Sacraments of Fire

by David R. George III

  Blackmer considered the statements, which seemed to him both a confession and a declaration of principles. Altek’s appearance matched his words: he stood tall, as though proud of the actions of which he’d spoken, but his extended arms, with his wrists pressed together, demonstrated his capitulation. Blackmer didn’t need to know the particulars of Altek’s story—the location of Joradell, the identity of the girl, the laws governing the Aleira—to understand the important points of the account.

  All of it rang true to the security chief.

  For two days, he had met repeatedly with Altek. He had questioned the mysterious stranger, pressed him, inveigled him, promised him fair treatment and an immediate release for the most basic of information. Altek had never deviated from his initial story, which had lacked any meaningful detail.

  Blackmer had served in Starfleet security for two decades, and he had observed, participated in, and conducted innumerable interrogations during his career. He knew which techniques worked and which didn’t. In similar circumstances, he knew, the Tzenkethi might have tortured Altek, likely extracting all manner of data from him—none of it reliable, and most, if not all of it, false. The establishment of empathy, consistency, and trust provided by far the most effective—not to mention the most ethical—means of obtaining information, and the best way to accomplish that came via conversation. After two days of talking with the security chief, Altek’s tongue had been loosened, and although what he’d said had no detectable bearing on Deep Space 9, it did serve to persuade Blackmer that the stranger spoke the truth—not just with respect to his anti-­slavery views and actions, but when he’d offered up his identity and place of origin, as well as claimed that he had not come to the starbase of his own free will, or with any purpose.

  The security chief stood up, then reached forward and pushed down Altek’s hands. “I’m not Aleiran,” Blackmer said. “We haven’t charged you with a crime, and what you just described to me sounds less like an illegality and more like an act of benevolence.” It occurred to Blackmer that it might also have been what he had sensed Altek hiding. “Please, sit back down.”

  Altek went back to the chair, and Blackmer resumed his position on the edge of the bunk. The two men sat quietly for a few moments. At last, Altek said, “I’m not sure what more I can tell you. I don’t know what you want from me.” His voice carried no anger, merely a great weariness.

  “What we want hasn’t changed,” Blackmer said softly. “We need to know who you are, and how and why you came here.” Altek opened his mouth, clearly to protest the repeated demands, but the security chief held up the flat of his hand to stop him. “I know you’ve answered my questions many times.” Blackmer intended to tell Altek that he believed him, but then he stopped himself from doing so. Instead, he said, “If you don’t remember how you got here, what is the last thing you remember?”

  Blackmer had asked the question before, but Altek’s answer, that he’d been out in the woods for a late-night jaunt, hadn’t jibed with his appearance when Chief O’Brien had transported him—or the Orb carrying him—aboard. His heavy black clothing and visible flesh had been covered with dirt. Since Altek had divulged his secret, that he had helped a girl escape servitude under an Aleiran official, Blackmer thought that he might reveal more information.

  Altek wavered before speaking, as though deciding what he should say. At last, he told Blackmer, “I was on my way to Shavalla.”

  “Is that another Aleiran city?”

  Altek snorted derisively. “It’s a Bajoran city,” he said. He hesitated again, but then seemed to deflate, as though his will to resist finally deserted him. “I was guiding two Bajora from slavery in Joradell to freedom in Shavalla.”

  “How did that lead you here?” Blackmer asked.

  “I don’t . . . I . . .” Altek looked away, but not toward anything in the cell: he gazed off in an unfocused way, as though looking not outward, but inward. “We were making our way through the mountains . . . we were just about to reach the road to Shavalla—” Altek bolted up out of his chair, his eyes growing wide. “I remember . . . I remember that we didn’t come upon the road . . . it wasn’t there. I was in a field, suddenly alone, and behind me, I didn’t see where I had just traveled, but a bridge leading across a gorge to a desolate land. And . . . and—” He looked at Blackmer, his expression one of amazement. “There was an Orb—was it Anora’s?—floating there in front of me . . .”

  The security chief waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, Blackmer asked, “You saw the Orb that brought you here?”

  “I don’t know,” Altek said. Without looking, he slowly sat back down in his chair; if it had been moved, he would have fallen to the deck. “That . . . that’s all I remember, until I was standing before you and your captain.”

  Blackmer considered the account. It sounded suspiciously close to what the security chief had expected to hear all along, and in some sense, what he had wanted to hear. Had he unintentionally conveyed that to Altek, and had that prompted Altek to fabricate his tale? Had Altek genuinely recovered his memory of the event, or had he lied about it?

  Blackmer stayed in the cell for nearly another hour, continuing to try to extract information from the stranger, and to take his measure. Finally, with time growing short before Captain Ro would either have to release Altek or charge him with a crime, the security chief left the stockade and made his way to the top of the starbase. There, he entered the captain’s office to deliver his assessment of DS9’s unexpected visitor.

  RO SAT AT HER DESK, looking across the width of her office at the large viewscreen affixed to the opposite bulkhead. The outsize figure of Starfleet’s commander in chief filled the viewer. Startlingly large—taller than two and a quarter meters, with broad shoulders, a barrel-shaped chest, and tree-trunk–thick legs—the Capellan projected an imposing presence without saying a word. He had dark, almost black eyes, and his long gray hair had been pulled back from his head. When he spoke, his stern countenance and resonant voice only added to his authoritative bearing.

  “What have you learned?” Admiral Akaar asked. He stood in front of the desk in his office at Starfleet Headquarters. Behind him, a wall of windows framed a sweeping vista of San Francisco Bay, with the international-orange span of the Golden Gate Bridge visible off to the left.

  Although a simple, straightforward question, it came across to the captain as a challenge. Akaar had never been a supporter of Ro Laren, owing primarily to an incident that had taken place during her service aboard U.S.S. Wellington two decades earlier. During an away mission to Garon II, she disobeyed a direct order, an action that subsequently led to the deaths of eight of her crewmates.

  Afterward, Ro had stood court-martial. Akaar presided with other officers over the military tribunal, ultimately finding Ro guilty and remanding her to the penal colony on Jaros II. She spent several years there, until Starfleet Command temporarily released her to take part in a special assignment aboard Enterprise. On that mission, she played an instrumental role in saving the lives of a group of Bajorans, as well as in uncovering a plot to draw the Federation into the Cardassian-Bajoran conflict on the side of Cardassia. Consequently, Captain Picard secured her permanent discharge from Jaros II so that she could serve aboard his ship.

  Less than two years later, Ro had betrayed her Starfleet oath a second time. Ordered to infiltrate the Maquis, she had done so, only to find her loyalties redirecting to their cause. She joined them, never returning to Enterprise. She remained with the Maquis essentially for as long as the paramilitary organization endured, until the Dominion, in its new alliance with the Cardassian Union, wiped out almost all of its members.

  Eventually, with nowhere else to go, Ro had returned to Bajor, where she had enlisted in the Militia. Ironically, but clearly because of her experience in Starfleet, her superiors posted her to Deep Space 9. When Bajor ultimately entered the United Federation of Planets, Starflee
t absorbed the Militia, and Ro faced a choice. She believed neither that the UFP’s space service would welcome her back into its ranks, nor that she would find a place for herself there even if it did. Enter Captain Jean-Luc Picard, who, for the second time in Ro’s life, made a difference. He not only smoothed her reentry into Starfleet, but also convinced her that she had a future there.

  Staring at the severe aspect of the commander in chief, that future seemed in doubt. The admiral had not laid the responsibility for President Bacco’s assassination at her feet—he plainly understood the heinous nature of the crime and the dastardliness of the perpetrators—but she also didn’t think that he held her completely blameless. It only added another layer to the distemper he clearly felt when dealing with her.

  “We haven’t learned much, sir,” Ro told the admiral, “but I think it’s enough for us to know how to proceed. Altek consented to a medical examination when he first came aboard, and we confirmed that he is Bajoran. My security chief has interrogated the man repeatedly since his arrival, and has concluded that Altek Dans is no threat to Deep Space Nine, Bajor, or the Federation. He believes that the man came here from the past, though he cannot tell from how far back in time.”

  “Did the medical tests reveal evidence of time travel?” Akaar wanted to know.

  “No,” the captain said.

  “So there is no evidence of Altek traveling in time, other than the perceptions and judgment of your security chief,” Akaar said. The statement seemed more than a little confrontational to Ro.

  “That’s right,” she said. “I have confidence in Commander Blackmer.”

  Akaar shook his head once. “Blackmer was responsible for security during Deep Space Nine’s dedication ceremony,” he said. Though the statement demanded a response, it sounded less like a question and more like an accusation.

  “Yes, sir,” Ro said, choosing the discretion of few words as a complex mixture of emotions swirled within her: anger at the admiral’s insinuation of fault, protectiveness for a member of her crew, guilt for the terrible event that had taken place on a starbase under her command.

  “I want something more definitive than your security chief’s intuition,” Akaar said. “Do you intend to transfer custody of Altek to the Bajoran government?” Ro had previously briefed the admiral on the possibilities of taking such action in order to legally extend the stranger’s detention.

  “I withdrew my request to the Bajoran minister of justice because he was going to deny my request,” Ro said. “His decision carried the backing of First Minister Asarem.”

  Akaar looked away and uttered an unambiguous sound of disgust. When he looked back, he said, “We’re trying to protect Bajor, and you can’t even secure the assistance of their government.”

  “The first minister wishes to protect the people of Bajor, of course, but not if it requires contravention of the law.”

  “Bajor is within its rights to extradite one of their nationals if he is suspected of having committed a crime in their system,” Akaar said pointedly.

  “Yes, sir,” Ro said, “but as far as we know, Altek has committed no crime, nor do we even have any indication that he intends to do so.”

  “I’m sure that you can express our concerns in such a manner as to satisfy the letter of the law.” The admiral did not offer the observation as a suggestion, Ro thought, but as an order.

  “Admiral, the first minister made it clear to me that she will not violate even the spirit of the law,” Ro said. “Frankly, I understand her perspective.”

  “The only perspective I need you to understand, Captain, is mine,” Akaar said. He walked around his desk and took a seat behind it before continuing. “My job as the commander in chief of Starfleet is to allocate our resources as needed. It is the president’s job to preserve and protect the Federation, and Starfleet is one of the primary tools he can use to accomplish those objectives. Make no mistake: President Bacco’s assassination was an attack on us. We cannot allow another.”

  We also cannot allow an attack to divide us from our principles, Ro thought. The more she considered the first minister’s point of view, the more she came to agree with it. “I understand your point, Admiral, but—” But what? Under the best of circumstances, she found it difficult to persuade Akaar of anything. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t still try. “Permission to speak freely, sir,” she said.

  “This is not a debate,” Akaar said. “President Pro Tem Ishan is adamant about preventing any more attacks on the Federation. I’ve apprised him of the situation involving Altek Dans, and he insists that we keep him in custody until we can be sure of his identity and his intentions, and that he played no part in the assassination.”

  Ishan, Ro thought. The Federation Council had selected him to lead the UFP through the sixty-day period leading up to the special election that would determine Nan Bacco’s permanent successor. Ro didn’t know much about Ishan Anjar beyond rumors that he had plotted to push Krim Aldos out of his seat on the Council. It concerned her that such a man might be more interested in politics than principles, and so it did not surprise her to learn that he was applying pressure to Akaar to continue detaining Altek Dans.

  “Admiral,” Ro said, choosing her words carefully, “I can ask to speak again with First Minister Asarem, but I believe it’s unlikely that I will be able to change her mind on this matter.”

  “Then you must find another solution,” Akaar said.

  “Sir, I don’t—”

  “Altek arrived at Deep Space Nine through the Bajoran wormhole, is that correct?” Akaar asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I suggest you make a show of seeking answers about him from the Gamma Quadrant,” the admiral said. “Since he exited the wormhole in the Alpha Quadrant, it is reasonable to think that he might have entered it at its other terminus.”

  Ro understood Akaar’s implication. She had suggested such a course to Commander Desjardins: if she sought information about Altek from another location, the law permitted her to hold him for the length of time it would take for a subspace transmission to travel to and from that site, plus an additional day. “The problem is that we have no evidence whatsoever that Altek Dans came from the Gamma Quadrant.”

  “Then you need to find some,” Akaar insisted.

  “Admiral—”

  “Captain Ro,” Akaar interrupted. “I have my orders, and now you have yours. Let us not argue that which will not change.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ro said, resigned to the truth of the admiral’s observation: she would not convince him to change the order he’d issued.

  “Akaar out.” He reached forward on his desk, his huge hand extending toward a control panel, but then he stopped. “Captain Ro,” he said, “I know you’ll do the right thing.” Then he pressed his finger to a touchpad and the Starfleet Command emblem replaced his image on the screen. A moment later, it too vanished, replaced by the general Starfleet insignia.

  Ro stared at the symbol without really seeing it. If she obeyed the commander in chief’s orders, she would have to violate the spirit, if not the letter, of the law. If she abided by the Federation’s legal system, then she would have to defy Akaar. The situation frustrated her, but as she thought about it, she realized that the admiral’s final words confused her.

  I know you’ll do the right thing.

  To begin with, in the more than twenty years since Ro had first disobeyed a Starfleet order, Akaar had never once indicated even the slightest belief in her abilities, much less in her capacity for doing the “right thing.” More than that, she had no notion of what he meant by the ill-defined statement. Does he expect me to follow his orders, or follow the law? Or was there some other option, some middle ground he wanted her to consider?

  As Ro stood up, she saw the Starfleet logo still visible on the screen. “Viewer off,” she said, deactivating the display. She circled out
from behind her desk and headed for the door to the left of the viewscreen. She paced quickly along the short corridor to its end, where a turbolift opened at her approach. She strode inside as she weighed everything she knew about the circumstances surrounding Altek Dans—from the moment she brought him aboard, to the assessment of the stranger by Lieutenant Commander Blackmer, to the decisions made by First Minister Asarem and Admiral Akaar. She hadn’t received the support she’d wanted from either Bajor or Starfleet Command, so she would have to make her own determination about what next to do.

  As the turbolift doors closed, she stated her destination: “Stockade.”

  11

  Lieutenant Commander Wheeler Stinson banked Tecyr to starboard. He gazed through the forward viewport as the runabout swooped down toward the surface of Endalla, the largest of Bajor’s five natural satellites. The rocky, grayscale terrain looked a great deal like that of Earth’s own moon, though with fewer craters. Not that many years ago, Stinson knew, the planetoid had been home to a rudimentary ecosystem, with enough liquid water to support basic plant life, and a thin but breathable atmosphere. That had been before his assignment to Deep Space 9 as its second officer, and before the catastrophic events that had resulted in the deaths of thousands and the transformation of Endalla into a wasteland.

  Up ahead, a dark patch appeared on the horizon, an expanse so deeply black that it stood out even against the colorless geography surrounding it. “We’ve reached Endalla,” Stinson announced from the main console. Three passengers traveled with him: Ensign Stig Hallström sat beside him, while Crewwoman Sandra Silverman and Crewman Torvan Pim occupied the two lateral stations on either side of the cockpit. “Approaching the outpost.” Calling the small, prefabricated structure an outpost always seemed grandiose to the second officer—rather like referring to Tecyr as a starship; although technically accurate, in that the runabout could be used for interstellar travel, the auxiliary craft hardly compared to a vessel like Defiant.