
Everything sh’Pherron knew of life told her not to count on it.
Fourteen
An aura of imminent violence enveloped Bashir as he and Sarina followed Cole out of the turbolift onto the command deck of their small starship. As soon as Bashir got a clear look at one of the companels, he recognized the alien symbols that filled its interface and intuited the origin of the vessel. “This is a Breen ship.”
“Very good, Doctor.” Cole directed Bashir and Sarina off to one side of the cramped bridge. “I’m glad you recognize it, because in a few moments, you and Miss Douglas will be playing the parts of its two most senior officers.” He beckoned Webb and Kitsom from the shadows. The two men stepped forward carrying bundled beige-and-gray Breen military uniforms, which they handed to Sarina and Bashir. Sakonna approached from behind Cole and handed him his own disguise. She, Webb, and Kitsom were already dressed in borrowed Breen uniforms, except for the snout-shaped helmets, which Bashir glimpsed atop a storage crate tucked against the forward bulkhead. Cole stripped off his leather jacket and tossed it aside with a grin at Bashir and Sarina. “No time to be bashful. We need to hail our target in five minutes.”
Bashir and Sarina mirrored each other’s mild dismay for a moment before they doffed their Section 31 leather garb and donned the Breen uniforms, with help from Webb and Kitsom. As soon as their disguises were properly secured, their new colleagues spirited away their discarded articles of clothing and hid them from the communication system’s visual sensors.
Cole gave their appropriated outfits a last check. “Perfect.” He motioned Sarina toward one of the forward duty stations and ushered Bashir toward the center seat. “This ship is the Królik, a long-range Breen scout. It was captured less than three days ago, so it’s unlikely the Breen know yet that it’s been compromised. Doctor, you’ll do most of the talking. After Ikkuna Station answers our hail, you’ll identify yourself as Thot Kren and say your ship is in distress.” He nodded at Webb and Kitsom. “We’ve crafted a false sensor profile that’ll make us register as Breen and make our ship appear to be on the verge of losing life support and inertial dampening—crises that’ll look potentially fatal for us but not a threat to them.”
Bashir understood the nature of the ruse. “We request emergency docking for repairs, and they order us to shut down our engines. We comply with their orders and let them tow us inside the station with a tractor beam. And then—”
“Then we deploy into the docking bay and do what we do best.” He handed Bashir a Breen-made data device similar to a Starfleet padd. “These are most of the command codes and challenge-and-response phrases we know the Breen have been using. Give it a look—we only have about ninety seconds before we get inside their sensor range.”
Feigned jocularity added venom to Bashir’s words. “Ninety whole seconds? Glad you gave me time to prepare. I’d hate to have to cram for something as important as this.”
“Sarcasm gains us nothing, Doctor.” Cole snapped his fingers at the others. “Helmets!”
Sakonna, Webb, and Kitsom pulled their own snout masks into place, and then they rushed the last three over to Cole, Bashir, and Sarina. Bashir put down the padd just long enough to force his head inside the claustrophobically snug helmet. It locked into place upon contact with the neck of his uniform, and its holographic heads-up display snapped on, giving him a remarkably clear view of his surroundings. Except for the HUD data superimposed over his simulated panorama, it felt surprisingly natural.
Just like the one I wore on the mission to Salavat. The bloody covert mission from years earlier still haunted him. His efforts to pull the Andorian species back from the brink of extinction had salved much of his lingering guilt over the innocent lives he had callously taken during the sabotage of the Breen shipyard in the Alrakis system, but as Ikkuna Station loomed large on the Królik’s main viewscreen, he feared he was about to repeat the sins of his past.
Cole slipped away to a starboard console. “Engage sensor camouflage.”
Webb keyed in the command. “Engaged.”
“All right, Doctor. It’s your show now. Take us in.”
Dread rushed through Bashir like an ice-water transfusion. He settled into the command chair and fixed his eyes upon the spindle-shaped Breen deep-space station. “Slow to half impulse, then cut engines. We’ll need to drift in for them to buy the ruse.”
“Slowing to half impulse,” Sarina confirmed as she entered commands into the helm. “Engines cut. We’re drifting into their sensor range in three . . . two . . . one. In range.”
Now the fun begins.
Bashir stole a final look at the padd and tried to memorize as many of the challenge-and-response codes as he could in the scant moments he would have before—
“They’re hailing us,” Sakonna said.
“Vocoders on,” Cole said. “Stay quiet and look sharp.”
Bashir activated his helmet’s vocoder, a device that translated speech—but only after masking its original nature and rendering it into garbled machine noise. It was just one of many oppressive technologies the Breen had devised to enforce their perverse sense of equality. Confident his true nature would now be hidden from the Breen on the station, he took a breath and prepared for a potentially awkward conversation. “Put them on-screen.”
The viewscreen’s image of the station was replaced by one of a Breen’s masked head. He—she? it?—addressed Bashir in the harsh mechanized voice common to the Breen culture. “This is a restricted area. Identify yourself.”
“Thot Kren, commanding the scout ship Królik. We have experienced critical failures of our inertial dampeners and life-support system, and require emergency assistance.”
The head on the screen looked away, and Bashir surmised the individual was conferring with a superior—one who Bashir expected would take over the conversation at any moment. Instead, the underling manning the comm channel replied, “Verify, six zark one.”
It was one of the first three codes listed on Bashir’s padd. “Authorize, zart nine four.”
Seconds passed while the Breen on the station checked Bashir’s response.
“Confirmed. Continue on your present course. As soon as your vessel is in range, we’ll tow you in. Repair teams will meet you in the docking bay.”
“Acknowledged. Królik out.”
Sakonna closed the channel, and the viewscreen reverted to the slowly growing image of Ikkuna Station. Bashir noted the sly turn of Sarina’s head to look back at him, as if she were as surprised by the efficacy of their ruse as he was. He turned toward Cole. “Well,
that was easy.”
“Only because good people died to bring us the intel that made it possible.” Cole stood, and the other Section 31 veterans did likewise. Bashir and Sarina were the last ones on their feet. The senior agent led them all toward the turbolift. “Step one of this mission went by the numbers. Let’s hope the rest of the op goes as smoothly.”
The implications of Cole’s remark troubled Bashir. “And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I hope you like blood, Doctor. Because if we botch this, there’ll be a lot of it.”
* * *
Bashir tightened his grip on his Breen-made disruptor rifle. Ahead of him, a sliver of brightness expanded as the ventral ramp of the Królik parted from the bulkhead and lowered to reveal the main docking bay of Ikkuna Station.
Kitsom’s foot twitched. He was eager to spring into action. Too eager, Bashir feared.
It seemed Cole had noticed the younger agent champing at the bit. “Not yet. Stay cool.” As the ramp continued to drop toward the deck of the docking bay, it became possible to see the Breen personnel waiting outside the ship. Cole charged his disruptor. “Set for heavy stun.”
“I count nine hostiles,” Sakonna said.
Cole flipped a switch on his helmet. “Sensors show seventeen Breen in the docking bay. The rest are behind us. Sakonna, Kitsom, take point, then cover the rear. Douglas, Bashir, watch our flanks. Webb, get us through the blast doors and into the base as fast as possible.”
Webb powered up his CRM-114, a Breen-made handheld cannon typically used against vehicles and fortified installations. “Ask and ye shall receive.”
“Watch your backs,” Cole said, “and good luck.” The ramp touched the deck with a dull scrape and a bright metallic clang. “Move out.”
Angry shrieks of disruptor fire filled the air. Bashir didn’t know who’d shot first—it might have been Sakonna, but it could just as easily have been Kitsom or Cole—but within seconds of Cole’s order to attack, Bashir and Sarina were in the thick of the assault, laying down suppressing fire as they charged down the scout ship’s ramp. They reached the deck and split up, Bashir to the right and Sarina to the left, to get out of the way of Webb’s handheld cannon.