Sacraments of Fire

by David R. George III

  “No, First Minister,” the captain said with reluctance. Ro wanted to point out the unfairness of some laws, and the historical record of states treating people unjustly. How many times had Ro bent Starfleet regulations, or outright violated them—and not always to good effect? How often had she broken Bajoran or Federation laws in favor of doing the right thing?

  More times than I can list, she thought. And I’m trying to get around the law now. Somehow, though, her attempted actions felt different, particularly in light of what the first minister had said. Where Ro had so often taken justice into her own hands in order to aid an individual or a small group of people, she had lobbied Minister Elren to act against a single person.

  All at once, Ro felt that she had lost her way.

  Very quietly, Asarem said, “I trust your judgment, Laren.” Juxtaposed with the onset of her self-doubt, the first minister’s declaration seemed generous. “You’re plainly worried that this Altek Dans could be a danger to Deep Space Nine or Bajor,” Asarem continued. “Can you qualify your concerns? Is there anything at all besides the timing and unexpectedness of Altek’s arrival, and your inability to verify his identity, that makes you consider him a threat?”

  “When he came aboard,” Ro said, “he was carrying a projectile weapon with him—a firearm similar to the one used to assassinate President Bacco.”

  “How similar?”

  “It was a projectile weapon, but archaic,” Ro admitted. “Analysis shows that it was fashioned out of primitive materials by an outmoded manufacturing process. It resembled the weapon that killed the president only in type.”

  “Is that the primary source of your concern?” Asarem asked.

  Ro thought about that. At the time, the possession by Altek of such a firearm had immediately motivated her to take him into custody, although he had not intentionally brought the weapon aboard, since it had been Ro who’d ordered him transported onto the starbase. Regardless, it had been his lack of a confirmable identity or history, along with his claim that he did not know where he was or how he had come to be there, that troubled her the most. She told all of that to the first minister.

  “Maybe he’s telling the truth,” Asarem suggested. “If he came to the Bajoran system with some nefarious plan, wouldn’t he have fabricated a believable identity and backstory for himself?”

  “You’d think so,” Ro said.

  “The Prophets sent Akorem Laan out of the Celestial Temple, out of the past,” Asarem noted. Ro had seldom heard the first minister reference anything in a religious context, either in public or in private. The captain had always assumed that Asarem, as secular leader of the Bajorans, purposefully observed the distinction between her duties and those of the kai, the people’s spiritual guide. Ro knew, though, that the first minister nevertheless counted herself as a believer. “Perhaps the Prophets have delivered Altek Dans from another time as well.”

  “Perhaps,” Ro said, “but I’ve read through the accounts of Akorem’s return. There are significant dissimilarities between his story and Altek’s. For one thing, Akorem Laan was traveling in a lightship when he entered the wormhole. Altek Dans makes no such claims. Akorem also experienced a form of communication with the—” Ro intended to call them the wormhole aliens, but she didn’t wish to offend the first minister. “—with the Prophets. He saw them in the guises of people in his own life, but he still understood it to be the Prophets, and that they were responsible for sending him out of the wormhole.” She realized that she should have used the term Celestial Temple.

  Asarem took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “It’s a difficult situation.”

  Ro had no idea how to respond. An uncomfortable silence fell between the two women. Ro didn’t know what else she could say to try to convince the first minister to approve Altek’s extradition, nor did she any longer know if she should. Asarem was right: fear was not reason enough to act—and particularly to act unjustly. The captain did not trust the mysterious stranger who had emerged from the wormhole, especially on the heels of the assassination, but that alone did not justify violating his individual rights—not only for his sake, but for that of Bajoran and Federation society.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” the first minister asked.

  You haven’t done anything for me yet, Ro immediately thought, but then she reproached herself. Asarem hadn’t approved the measure that the captain had requested of her administration, but the first minister had helped Ro recognize that she’d erred in her handling of the Altek situation. She needed to do better.

  “Before Minister Elren officially denies my request,” Ro said, “I will withdraw it.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” Asarem said.

  “I’ll do that at once. Thank you, First Minister.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Asarem said, visibly pleased by Ro’s decision. “I appreciate your willingness to come to an agreement on this matter.” She reached to one side on her desk and tapped a control. Her image disappeared from the captain’s screen, replaced by the Starfleet crest. Ro deactivated her own companel.

  As she rose from her desk and crossed back to her bedroom, she said, “Ro to the Hub.” A run of tones indicated the opening of a communications channel.

  “This is Ensign Melijnek in the Hub.”

  “Vigo, contact Justice Minister Elren on Bajor,” Ro said. “I need to speak with him immediately.”

  “Right away, Captain.”

  Ro hesitated, then reluctantly gave an order she knew she must. “I also want you to contact Admiral Akaar’s office on Earth,” she said. “I need to speak directly with the admiral, in real time, at his earliest convenience.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Ro out.” She collected her uniform tunic from atop her bed. After pulling it on and fastening it closed, she returned to her desk to await the responding transmission from Minister Elren. Ro knew that she would also have to speak with Lieutenant Commander Blackmer to find out whether security had learned anything new about Altek—or whether they had made any progress at all regarding the mysterious visitor.

  Although still nearly an hour before the start of alpha shift, the captain decided that, after she talked with the Bajoran justice minister, she would forgo her morning meal and head directly for the Hub. Ro had much to do and even more to consider before reaching a final determination about what to do with Altek Dans. At that point, she would have to either violate his rights and order his detention continued, charge him with a crime he didn’t commit, or release him.

  It was going to be a long day.

  BLACKMER REGARDED THE DETAINEE through the doorless entryway. The security chief stood close enough to the transparent force field that he could sense the energy coursing through it, and he could hear the soft but threatening sizzle of its operation. Along the far bulkhead, Altek Dans sat in the cell’s only chair, facing the large, square shelf in the corner that served as a table. As Blackmer watched, Altek popped a final morsel of food into his mouth, then wiped his hands on a cloth napkin.

  “Good morning,” the security chief said, though he didn’t particularly subscribe to that sentiment. He had slept poorly the night before, and in the week of nights preceding it—mostly because the Federation president had been assassinated on his watch, but not entirely. For the prior two days, he had questioned Altek, but while Blackmer had quickly developed an intuition about the unexpected visitor, he had yet to draw a conclusion firm enough to bring to Captain Ro. He still had time to do so, but it troubled him that it had already taken as long as it had.

  “Good morning, Mister Blackmer.” Altek spoke without turning around. Although he sat with his back to the entry, he had not started at the sound of Blackmer’s voice. Perhaps he had heard footfalls approaching down the corridor, perhaps he had even recognized the cadence of the steps, but the security chief didn’t think so; he had trod lightly. Whatever the cas
e, Blackmer judged Altek an especially observant and intelligent man, and one with a composure not easily shaken. After his initial surprise upon being brought on board, and his apparent disorientation, he had settled into a calmness that struck the security chief as suspicious. The man claimed to be a physician, a profession that could at least theoretically explain his cool demeanor, but he gave Blackmer the impression that he utilized the mask of his poise to hide something.

  “May I come in?”

  Altek rose from the chair and peered over at the security chief. “It’s your prison,” he said. Though the dirty clothing he’d been wearing when he’d come aboard—thick pants and a long-sleeved sweater, both black, along with heavy hiking boots—had been cleaned, it had also proven too warm. Consequently, one of the starbase’s quartermasters had replicated versions of Altek’s apparel for him, but in lighter-weight ­fabrics.

  “This is not a prison,” Blackmer avowed. He raised a hand to the panel beside the entryway and touched the tip of his finger to it. A horizontal yellow line flashed down the screen, accompanied by a hum. Once the scan completed, he keyed in his access code. A series of touchpads then appeared on the screen, and he lowered the force field to the cell, an action that automatically locked down the entire stockade complex. In addition, Blackmer knew that one of his top deputies, Lieutenant Shul Torem, observed the proceedings remotely, from one of the security offices.

  Blackmer walked into the cell, his hands raised and open before him. “I’m unarmed,” he said. He had played out the same scene numerous times in the previous two days, ever since the captain had ordered Altek detained. Blackmer had interrogated him multiple times, the security chief’s manner firm throughout the first day of questioning, even occasionally tough, and shifting to a gentler, even cajoling tenor on the second.

  As the force field reenergized behind him, Blackmer crossed the compartment to the lone bunk. He saw that Altek had straightened the bedclothes. The security chief perched himself on the edge of the sleeping platform. Altek, freshly shaven, turned the seat of the built-in chair toward Blackmer and sat back down. To the left of Blackmer, in the corner, a screen that did not quite reach the overhead protruded from the bulkhead, screening refresher facilities.

  “Your assertion that this is not a prison does not change the fact that I have been stripped of my freedom,” Altek said. When he had first been delivered into the cell, Altek had tried almost at once to leave it. He received a heavy jolt from the force field, which threw him vigorously backward from the entryway.

  After that, over the first two days of his detention, Altek had seemed more or less accepting of his situation. He had also been accommodating in answering questions—although he had been unwilling or unable to provide confirmable information about his identity, where he had come from, or why he had traveled to Deep Space 9. Still, if he’d been concerned or angry about his incarceration, he’d hidden it well to that point, which made his belligerent tone that morning quite noticeable.

  “As I’ve told you, we have no wish to hold you any longer than necessary,” Blackmer said. “We only need a few questions answered.”

  “I have answered all of your questions more than once, accurately and to the best of my ability,” Altek said. “It seems that you’re more interested in hearing specific answers, regardless of whether or not they’re true.”

  “That’s not the case,” Blackmer said. “We only want to know who you are, and how and why you’ve come here.” Because of the possibility that Altek had emerged aboard the Orb not just from the wormhole, but from the past, Captain Ro had ordered the crew, while in the stranger’s company, to make no references to the starbase, space travel, or other worlds. Of course, they could not adequately disguise the technology surrounding Altek, nor the alien nature of two of the people with whom he’d come into contact: Blackmer and Chief O’Brien, both of them human.

  “I’ve told you over and over again: I am Altek Dans, a doctor from Joradell.” He sounded frustrated, a feeling Blackmer shared. “I don’t really know where I am, but I didn’t intentionally come here, so I can only deduce that I was subdued somehow, possibly drugged, and then abducted.”

  It took a beat for Blackmer to realize that Altek had not only offered a possible explanation for his arrival on DS9, but had challenged the integrity of the crew by suggesting their complicity. “We did none of those things to you,” the security chief said. “We found you wandering nearby, and because of the assassination that recently took place here, your presence seemed suspect.”

  “So you’ve said, but I know nothing about an assassination.” It seemed to Blackmer virtually impossible for anybody at all inside the Alpha Quadrant—and especially anybody in the general vicinity of Deep Space 9—not to have heard about the murder of President Bacco, yet Altek steadfastly maintained his ignorance. The assertion made sense only either as a lie, or as a truthful declaration from somebody who hadn’t been in the Alpha Quadrant in the days after the assassination—somebody, perhaps, from the past.

  “A major event like that,” Blackmer said, pushing Altek on the point. “You must understand why it’s difficult to believe you know nothing about it.”

  “Maybe,” Altek allowed. “But why should I believe you?”

  “What?” From Blackmer’s perspective, the question ­soun­ded nonsensical.

  Altek rose from his chair, but not in a menacing way. “Why should I believe anything that you have to say, or anything that you imply?” he asked, his voice rising. “You seem intent on having me admit certain things, regardless of whether or not they’re true. Why shouldn’t I think that all of this—” He raised his hands and gestured at their surroundings. “—is some elaborate deception intended to make me confess to something I didn’t do?”

  Blackmer smiled without humor. “That sounds like a blatant bit of misdirection,” he said. “Accuse the accusers, and by doing so, shift the blame.”

  “I thought you weren’t accusing me of anything,” Altek said. “I thought you only wanted answers to a few questions.”

  “Your refusal to provide verifiable answers does raise our suspicions.”

  “It’s not my fault that you can’t—or won’t—verify what I’ve told you,” Altek said, growing even louder as he took a stride toward the security chief.

  Blackmer tensed, prepared for the man to spring at him. When he didn’t, the security chief said, “Please sit down, Mister Altek.”

  For a moment, Altek didn’t move, and Blackmer thought that he might be calculating the possible benefits of attacking him and taking him hostage. If so, then he correctly concluded that such actions would stand him little chance of escape. He returned to his chair.

  “Now, then, Mister Altek—”

  “It’s Doctor Altek, as I’ve told you.”

  “I’m sorry. Doctor Altek,” Blackmer said. “I just wish that we could confirm that.”

  “I’m not to blame that you haven’t.” The man seemed to think for a moment, then said, “How have you tried to verify who I am?”

  “We . . . have records,” Blackmer said vaguely, wanting to avoid mentioning computers, databases, and interstellar communications networks.

  “But obviously not records that include me in them,” Altek said. “So just go to the hospital in Joradell. Oh, that’s right: you’ve never even heard of Joradell.”

  “No,” Blackmer said.

  “I find that difficult to believe,” Altek said. He gazed around at the cell. “But then a lot of this is difficult to believe.” He paused, then added, “Can you show proof of who you are?”

  “Yes, I can, actually,” Blackmer said. “I can produce numerous records, as well as physical evidence of my identity.”

  “Yes, I should’ve known that would be your answer,” Altek said, his cynicism evident in his tone. “But can you demonstrate that those records aren’t counterfeit, created solely to buttr
ess your claims?” He leaned forward in his chair, his hands on his knees. Quietly, almost under his breath, he asked, “Are you Aleiran?”

  Altek’s manner made it seem as though he thought the question illicit. Blackmer recalled that, when the man had first been brought aboard, he had described Joradell as an Aleiran city on Bajor. “No, I’m not.”

  Altek studied the security chief’s face, as though searching for some indication of deceit. Blackmer returned the man’s steady gaze with his own. Eventually, Altek sat back. “I ask because . . .” He raised a hand to his face and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, along his uniformly spaced rhinal ridges, clearly alluding to the fact that Blackmer had only smooth skin there.

  “Aleirans don’t have ridges?” the security chief asked.

  “You don’t know the Aleira,” Altek said, his voice filled with disbelief and confusion. “I am an Aleiran, and of course we have ridges . . . we all have ridges, Aleiran or not. Or at least I thought we did, but I heard talk sometimes at the hospital . . . little more than rumors . . . that some of the Aleiran leaders were ­considering a eugenics program to eliminate that physical trait.”

  Blackmer felt his eyes involuntarily narrow at the mention of eugenics. He had been raised to believe selective breeding, as well as genetic engineering, immoral in the extreme. Historical examples abounded of malevolent forces throughout the quadrant employing such procedures for corrupt purposes: both the Nazi Party and the Augments on Earth, the Mentosh Assembly in the Alpha Centauri system, and the Veliki on Regulus III. “Why would they do that?” Blackmer asked.

  “For the same reason that they keep Bajoran slaves in Joradell: because they believe that they’re superior,” Altek said with disgust. “And if only the Aleira had flat noses, that would make it easier to distinguish the people they could subjugate.”

  “It doesn’t sound as though you approve of your own people,” Blackmer noted.

  “I don’t judge all of them as evil,” Altek said. “But no, I don’t approve of the way my people have enslaved the Bajora.” He stood up again and held his arms straight out in front of him, his wrists together, in a recognizable pose of surrender. “So if you’re one of the Aleira . . . if all of this—” Again, he looked around to include their surroundings. “—is some sort of feint to ferret out my beliefs . . . to label me as a traitor . . .” He shrugged. “You win. I admit to being anti-slavery. I admit to helping a twelve-year-old girl escape from the hospital so that she wouldn’t end up as the sexual plaything of one of the ruling class in Joradell. I accept my punishment.”