Sacraments of Fire

by David R. George III

  “You were posted here a couple of months ago when the other civilian vessel purportedly lost control and had to set down, weren’t you?” Shul asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are there any similarities between that event and what’s happening today?”

  Ansarg had already thought about that. “At least superficially,” she said. “It was a small civilian vessel, it carried a Bajoran passenger, and it eventually exploded.”

  “And blew a brand-new crater into Endalla,” Shul said.

  “A crater that revealed nothing but the subsurface of Endalla,” Ansarg said. “I can tell you from what I saw that this moon’s subsurface looks a great deal like its surface.”

  “You didn’t witness the explosion, though?”

  “Not in person, no, but I did see a recording of it,” Ansarg said. “I was stationed in the outpost at the time. Afterward, I provided security for the engineers who came out from Deep Space Nine to study the debris field, so I saw the crater then.”

  “I read those reports,” Shul said. “They supported the claims of the pilot that the baffle plates on his ship failed, but . . . despite the lack of any explosives, the circumstances surrounding that incident seem remarkably comparable to what we’re seeing today.”

  The same thought had occurred to Ansarg. “It could be that the baffle plates were intentionally made to fail,” she said. “Maybe that was actually a step in the Ohalavaru extremists’ campaign to unearth whatever they expect to find on Endalla.”

  “And today’s the next step,” Shul said. “It’s possible. Attacks like this—made by one civilian vessel here, two there, months and even years apart—are consistent with what we know of the radical Ohalavaru. Their numbers are small and they lack resources, but they are tenacious.”

  “It will be interesting to see if the pilot whose baffle plates failed is among those attempting the attacks today,” Ansarg said.

  “I agree,” Shul said. “If we—”

  “Endalla One to Yolja.” Crewman Hava’s voice sounded steady enough, but Ansarg nevertheless thought she detected a note of alarm.

  The lieutenant opened the return channel. “This is Shul aboard the Yolja. What is it, Crewman?”

  “Lieutenant, a third vessel has infringed our security perimeter,” Hava said. “It is on a direct heading for the outpost.”

  ANSARG KNEW that they wouldn’t reach Endalla One before the intruder did.

  “How much time?” Shul asked.

  “Less than two minutes.”

  After Hava had reported the third vessel encroaching on the moon—and, as with its predecessors, carrying a mass of dangerous explosive materials—the lieutenant had immediately ordered Ansarg to turn their runabout back toward the outpost. With Yolja closer to Endalla One than Glyrhond, Shul assigned ch’Larn and Walenista—who had already captured the crew of the first trespassing vessel—to pursue the second. The lieutenant contacted Deep Space 9 to inform Captain Ro of the developments. Defiant had already departed the starbase, but it would not arrive in time to protect the outpost.

  For most of the journey back, Shul had maintained open communications with the third vessel, warning its crew away. He received no response, but he continued to transmit his message that the outpost was inhabited, and that the detonation of any explosives in the area could result in the loss of life. When Yolja finally neared Endalla One, he ceased his efforts.

  Up ahead, a short range of small mountains rose up from the lunar surface. Just beyond it, Ansarg knew, the outpost nestled at the edge of the black, glasslike plane that had been fused in the fire of the first Ohalavaru attack on the moon. She hoped she would not witness another.

  “Shields up, phasers armed,” Shul said. “The third vessel is almost at the outpost.”

  “So are we,” Ansarg said, determined to protect her crewmates. She had brought up a sensor readout on her navigational display, showing the course of the intruder as it hurtled down from space toward Endalla One. She saw that it would arrive half a minute before Yolja—enough time to doom the outpost. Except—

  “The vessel is not headed toward Endalla One,” she said. “It’s on course toward the center of the vitrified zone.” Ansarg looked through the forward port. Past the pale mountaintops, the vast, dark expanse came into view.

  “I’m reading a transporter beam,” Shul said. “No . . . multiple transporter beams . . . targeting the surface . . .”

  Yolja sliced past the mountain peaks, revealing the outpost below, sitting on the shore of the great glass lake. Out on the sleek, ebon surface, sparks of bright white light twinkled into existence along a line, two and three at a time, then faded back into the shadows. Ansarg realized what she was seeing just before the lieutenant said it aloud.

  “They’re beaming down the explosives.”

  The solution rose in Ansarg’s mind in an instant. “If they’re using the transporter, they must be running with shields down,” she said. “We’re not in weapons range, but we can beam them aboard, then capture their ship with a tractor beam.”

  “That’s it,” Shul said. “Energizing targeting sensors.” His hands flew across his control panel.

  Ansarg glanced at her display, which showed the intruder growing closer to the surface. She peered upward through the port, searching the dark skies for any sign of the vessel sending potential destruction down to the moon. At the last second, she saw it: a small gray shape, plummeting downward at a steep angle, a sliver of its hull reflecting the Bajoran sun.

  “Transporter lock established,” Shul said. “Lowering the shie—”

  The surface of Endalla erupted. A massive explosion sent debris streaking into the sky. A wide wall of dust and pulverized glass appeared in front of Yolja like plumes of smoke and ash shooting from a volcano.

  Ansarg banked the runabout hard to starboard. The panorama of destruction fell away in the opposite direction. Just before it passed out of sight, Ansarg saw the terrorists’ vessel plunge into the maelstrom.

  19

  Ro leaned back in the chair in her office, her feet kicked up on her desk. She read through the following week’s duty roster from a padd in her lap. It pleased her to see that her first officer had finally scheduled cross-training for some of the crew. Ro and Cenn had talked often during the construction of the new starbase about expanding Starfleet’s program, allowing their people additional opportunities to broaden their skills and pursue duties typically outside the scopes of their positions. Captain and exec had agreed that they should wait to implement their plan for a month or so after Deep Space 9 had become fully operational and life aboard had settled into a routine, but the events surrounding the dedication ceremony had thrown everybody aboard into a morass of tension and uncertainty.

  This is another sign that things are returning to normal, Ro thought. The crew had worked hard to overcome not only the assassination and the conspiracy within the Federation government, but also the actions of Doctor Bashir. Although many considered him a hero—the captain among them—he had put DS9 and its crew at risk when he’d bolted the Bajoran system for Andor. It did not escape Ro that her crewmate and friend had acted in a way that she had in the past: flouting authority in the name of the greater good, avoiding detention, abandoning sworn duty for conscience. It looked different viewed from her position of leadership, rather than from the perspective of the rebel. The captain understood why—she could not underestimate the importance of her responsibility for a crew of twenty-five hundred people and a civilian population of ten thousand—but it still bothered her.

  Ro scanned the list of crossover assignments. She found herself surprised by some of the requests: an engineer who wanted medical instruction, a nurse who sought tactical training, a security officer who hoped to learn transporter operation. The captain had fretted that she would end up seeing applications from only a handful of the crew, all of them
seeking to take over DS9 as its new commanding officer. Instead, the number and breadth of the requests delighted her.

  Just as Ro affixed her initials to the duty roster, a signal indicated somebody calling at her door. She glanced at the time on her padd—23:13—and wondered who would be looking for her in her office during gamma shift. “Come in,” she said, setting her feet on the deck and her padd off to the side.

  In the bulkhead across from her, to the left, the doors parted to reveal her security chief. He had come directly from the turbolift via the corridor, rather than through the door that led to her office from the Hub. He walked inside and over to the desk. A padd dangled from one of his hands.

  “Jeff, you’re wandering around here a little late in the day,” Ro said.

  “I just heard a rumor that I thought I should talk to you about,” Blackmer said. “If you’re busy, it can wait until morning, but I wanted to get it over with.”

  Get it over with? Ro thought. That didn’t sound like Blackmer would tell her something she wanted to hear. “I’ve got time,” she said. “Have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Blackmer sat down in one of the two chairs in front of the captain’s desk. “I know that you’ve invited Kai Pralon to Deep Space Nine.”

  “I have, through Vedek Novor,” Ro said. The longest tenured vedek residing on DS9, Novor Tursk oversaw the Bajoran temple on the Plaza, as well as the other vedeks, ranjens, and prylars that served on DS9. After her lunch meeting a few days earlier with Altek Dans, Ro had arranged a meeting with Vedek Brandis Tarn. The three of them spoke at length about Altek’s situation. Brandis wanted to help Altek return to Bajor, and agreed that, given the government’s apparent reluctance to make that happen, the best way to accomplish it would be through the Bajoran clergy. Rather than making a request of the Vedek Assembly, which could easily have become public and caused a stir—something Altek hoped to avoid—Brandis suggested that the captain extend an invitation to Pralon Onala, who had yet to visit the new starbase. Once the kai came aboard, the captain could quietly approach her about Altek Dans.

  Ro made the offer to Onala through the appropriate channels, which meant Vedek Novor. “That was a few days ago. I haven’t heard anything back from the kai’s office yet.” Not that that’s unusual, Ro thought. These days, I can’t get anybody on Bajor to respond to me in a timely manner, much less with a satisfying answer.

  “I heard today that the Vedek Assembly learned of the invitation,” Blackmer said, “and that they’re counseling the kai not to make the journey anytime soon.”

  “Because of the assassination,” Ro said, stating the reason as fact, rather than asking for confirmation.

  “Yes,” Blackmer said. “They are understandably reluctant to send Bajor’s spiritual leader to a dangerous place.”

  “They may be reluctant, but it’s not understandable,” Ro said, bristling at the characterization of DS9 as a “dangerous place.” “What happened here was terrible, but it’s not representative of the security aboard this starbase.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” Blackmer said, surprising the captain. “Shouldn’t the fact that the president of the Federation was murdered when she was under my protection concern people who want to come here? And isn’t that indicative of the need for a change on Deep Space Nine?” The security chief reached forward and set his padd down on the desktop in front of the captain. He adjusted the device’s position so that it faced her.

  Ro did not pick up the padd, which she assumed displayed Blackmer’s request for a transfer to another Starfleet facility or starship. “Jeff, I’m not interested in breaking in a new chief of security. You know this place. You watched it being built. You lobbied Starfleet to install the new thoron shield, and you established our security protocols in the stockade and around the rest of the starbase.”

  “All of which left us with a dead president.”

  Ro shook her head, unwilling to accept Blackmer’s claims of incompetence. She stood up from her chair, scooped up the padd from the desktop, and paced out from behind her desk, marching toward the wide port at the far end of her office. She looked at the padd, intending simply to deny Blackmer’s transfer application, but then she saw something else she hadn’t expected. “This isn’t . . .” she said, and peered back over at the security chief. “This is your resignation from Starfleet.”

  “Yes, sir,” Blackmer said. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, but today, when I heard that Kai Pralon might not come to the starbase because the people around her feared for her life . . .” He shrugged almost imperceptibly and looked away. “I realized that it’s time.”

  “It’s time for what?” Ro said, her voice growing angry. “To feel sorry for yourself?” She walked back over to the desk and flipped the padd toward Blackmer. He reached to catch it, juggled it briefly, and then it fell to the gray-carpeted deck. “We’ve served together for three years. You should know me well enough by now to realize that I don’t have much patience for self-indulgence.”

  Blackmer shot to his feet. “With all due respect, Captain, I’m not being self-indulgent.” He bent down and picked up the fallen padd, then held it out to Ro. When she declined to take it from him, he let his arm fall back to his side. “This isn’t about me feeling sorry for myself. This isn’t about me at all. It’s about my concern for all of the people aboard Deep Space Nine—all the crew, all the civilian residents, and all those who will pass through this place in the months and years to come.”

  “Then stay here and see to their safety,” Ro told him.

  “Captain . . .” Blackmer lowered his head and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Captain, as your chief of security, I have to take responsibility for the assassination of President Bacco. But it’s not just that. Doctor Bashir disobeyed direct orders, and I was unable to keep him in custody.”

  “If you had, the Andorian people might still be facing extinction, they wouldn’t have rejoined the Federation, and we wouldn’t have a new president that a large majority of the population are thrilled about.”

  “None of that is relevant to the central question of whether or not I can adequately discharge my duties,” Blackmer said. “Captain, when I was the chief of security aboard the first Deep Space Nine, the station was destroyed.”

  “It was under attack by Breen and Tzenkethi starships,” Ro said.

  “But that’s not what destroyed it,” Blackmer said. “Bombs planted aboard the station did that . . . bombs planted on my watch.” He turned and put the padd with his resignation back down on the captain’s desk.

  Ro stepped forward, took hold of Blackmer by his upper arms, and turned him back to face her. “Jeff, you’ve got to stop blaming yourself for that.”

  “More than a thousand people died.” His voice quavered.

  “Let’s talk about that,” Ro said. “We could talk about your impressive record of accomplishments since you transferred to my command, but let’s talk about all the people who died in the destruction of the station. Let’s talk about those thousand people because they lead us to the more than fifty-five hundred who survived. That happened only because we knew about the bombs well in advance of when they detonated, and we knew that because of you. And the bombs didn’t show up on somebody’s sensor panel, nobody contacted us to warn us about them. No, something overheard by another crewman triggered suspicion in you, and based only on that, you managed to locate the bombs. Your intuition as a security chief led directly to the evacuation of the station and the survival of all those people.”

  Blackmer looked at Ro for a long time. She held his gaze, willing him to find the strength within himself that she knew he possessed. She understood his pain and the weight of the responsibility he felt. Not only had she served as DS9’s security chief for two years, she had commanded it for more than half a dozen. Blackmer’s failures, whatever they might be judged to be, were her failures as well.
If she believed him anything less than completely capable of fulfilling his duties, she would not merely have accepted his resignation, she would have demanded it.

  “But President Bacco . . .” His words came out in a tortured whisper. He turned away from Ro and walked across the width of her office, where he collapsed onto her sofa. She followed and sat down beside him.

  “Jeff, Starfleet Command has made inquiries about your performance,” she said gently. “Once I saw your abilities for myself, I never doubted you, but when Starfleet asked questions, I had to give them answers, and I had to defend those answers. That means I had to carefully review your time on the original Deep Space Nine, at Bajoran Space Central, and on the new starbase. I concluded that you’ve done a fine job, and I made the case to Starfleet.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Blackmer said. “I wish you could make the case to me.”

  “Haven’t I been doing that?” Ro asked. “You feel like it’s your fault that President Bacco is dead, but do you know who was responsible? Onar Throk, who fired the weapon, and Baras Rodirya, who conspired with him to do so.” She hesitated, wondering if she should reveal the other opinion she’d formed about the assassination. She didn’t particularly want to speak ill of the dead, but she also knew that Blackmer needed to hear the truth. “It was also partly Nan Bacco’s own fault.”

  Blackmer’s eyes grew wide, his surprise at the statement obvious. “I’m not sure how you can say that, Captain. It was my duty to protect her.”

  “It was, but you’re not a dictator,” Ro said. “You couldn’t make her do something she didn’t want to do. And what she didn’t want to do, in a theater filled with Starfleet officers attending a dedication ceremony for their new starbase, was to stand onstage behind a protective screen.”

  “I should have convinced her.”

  “You tried to,” Ro said. “Should we call up your security plans for the dedication ceremony? You recommended a protective screen be erected onstage for all of the dignitaries. None of them wanted it. None of them.”