Section 31: Disavowed
Author: David Mack
Date: 2014-10-28 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Star Trek
Description: The pulse-pounding new Star Trek thriller from David Mack—a direct sequel to the New York Times bestselling series The Fall! Amoral, shrouded in secrecy, and answerable to no one, Section 31 is the mysterious covert operations division of Starfleet, a rogue shadow group committed to safeguarding the Federation at any cost. Doctor Julian Bashir sacrificed his career for a chance to infiltrate Section 31 and destroy it from within. Now it’s asking him to help it stop the Breen from stealing a dangerous new technology from the Mirror Universe—one that could give the Breen control over the galaxy.
Publisher: Pocket Books/Star Trek

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Dedicated to Ira Steven Behr, who conceived of Section 31, and to Bradley Thompson and David Weddle, who brought it to life

Historian’s Note

This story takes place in January 2386, a few months after newly elected Federation president Kellessar zh’Tarash pardoned Doctor Julian Bashir for the actions he undertook to save the Andorian people from extinction (Star Trek: The Fall, Book III: A Ceremony of Losses). Events in the alternate universe occur approximately seven years after the founding of the Galactic Commonwealth by former members of the ultimately victorious Terran Rebellion (Star Trek Mirror Universe: Rise Like Lions).

The true way to be deceived is to think oneself more knowing than others.

—François de La Rochefoucauld, Maxims

One

All that stood between Thot Tran and salvation was unrequited love and the edge of the universe.

In recent years his scientific career had been marred by one failure after another. Despite grievous setbacks, he had retained his position as the director of the Special Research Division, one of the loftiest posts in the Breen Confederacy, but one more failure would be the end of him. Domo Pran, the leader of the Confederacy, had made that grim fact abundantly clear. Now Tran’s entire career hinged upon proving a mad hypothesis before Pran’s patience expired.

To make matters worse, his only hope of success lay in the eccentric genius of his Tzenkethi collaborator, Choska Ves Fel-AA. The humanoid outworlder was strangely beautiful to Tran’s eyes. Lithe and silver skinned, Choska was blessed with coppery tresses that fell past her elegant shoulders, and the irises of her ovoid eyes glittered like gold. Upon first meeting her, Tran had shaken her delicate hand—and even through his uniform’s insulated glove his flesh had prickled from an electric tingle. Though he’d been warned ahead of time that Tzenkethi could impart such an effect upon contact, he had been unprepared for the thrill it had given him. Every detail of Choska’s being was rapturous. Her voice was melodic, like the ringing of chimes incapable of striking a false note. Her movements were grace incarnate. Even her most outlandish ideas and outrageous theories possessed a strange elegance.

Tran’s life and career both hung by a slender thread, and all he could think about was the fact that, against all reason, he had fallen in love with an alien who would never love him back.

Not that he hadn’t set limits. When Choska had suggested they convert their shared laboratory space aboard Ikkuna Station into a gravity envelope enclosure, so that all its surfaces—the walls and ceiling, as well as the deck—could be utilized as operational space, Tran had invoked his privilege as project’s director to keep their lab securely on the floor. After all, Ikkuna Station had been built by, and was run by, the Breen, just inside Confederate space, and converting the bulkheads and overheads to serve the same functions as the deck would have been quite tedious and time-consuming. Which had made it all the more shameful, in his opinion, that for a moment he actually had considered granting her request before he’d vetoed it.

Since then, her already inscrutable façade had become impenetrable, hardened against his searching gaze by what he could only presume was resentment. The only discourse that passed between them now was the cold, dry jargon of the laboratory.

Choska spoke without shifting her eyes from the master console in front of her. “The generator is at full power. Membrane penetration anticipated in twenty seconds.”

“Noted. Increase power to the threshold stabilizer on my mark.”

The beguiling Tzenkethi physicist adjusted the settings. “Ready.”

Their shared project was plagued by so many variables, so many unknown factors, that Tran had no idea if his proposal would work when translated from theory to practical application. All he could do was hope that the unrealized potential he had seen in the Tzenkethi’s designs for an artificial wormhole generator had not been misguided—or, worse, a delusion.

The latter scenario was all too real a possibility for him to ignore. He had been the chief architect of the Confederacy’s recent failed plan to salvage from Federation space a wormhole-propulsion starship that hailed from an alternate universe. That botched mission had squandered billions of sakto, not to mention many lives and several years of research and development. The operation had imploded just shy of success, making its collapse a bitter pill for Tran to swallow. He had been certain the new domo, Pran, would have him killed as an example to others.

Instead, Pran had allowed Tran to retain his post as the director of the Special Research Division, and he had even authorized a substantial budget for Tran’s project to seek out a passage to the alternate universe. Tran had proposed the project to Pran as a means of salvaging some value from their lost investment in the recovery of the wormhole ship, which he was certain had originated in a close parallel dimension, a nearby quantum reality much like the one they inhabited. Although there were decades of theoretical research supporting parallel universes, many Breen scientists continued to scoff at the notion such realms could possibly exist in anything resembling stable configurations.

Tran was gambling his last measure of credibility on proving them wrong.

To do it, he needed the artificial wormhole generator developed by the Tzenkethi. It had not lived up to their expectations when it was first deployed a few years earlier. It had depended upon the existing subspatial geometry of the Bajoran wormhole to give it shape, and it had proved disastrously vulnerable to sabotage and attack. Regardless, it had constituted a major scientific breakthrough—one that Tran now intended to exploit to its fullest advantage.

He switched the master console’s main display to an exterior view focused on the generator’s projection zone. “Initiate phase shift. Start at point zero three and increase slowly.”

“Starting.” Choska entered more commands on the console. She stopped when an alert flashed beneath her fingertips. “We’re picking up severe gravimetric distortion.”

“That’s expected. Keep increasing the phase shift. I’ll stabilize the threshold.” On the viewscreen, a broad swath of space trembled. Subsonic vibrations traveled through the deck beneath Tran’s booted feet. Steady tremors from Ikkuna Station’s antimatter generator shook his bones, a tangible manifestation of excitement. “We’re almost there. Get ready to launch the recon ship.”

Choska remained all business. “Recon One at standby.”

Then it happened. All of Tran’s predictions came true.

Space-time ripped itself apart outside Ikkuna Station, and a rift in the invisible barrier between quantum realities was revealed. It was a wound in the skin of the universe. Brutishly cut, its edges glowed with energies beyond measure or definition. The ragged, irregular aperture dilated, revealing another cosmos: one populated by the same stars, all at once entirely familiar and yet undeniably foreign.

The Breen scientist gathered data from his sensor panel. “The quantum signature matches the ship we found on Tirana Three. That’s definitely its universe of origin. Launch the recon ship.”

“It’s away. Crossing the threshold now.”

Tran knew his teary-eyed, hopeful gaze was safe behind his snout-shaped mask—the ubiquitous identity-erasing uniform of Breen society. And if his voice should quaver with emotion, he could trust his mask’s vocoder to strip it bare and garble it into meaningless machine-speak. How can I ever reveal myself to Choska while I remain a prisoner in my own flesh? How can I show her that I’m more than just a cog in the Confederacy’s machine when I can’t even tell her my real name?

His maudlin reflections were banished as the rift contracted without warning, shredding the reconnaissance vessel into a cloud of sparking debris. He activated a review of the sensor logs even as he vented his frustration at Choska. “What happened?”

“As I warned, the passage between quantum universes is intrinsically unstable. Based on sensor readings from the moment of collapse, I would postulate that ambient energy emissions from the reconnaissance vessel destabilized the throat of the wormhole between the universes.”

“Fortunate, then, that the reconnaissance vessel was an automated ship with no crew.”

“Yes, that was a prudent precaution on your part, Thot Tran.” Choska adjusted some settings on her side of the master console. “It will take several days to analyze the data and devise a plan for shielding vessels that need to pass through the quantum rift.”

Tran knew of no politic way to explain to Choska that they might not have that much time. Domo Pran was eager for results—and he had made it understood that any failure to deliver them would be met with the harshest of punishments. “Do whatever you can to expedite your analysis, Doctor. The sooner we complete this phase of the project, the better.”

“I will do my best.” She downloaded the sensor data to a padd and left the control center—most likely to review the results in the privacy of her office.

Tran watched her leave, knowing he should start his own independent review of the failed recon deployment. But all he could think about was escaping through the rift, with Choska at his side—and cursing the Confederacy, the Typhon Pact, and the Tzenkethi Coalition as he and the magnificent object of his affections left them all behind.

Two

Few environments had ever mesmerized Julian Bashir to the same degree as the interior of Laenishul. The sprawling, multilevel restaurant was situated more than a hundred meters below Andor’s storm-tossed East La’Vor Sea. It was sheltered beneath a hemisphere of transparent aluminum that stood more than forty meters tall at its apex. An external layer of light-amplifying crystal extended the visibility and clarity of the restaurant’s view of the surrounding ocean realm.

Laenishul’s floors also were composed of the same see-through metal, enabling its patrons to gaze into a yawning aquatic abyss beneath the restaurant. The deep chasm was lit from far below by bioluminescent algae and other self-illuminating life-forms. Inside the dome’s pressurized oasis, hovering orbs cast dim amber light on each table. Faint glowing lines etched into the floor marked the pathways that connected the various seating areas, their staircases and lift platforms, the kitchen and back offices, and the refresher facilities.

Access to the restaurant was limited to a single turbolift from its hovering outpost above the surface. In calm weather, the platform was quite stable; shuttlecraft and other small personal vehicles came and went, picking up and discharging passengers in a well-choreographed dance. During the region’s rougher seasons, the platform retracted the turbolift umbilical from the restaurant and served instead as a transporter signal relay, to help coordinate traffic from the capital as well as from ships in orbit.

One detail of Laenishul struck Bashir as ironic. Because the undersea bistro had been financed in part by the New Imperial Andorian Aquarium, its menu was devoid of seafood. Not even replicated versions of thalassic victuals were to be found on its extensive bill of fare.

He put down his menu and looked across the table at his inamorata, Sarina Douglas. “Does it seem odd to you that I have a sudden hankering for sashimi?”

“Not at all.” The slender, late-thirtyish blonde continued to peruse her menu. “Men always want what they can’t have.”

He took her playful verbal jab in stride. “I think it’s a generally human failing.”

She skewered him with a narrowed stare. “Really? You think you can trump my sexism with your racism? Color me appalled, Julian.” She resumed her study of the menu. “Normally, a filet mignon would sound good to me, but I’ve yet to find a place on this planet that can cook one properly.” An elegantly arched eyebrow telegraphed her query. “What’re you having?”

“Some kind of midlife crisis, I suspect.”

“Well, make sure you get a salad with that. It’ll help your digestion.”

Bashir was about to parry her bon mot with a cutting quip, but he swallowed his retort when he saw the Andorian maître d’ escort their dinner guest across the dining room to their table. He caught Sarina’s eye and directed her with a subtle lift of his chin to look to her right.

She glanced quickly—just long enough to recognize the stylishly dressed, fair-skinned, dark-haired woman approaching them as Ozla Graniv, an award-winning journalist for the Trill-based newsmagazine Seeker. Graniv appeared to be in her early forties, but Bashir recalled from a bio he’d read that she was actually in her early fifties. She had a square chin, prominent cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and a piercing stare behind which burned the light of a fierce intellect. Graniv thanked the maître d’ quietly and dismissed him with a nod. As he turned away, the journalist sat down with Bashir and Sarina and met their apprehensive stares with a smile. “Thanks for agreeing to talk with me. I know you haven’t been keen on granting interviews since your return to civilian life.” She nodded at the menu Bashir held. “What’re you having?”

“Second thoughts.”

“I see.” She averted her eyes and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her right ear, revealing her species’ trademark pale brown spots, which ran in a narrow band from her temple, past her ear, and down the side of her neck under her collar. She adopted an air of humility and looked Bashir in the eye. “Say the word, and I’ll go.”

He was about to accept Graniv’s gracious offer of a painless exit when Sarina put her hand on top of his. She gave him a reassuring look. “It’ll be all right, Julian.”

Bashir calmed his frazzled nerves and nodded. “All right. Let’s get on with it.”

“Thank you.” Graniv took a small recording device from her pocket, switched it on, and set it on the table. “For the record, this is Ozla Graniv, interviewing Doctor Julian Bashir on Andor. Today is January seventh, 2386. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor.”

“Likewise.”

She rested her arms on the table and leaned forward. “Just to set your mind at ease, I’m not here to make you rehash the actions you took on Bajor, or here on Andor, to deliver your cure for the Andorian fertility crisis. All of that is a matter of record, thanks to the redacted but still enlightening transcripts of your Starfleet court-martial.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but I feel compelled to correct you already. The retroviral gene therapy I brought to the Andorian people was not, strictly speaking, my creation. Most of the research and work had been done by Professor Marthrossi zh’Thiin and Thirishar ch’Thane before I became involved. In fact, I’d say the work was ninety-nine-point-five percent done before I was asked to pitch in. I’d also had considerable help from several prominent medical scientists, and my mission would have failed if not for the courage of civilian pilot Emerson Harris, who gave his life to make sure both I and the cure reached Andor.”

Sarina let slip a low harrumph. “So much for not rehashing your actions.”

Graniv ignored her and pushed on with the interview. “What I’m more interested in, Doctor, is your life after the court-martial. The Federation government tried to downplay the importance of your pardon by President zh’Tarash and the strings her administration pulled to have your Starfleet discharge amended from dishonorable to honorable. Can you tell me—”

“Excuse me.” A young Andorian shen stepped up to the table from behind Graniv. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to say thank you, Doctor.” She pressed Bashir’s left hand between her blue palms, lifted it, and kissed his fingertips. “My name is Jessala sh’Lero, and my bond group and I are expecting our first child thanks to your miracle cure.”

“You’re very welcome.” Bashir tried to withdraw his hand. The shen tightened her grip.

“May Uzaveh the Infinite and Mother Stars watch over you, all the days of your life.”

He pulled back a bit harder than he would have liked and freed his hand. “Too kind.”

The overwrought shen continued to utter blessings and thanks as the maître d’ and a pair of servers ushered her out of the dining room and into the turbolift. Graniv watched the retreating spectacle with a glimmer of cynical amusement. “Does that happen a lot?”

“Not too often.” Bashir shrugged. “Ten, maybe twelve times a day. But only when I make the mistake of leaving my house.” He took a sip of his Altair water. “You were saying?”

“I was going to ask what your life as a civilian has been like since the pardon, but I think I just saw all I need to know.”

Bashir and Sarina traded weary, knowing looks. She answered for him. “Not entirely. For all the Andorians who want to kiss Julian’s hand, there are more than a few who’d love to cave in his skull with a brick for tampering with the purity of the Andorian genome.”

That revelation surprised Graniv. She looked at Bashir. “Is that true?”

“As my old pal Vic Fontaine would say, ‘Andor is a tough room.’ ”

The journalist nodded, then turned her attention toward Sarina. “It’s my understanding that you resigned from Starfleet after Doctor Bashir’s court-martial.”

Sarina looked and sounded defensive. “That’s right.”

“Can you tell me what your billet was before you resigned?”

“I was the senior deputy chief of security aboard Starbase Deep Space Nine.”

“So you weren’t acting as an operative for Starfleet Intelligence while on DS Nine?”

Graniv’s penetrating gaze met its match in Sarina’s serene poker face. “No.”

“Have you ever served in that capacity?”

Sarina remained unfazed. “No comment.”

“What about your current civilian employment? Is it correct that you’re now assigned to the Andor office of the Federation Security Agency?”

A thin, taut smile played across Sarina’s face as the unanswered question hung between her and Graniv. Bashir knew that smile was not an expression of amusement but a warning sign. He set aside his menu, pushed back his chair, and stood. “Forgive us, Ms. Graniv, but we’re late for an appointment. Perhaps we could continue this another time.”

Graniv stood as Sarina got up to make her exit with Bashir. The Trill stepped into Bashir’s path. “I just have one last question, Doctor. Do you miss your life in Starfleet?”

He frowned, unable to conceal the emptiness he still felt when he thought of all that he’d given up in order to do what needed to be done. He ushered Sarina past Graniv as he answered her question in a low and somber voice. “More than you will ever know.”

Three

The Alternate Universe

The aft hatch of the command deck opened with a soft hiss, turning the head of Honored Elder Taran’atar. The Jem’Hadar acknowledged the arrival of his superior, the Vorta known as Eris, with a nod. “We have dropped back to sublight and are approaching the Idran wormhole.”

The violet-eyed commander stopped at Taran’atar’s side. They were a study in contrasts. He was tall, broadly muscled, and protected by a thick, scaly gray hide studded with chitinous spikes, a genetic inheritance that likely had evolved to thwart would-be predators. She was delicate of frame, with soft pale skin and a tall crown of tightly curled raven hair. Her long ears hugged the sides of her head and followed the elegant line of her jaw.

Compared to a Jem’Hadar, Eris might have appeared to be helpless. Taran’atar knew better. He had seen her wield telekinetic powers—a rare and special gift from the Founders—to devastating effect on unwary foes. But her true strength lay in her mantle of authority. She was a Vorta; that meant she controlled the ship’s daily ration of ketracel-white, which ensured the obedience of her legion of Jem’Hadar soldiers. Even though Taran’atar himself had no need of the white—a genetic anomaly even more rare than Eris’s psionic talent—he accepted it from her every day with gratitude, as an example to his soldiers.

This was the order of things, as the Founders had willed it.

Eris lowered her holographic eyepiece into place. “Have our escorts arrived?”

“Yes. All support ships are in position, awaiting final orders.” He tapped the side of his eyepiece’s headset, initiating a transfer of his tactical overlay to Eris’s eyepiece.

A subdued smile brightened her face. “Well done, First.” She studied the mission plan. “Battle Cruiser 815 will take the point position as our fleet enters the wormhole. Battle Cruisers 674 and 918 will flank Carrier Vessel 181. We’ll follow the carrier. Attack Vessels 319 and 560 will defend our flanks. The rest of the battle group will follow us in standard formation.”

Taran’atar reviewed his commander’s deployment strategy in his holographic eyepiece. “Permission to make a recommendation.”

“Granted.”

“I suggest Battleship 432 and its escorts stay behind to guard our side of the wormhole.”

Eris furrowed her brow. “For what reason?”

“Long-range sensors have detected Ascendant battle groups in adjacent sectors.”

She grimaced at the unwelcome news. “Is there reason to think they’ve detected us?”

“Not yet. But now that our fleet is assembled, we risk our presence being noted.”

Her voice dropped to a tense whisper. “We can’t let the Ascendants find the wormhole. Not until our mission on the other side is complete.”

“Battleship 432 and its combat group can deploy in a patrol pattern to mask the wormhole’s coordinates after we move the rest of the fleet to the Alpha Quadrant. If it encounters the Ascendants, it will do so away from the mouth of the wormhole.”

His advice mollified Eris, though only to a small degree. “Very well. See it done.”

“As you command.” He used a nearby panel to amend the deployment plan and then transmitted it to the other ships in the fleet. Within moments he verified confirmation codes from all the ships. He turned back toward Eris. “All orders confirmed.”

“Thank you, First. I’ll let her know we’re ready.” Eris moved aft so she could have some privacy while speaking to the ship’s most important passenger: a Founder.

In all of Taran’atar’s thirty-two years of life—which, to the best of his knowledge, made him the oldest Jem’Hadar who had ever lived—he had never seen a Founder. Through countless military campaigns and decades of deep-space exploration, his only companions had been his fellow Jem’Hadar and their Vorta commanders. On more than a thousand worlds he had met hundreds of intelligent species, most of whom he’d helped bring under the control of the Dominion and its reclusive godlike masters, but until a few days earlier, he had never had reason to think he was ever in the same star system as a Founder, much less on the same starship. Knowing he had been entrusted with the sacred duty of safeguarding a Founder’s life had filled him with a measure of pride he’d not felt in decades—not since his long-ago promotion to First.

He set his holographic eyepiece for an external view. The other ships of the fleet circled like raptors. They slipped past one another in graceful turns as they moved into their assigned positions for the journey through the wormhole to the Alpha Quadrant—a jump of more than sixty thousand light-years, to a distant and largely unexplored region of the galaxy. To date, only Eris and Taran’atar’s vessel, Battleship 774, had ventured to the far side of the subspace anomaly. For years, they alone had gathered vital intelligence about that far-off quadrant. In recognition of their initiative, they had been rewarded with the honor of escorting a Founder to the Alpha Quadrant on what promised to be a historic mission.

Eris returned to Taran’atar’s side. “She’s coming.”

Taran’atar raised his voice to fill the bridge. “Attention!” The crew turned from their posts to face him and held themselves ramrod straight, their arms pressed to their sides, their chins raised with pride. A moment later the aft hatch slid open. A feminine humanoid entered. Her mien was soft and without detail. The most prominent features of her visage were her deep eye sockets, narrow lips, and high forehead. Her face was framed by a pulled-tight helmet of flaxen hair. Only her head and hands were bare. From the neck down she was covered by a modest garment of loose-fitting beige cloth, and she wore simple footwear.

Eris stepped forward to greet the nondescript alien woman. The Vorta shut her eyes and bowed her head as she spoke. “We are honored to receive you, Founder.”

Taran’atar’s eyes widened. So this is a Founder. All his life he had wondered what it would be like to look upon the face of one of his gods. Now she stood before him, and he found himself perplexed. The Founder was almost a cipher, an approximation of a humanoid without definition. Regardless, Taran’atar knew on an instinctual level that she was who Eris had proclaimed her to be. If not for the genetic programming that compelled him to remain alert at all times, he would have bowed to her, just as Eris had done.

The Founder picked up a command headset, put it on, and lowered the holographic eyepiece. “Everything has been made ready?”

Eris kept her head bowed to show deference, but lifted it just enough to look upon her divine leader. “Yes, Founder. Honored Elder Taran’atar has seen to the details.”

A pleased nod. “Excellent.” The Founder raised the eyepiece and faced Taran’atar—showing her back to Eris in the process. “I’m well pleased with you, First.”

He remained silent because she had not asked him a question, nor had she instructed him to speak. Instead, he stood at attention and betrayed no sign that the Founder’s unflinching stare felt as if it were drilling into the darkest corners of his being.

She stole a look over her shoulder at Eris, then fixed her eyes on Taran’atar. “I’ve paid close attention to you ever since you discovered this wormhole nearly five years ago. Your work has set the stage for what I expect will be the next great chapter in the history of the Dominion. But I wonder, Taran’atar—are you prepared to play the role I have in mind for you?”

“I live to serve the Founders in all things.”

She sighed with mild disappointment. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

Taran’atar had no idea what else he could have said. It was a truth into which he had been born and with which he would die. It was inescapable.

The Founder left him and returned to Eris’s side. “It’s time.”

Eris nodded to Taran’atar, who barked curt orders at his men, setting them and the rest of the fleet in motion. Through his eyepiece, he watched the wormhole explode into being from the emptiness of space, a swiftly unfolding blossom of blue fire and white light. When everyone was, at last, in position, he used his headset to open a subspace channel to the rest of the fleet.

“All vessels, this is Battleship 774. Proceed into the wormhole.”

*  *  *

Tensions were high aboard the wormhole jaunt ship Enterprise. Captain Jean-Luc Picard felt his crew’s rising tide of anxiety as he walked from his quarters to the turbolift. In the past few weeks, the almost palpable sense of dread had gone from mild to severe, and Picard hadn’t needed the empathic talents of his half-Betazoid security chief Deanna Troi to tell him why. There was one thing that had everyone aboard on edge, one thing driving an endless march of rumors.

The Dominion.

Nothing like a dose of the unknown to stir up people’s fears. He fought to keep his own doubts and concerns buried as deeply as possible. The crew needs to be able to believe in me, now more than ever. That was just one of many essential lessons Picard had learned during the past nine years he had spent commanding the Enterprise, on missions that had run the gamut from exploration to peacekeeping and everything in between.

The turbolift doors opened, and he stepped in. Troi was already inside the lift car. Her dark hair was knotted in a loose ponytail. She smiled at him. “Good morning, Jean-Luc.”

“Deanna.” He had tried for years to get her to address him as “Captain” while they were on the ship, but their years of informality prior to their recruitment by Memory Omega had forged habits too hard to break. She had, at least, taught herself to address him by rank when they were on the bridge. It was a minor concession, but a hard life marked by arbitrary cruelties and heartbreaking losses had taught Picard to be thankful for even life’s smallest victories.

Troi turned a sly, sideways look in his direction. “The crew knows something’s up.”

“Do they? And how, pray tell, do they know?”

The diminutive security chief struck a deceptively demure pose. “Apparently, our first officer had the engineering department up all night fine-tuning everything from the jaunt drive to the waste reclamators. It seems to have created the impression that we’re heading into danger.”

Picard was at a loss. Commander K’Ehleyr was a superb executive officer, and after serving with the half-human, half-Klingon woman for nearly a decade, Picard had come to think of her as indispensable. Her passionate approach to command served as a welcome balance to Picard’s more cerebral style of leadership, but her relentless pursuit of perfection—from both herself and the crew—had, on a few occasions, done more harm than good. Picard hoped this would not prove to be one of those times.

The turbolift doors opened with a whisper of sound, followed by the low susurrus of muted conversations and computer feedback tones that defined the ambience of the Enterprise’s bridge. K’Ehleyr noted Picard and Troi’s arrival. The tall woman stood from the command chair. “Good morning, sir. We jaunted into the Bajor system at oh seven twenty. We’re currently holding station approximately one million kilometers from the Denorios Belt.”

Picard settled into the center seat. “Any activity from the wormhole?”

“Not yet, sir. We’re keeping watch.”

At the forward duty stations were the regular Alpha Shift personnel: the Tellarite operations officer, Lieutenant Trag chim Pog, and the female Vulcan flight controller, Lieutenant Tolaris. Behind Picard, Troi relieved Ensign th’Fesh, a young Andorian thaan who manned the security and tactical station overnight during Gamma Shift. Troi reviewed the reports on her console and keyed in a few commands. “Captain, you have an update from Memory Omega.”

“On my panel.” As soon as he’d spoken the command, the communiqué appeared on the small touch screen mounted beside his command chair. He activated the biometric security scan, which checked his genetic profile, retinal pattern, voiceprint, and quantum signature—all in a matter of nanoseconds. From his perspective, it was over as soon as it began. The encrypted message from the secret benefactors of the Galactic Commonwealth opened on his screen.

He made a quick perusal of its contents and closed it.

K’Ehleyr had learned to read his moods at a glance. “Bad news?”

“Let’s just say it was far from encouraging.” He dropped his voice to a more confidential volume. “Fifteen jaunt ships are standing by to reinforce us if this goes badly.”

“If this goes sideways, fifteen ships won’t begin to stanch the bleeding.”

“Trust me, Number One—I’m well aware of that fact.”

An alert beeped on Pog’s console. The yellow-furred Tellarite turned and looked back at Picard and K’Ehleyr, his solid-black eyes wide beneath fear-arched brows. “Tetryon surge inside the Denorios Belt. I think the wormhole is—” The image on the main viewscreen finished his thought with a brilliant tableau of swirling light and glowing ionized gases. A chasm in space-time unfurled itself, a vortex of cold fire born of forces Picard couldn’t begin to fathom.

A fleet of Jem’Hadar ships surged up and out of the wormhole, cruising in a solid battle formation on an intercept course for Bajor—and the Enterprise.

It’s begun.

Picard knew the attention of the Commonwealth—and the rest of the Alpha Quadrant—would be trained upon this moment, waiting for the shape of the future to be revealed. He took a calming breath and prepared himself to face the inevitable. He stood, smoothed the front of his black uniform, and forced his face into a semblance of courage.

“Lieutenant Commander Troi. . . . Open hailing frequencies.”

Four

There was peace in submersion. Beneath the surface of his heated patio swimming pool, Bashir neared the end of his ninth consecutive fifteen-meter underwater lap. He had taken to swimming laps first for the cardiovascular value of the full-body workout, but he had come to revel in his late-night swims for their solitude. His aquatic retreat refracted light and muffled sound, rendering the surface world into impressionistic blurs. It was as close as he could come to shutting out the world without removing himself from it.

Knowing these escapes were temporary and fleeting made them feel that much more precious. Privacy had become a commodity in short supply now that he was a celebrity—famous in most quarters of Andor, infamous nearly everywhere else. Even if he had wanted to fade into obscurity, that was no longer a possibility. All he could do now was keep a low profile and hope that the public’s notoriously short attention span would soon latch on to some new shiny object du jour and allow him to slip away, into the fog of the forgotten.

His outstretched hand found the wall of the pool. He tucked and curled through a flip-turn, determined to swim one more length underwater before coming up for air.

One hundred fifty meters of submerged swimming was an impressive feat for a human being, though far from unprecedented. Centuries earlier, before the advent of genetically augmented humans, the Earth record for a man swimming underwater without equipment had been 186 meters. A handful of twenty-fourth-century human men had pushed that record to 219 meters. Bashir had no illusions about his own athletic prowess. At the age of forty-four he was still very much in his prime, but he knew that he couldn’t last much beyond 160 meters underwater, and he had come close enough to death on several occasions that he no longer had a young man’s desire to flirt with its dark embrace.

The end of the pool shimmered into sight. Through the watery veil it resembled a mirage, but its glassy tiles were smooth and cool to the touch as his hand made contact. He exhaled what was left of the breath in his lungs, crowning himself with bubbles as he surfaced.

His face met the brisk night air. It was high summer in Sheras, on the western shore of the La’Vor Sea, but the frigid Andorian climate compelled Bashir to paraphrase an old human aphorism: The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer on Andor. He gasped, sending up a plume of vapor, then drew a long and much-needed breath as he wiped the chlorinated water from his eyes. Then he saw the man standing on the deck in front of him.

Bashir recognized his uninvited visitor at once. “Cole.”

“You flatter me, Doctor. After all this time, I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

The middle-aged human looked just as he had the first time they had met, nine years earlier. He was of medium height and build, with dark hair cropped close to his handsome, symmetrical head. His eyes were the same arresting hue of emerald, and he was still clean shaven. Like his peers in the nefarious secret organization known as Section 31, he was garbed in a leathery black uniform.

Everything about Cole—from his grooming and attire to his steady and confrontational posture—put Bashir on edge. He eyed the older man with suspicion. “As I recall, the first time we met you dosed me with an aerosolized psychotropic drug. What’s tonight’s trick? Spiking the water I swim in?”

“Nothing so gauche. I’d like to think we’re past the need for such tactics, wouldn’t you?”

Bashir climbed onto the wood-planked deck that ringed the pool and nodded toward his towel, which was draped over a chair behind Cole. “Do you mind?”

Cole handed Bashir the towel. “You’re looking well.”

Bashir dried himself. “What do you want?”

“Manners, Doctor. There’s no need for such rudeness.”

“Oh, really? The last time we met, you sent me on a manhunt into the Badlands, to fix one of your mistakes. If memory serves, that ‘simple assignment’ became a bloodbath. To be blunt, Mister Cole, your presence conjures less than cordial memories.”

The accusations drew a thin smile of mild embarrassment from Cole. “Touché.”

Bashir lifted his thick gray cotton robe from a hook on the privacy wall of mortared stones that surrounded the deck. “It’s late. Do us both a favor and get to the point.”

The agent crossed his arms. “As you wish. There’s a situation developing that will very likely require a response from the organization. Because of the specific details of this crisis, I think you’re uniquely qualified to be of help.”

“Not interested.” Bashir tied his robe shut.

“You haven’t heard the details yet.”

“I don’t need to. I was opposed to everything your organization represents when we met nine years ago, and I find it—and you—just as offensive now.”

A mirthless smirk hinted at Cole’s growing ire. “What aspect of our remit offends you? The part where we save innocent lives? Or the one where we defend the Federation?”

“I object to your utter lack of accountability. You act without legal authority, oversight, ethics, or humanity. You’re a cancer infecting the Federation, an infection I’d gladly excise.”

Cole shrugged. “I guess it’s true. You can’t please everyone.”

Bashir took a step toward Cole, intending to confront him, but halted as the agent uncrossed his arms and let his hands fall to his sides, open and tensed to act. Subtle shifts in the older man’s balance and posture signaled that he was ready to defend himself, and that he would likely prove to be a merciless opponent in hand-to-hand combat. Sensing that he was out of his league against a trained killer such as Cole, Bashir backed off just enough to signal he had no intention of pressing an attack. “Joke all you like; I find nothing funny about what you are.”

“What I am, Doctor, is effective. Something you ceased to be the moment you let yourself get drummed out of Starfleet.” He pivoted from his hips, making a show of looking around with disdain at the luxury residence Bashir now shared with Sarina. “You can’t tell me this is your idea of a meaningful life?”

“Actually, I’m planning on opening a private practice here on Andor.”

The agent let out a short, derisive chortle. “Of course you are.”

“Meaning what?”

“Where else can you go? As I understand it, Andor’s the only planet that’ll give you a license to practice medicine these days.” He held up a hand to forestall Bashir’s rebuttal. “Yes, I know Federation law says other member worlds have to recognize your license—full faith and credit, and so on. But without a Federation-issued license, you’d have to retake your board exams on every world you visit before you could practice there. Sounds inconvenient to me.”

Anger began to show through Bashir’s carefully crafted mask of indifference. “If all you have left to offer are insults, feel free to do your disappearing trick anytime now.”

“I’m not trying to pick a fight with you, Doctor. All I’m saying is, I understand how . . . unfulfilling your current circumstances must feel. Until now, you’d spent your entire adult life either in Starfleet or at its academy, preparing for your medical career. Now the admiralty’s cast you aside for no better reason than you caused them some embarrassment, by doing what they should have had the courage to do in the first place. You’ve devoted your life to others, to serving the Federation and the ideals for which it stands. Are you really going to spend the rest of your life on the outside looking in, just because Starfleet says so? Come work with us, and you can still serve the Federation—where, when, and how you’re most needed.”

Bashir moved beneath the heat lamps, under the trellis in front of the sliding glass doors that led to the top floor of his and Sarina’s hilltop villa. He looked back at Cole and shook his head. “I see what you’re trying to do. It won’t work. Appealing to my wounded pride isn’t nearly enough to make me abandon my principles, no matter how patriotic you try to make it sound.”

“What if I told you the Breen are looking for a way to reach the alternate universe? The one you visited back in 2370 with your pal Kira Nerys.”

That news snared Bashir’s attention. “Why would the Breen want to go there?”

“To steal advanced technology. The Terran Rebellion you helped inspire won its revolution a few years ago, with a little help from some folks a lot like us. Unfortunately for them, their success has painted a target on their backs—and the Breen are taking aim.”

It was a troubling scenario, but Bashir knew better than to take Section 31 at its word. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth? What proof do you have?”

“Nothing solid. Not yet, anyway. For now, we have to rely on educated guesswork.”

“I see. More smoke and mirrors. The same old story.” He walked toward the glass doors, which parted in response to his approach. Warm air billowed out of the villa and washed over him. “Sorry, but I won’t sell my soul in the name of ‘guesswork.’ ”

Cole still sounded confident. “So if I bring you solid evidence, you’re in?”

Bashir stopped and looked back at Cole. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” A sinister smile deepened the creases of the agent’s weathered face. “I’ll be in touch, Doctor. Good night.”

Bright colors washed over Cole from crown to sole. He flickered and pixelated for an instant, and then he vanished like a dream lost at the moment of awakening.

Bashir gazed upon the empty space left behind by the interactive hologram of Cole. For all his protests, he had been expecting a visit from Section 31 for some time. The only surprise had been the organization’s decision to use Cole as their messenger.

He stepped away from the doors. They slid closed, leaving Bashir to regard the dark outline of his reflection on their tinted glass. So far, my infiltration of Thirty-one is going exactly as Sarina and I planned. He frowned at his shadow self. That can’t be a good sign.

*  *  *

Sarina Douglas knew whom she would find waiting for her when she reached the Kathela Falls Bridge. The long, narrow walkway, which passed behind the falls’ roaring wall of water, was deserted except for the Vulcan woman who had summoned her. Though Sarina was not prone to acrophobia, she avoided looking down through the transparent aluminum walkway plates at the vertiginous drop to the falls’ indigo lake, more than three kilometers below.

She stopped beside L’Haan, who stared at the curtain of falling water. The Section 31 handler’s voice was low and dispassionate, yet tinged with notes of accusation. “You said he would cooperate. That he would be receptive to our overtures.”

“If you had been the ones to liberate him from the black site prison—”

“That wasn’t an option.” The bangs of L’Haan’s Cleopatra-cut black hair stayed in place even as she turned and tilted her head in a birdlike pose. “Why did he refuse our invitation?”

“From what I heard, he made his reasons clear to your man Cole.”

“I’m not interested in his naïve rationale. I want your explanation for this setback. You assured me that once he was out of Starfleet, he’d be ready to join us. What happened?”

Sarina faced L’Haan, deliberately leaning in to encroach on the older woman’s personal space. “You want to know what happened? The pardon is what happened. We were supposed to approach him when he had no other options—no career, no home, no allies left in Starfleet. But you let the Andorians spring him from prison. Then zh’Tarash gave him a clean slate, and the Andorians gave him a new medical license. He doesn’t need us now.”

“You didn’t account for those possibilities?”

“No, and neither did you. Because when we started this, there was no way we could’ve known the sitting president protem would turn out to be a war criminal with a stolen identity. Or that his chief of staff would end up in prison. Or that Andor would get fast-tracked back into the Federation. Or that an Andorian would win a surprise victory in the presidential election—and end up granting a full pardon to the man who saved her species from extinction.”

L’Haan backed away from Sarina and turned her eyes back toward the water. “When one frames the situation in those terms, the paradigm shift becomes easier to understand.” She tapped her right index finger against the bridge’s railing. “We need him for this mission.”

“I can bring him into the organization.”

“How?”

“Exactly as you predicted four years ago. The key to Bashir is his sense of romance. He loves me. There’s nothing he won’t do for me. If I ask him to join us, he will.”

It was a bold suggestion, and a dangerous one. Sarina knew it was necessary to expedite Julian’s infiltration into Section 31, but she had to make sure the organization didn’t suspect her true motives, or Julian’s.

As she’d expected, L’Haan met the notion with a dubious glare. “Do you think it’s wise to risk abandoning your cover? Revealing yourself to him as one of our agents might sabotage all your efforts to secure his affections.”

She shook her head. “Not a chance. I know how to control him now. He’ll be upset at first. He’ll resist, and he’ll argue. He might even try to turn me. But in the end he’ll decide I matter more to him than his hatred for Section Thirty-one.”

The Vulcan considered Sarina’s argument, then gave a grudging nod. “Very well. But this has to work, Agent Douglas. If he betrays you to Starfleet, we’ll have to eliminate you both.”

“I understand—but that’s not going to happen. Trust me: I can deliver Bashir.”

“When?”

“Midnight tomorrow.”

“See that you do.” L’Haan retreated into the icy shadows without offering Sarina so much as a token gesture of valediction.

Alone on the bridge, Sarina watched the plunging water vanish into the misty depths far beneath her feet, and she remembered that according to Andorian legends, Kathela Falls was where star-crossed lovers came to take their own lives. Then she reflected upon the disastrous course she had just set for herself and Julian, and wondered whether L’Haan had understood the cultural significance of the place she had chosen for this fateful meeting.

She stared into the blue gloom where the falls met the lake, and she faced the bitter truth. No turning back now. We’re already over the edge—and there’s nowhere left to go but down.

Five

The Alternate Universe

Kersil Regon waited on the shore. Kilometers away, in the middle of the shallow lake, stood a twisted mountain of metallic wreckage and broken thermoconcrete—the shattered remains of the once proud floating city known as Stratos. At home on Cardassia Prime, Regon had grown up surrounded by monuments to victory and success. Not until she had come here, to the now abandoned protectorate world of Ardana, had she ever seen a shrine to failure.

She was tempted to read too much into the fate of the dead metropolis. It had been felled years earlier by renegades acting on behalf of the Terran Rebellion. Her poetical nature wanted to extract a metaphor from the city’s tragic end, but she dismissed the urge. It had been destroyed because its incompetent Klingon half-breed intendant, B’Elanna Torres, had been too foolish to see the threat of the rebellion for what it was, and too weak to defend herself from it.

Regon’s mood turned maudlin. No one can save us from ourselves.

Footsteps crunched on the rocky ground behind her. Approaching with long strides and heavy steps was Kort, a Klingon whose assignment at Imperial Intelligence was the same as Regon’s had once been at the now disbanded Obsidian Order. He had donned drab civilian clothing for their meeting, just as she had done.

They met, clasped each other’s forearms, then came together in a brief embrace. Kort bared his jagged teeth in a broad grin. “It’s been too long, dear Regon.”

They parted, and she gave him an approving nod. “You’re looking well, Kort.”

“All an illusion, I assure you.”

Up close, she saw that the furrows in Kort’s weathered face had deepened beyond what could be blamed on time’s relentless passage. His angular features had become careworn.

Despite her curiosity, she elected not to pry into his personal life. Instead, she turned her eyes toward the broken peaks of Mount Stratos and steered their conversation toward business. “Thank you for coming. I know it can’t have been easy for you to get away.”

“No more challenging than it must have been for you.” He took in the bleak landscape with a disappointed frown. “We used to own all of this. Now we’re trespassers here.”

She was suspicious of his seemingly innocent choice of pronoun. “I presume when you say ‘we’ used to own all of this, you mean the Alliance—not merely the Klingon Empire.”

He feigned offense. “Naturally.” A teasing smile dispelled his charade. “You and I might not agree which of our peoples deserved to be the dominant partner in the Alliance, but we’ve always agreed they were stronger together than separately.”

“True. That’s why I contacted you.” She crossed her arms against a cold wind that gusted over them and rippled the surface of the lake. “Ever since the armistice, Damar has done his best to erase the Obsidian Order from existence, but many of its members remain. And they don’t look kindly upon his détente with the rebels, or their new commonwealth.”

A chortle masquerading as a cough rolled inside Kort’s barrel chest. “I’m sure his support of the Oralian Way hasn’t won him much love from the old guard, either.”

“Your gift for understatement is rarely seen in Klingons.”

“A consequence of circumstance. Regent Duras has been vexing the High Council and the high command of the Defense Force with his talk of restoring the ancient codes of honor. It seems no one ever told him ‘Kahless’ is just a name. He treats it like a magical totem.”

“I confess I’m torn when it comes to your regent. On the one hand, I despise him for appeasing the rebels by recognizing their government. On the other, he has been quite generous to Cardassia in its time of need.”

Kort gathered a mouthful of spit with a great wet rasp, then spat on the ground between himself and Regon. “Curse him and his charity. The strong should not coddle the weak.”

His implied insult made a murderous chill course through Regon’s veins. She reined in her urge to draw the blade hidden beneath her sleeve and slash the Klingon’s throat. “Save your venom for the real enemy, Kort. Cardassia’s clandestine services have been neutered, but those of us who still know how to do our jobs have learned something worth sharing. That is, if you and your allies at Imperial Intelligence are interested in restoring the balance of power.”

“I belong to a shadow section that stands ready to act.” His eyes narrowed beneath their shaggy brows. “What have your people learned?”

Regon wondered how much Kort knew. It was possible he was fishing with a naked hook, hoping to reel in some morsel of actionable intel while giving up nothing of value in return. Or he might pretend to do so, soliciting help from her and then withholding his own. Despite the many times they had saved each other’s lives in previous decades, she still found it hard to trust him, now that they both were desperate for leverage.

Faced with no better alternative, she chose to put her trust in her old brother spy. “Our sensor posts have been tracking the Commonwealth’s fleet. They’re usually hopping all over the place, sometimes so fast we can barely keep up with them. But over the past week they’ve been oddly static. As if they’re waiting for something. Something significant.”

The Klingon digested that news with a pensive grunt. “Interesting. One of our scout ships reported yesterday that a small fleet of alien vessels arrived through the Bajoran wormhole.”

“An alien fleet? From the Gamma Quadrant?”

“So it seems. We’re still trying to decrypt their comms with the jaunt ship that was sent to meet them. All we know so far is that the newcomers hail from what they call the Dominion.”

The pieces of the puzzle aligned in Regon’s imagination. “That must be what has the Commonwealth fleet on alert. They’re all standing by in case they need to go to war.”

“Wishful thinking, dear Regon. And not a shred of proof to support it.” He grinned. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Maybe not. But we’ll both need to change if you want to come with me.”

“Why? Where will you be going?”

“To Bajor. The only way to know what’s really happening there is to put ourselves in the thick of it. And to do that”—she stroked his cheek—“we’ll have to be able to fit in.”

Kort winced at her implication. “Cosmetic surgery? Tell me you aren’t serious.”

“Unfortunately, I am. But look on the bright side.” She leaned close to him and breathed a coquettish whisper into his ear. “For once, we won’t be able to tell which of us is the prettier.”

*  *  *

The thoroughfares of Erebus Station coursed with activity. Director Saavik moved along the edges of the crowd. The elderly Vulcan woman passed one docked jaunt ship after another. Steady currents of young men and women, hailing from a variety of species, moved on and off the vessels. Some were members of the ships’ crews; others were engineers and mechanics who were involved in preparing the Commonwealth’s next fleet for launch in a few weeks.

Saavik remembered the early years of Erebus Station, when it had been all but deserted, an automated shipyard programmed to first build itself and then to construct the wormhole-drive jaunt ships that had changed the fate of the galaxy by giving the Terran Rebellion an unassailable advantage over the now defunct Klingon-Cardassian Alliance. The station’s vast interior spaces had echoed with emptiness, and its arresting view of the entirety of the Milky Way galaxy’s elliptical spiral, as seen from more than two hundred thousand light-years away, had gone unappreciated. As jealously as Saavik guarded her scant hours of quiet solitude, she preferred to see Erebus Station alive with the hustle and bustle of daily activity.

Except when it interrupted her train of thought.

“Director Saavik? Excuse me! Director Saavik!”

The urgency of Sherlas Rokaath’s plea for attention stopped Saavik in the middle of the station’s central concourse. She watched the young Zakdorn wend his way through the floodcrush of pedestrian traffic. His struggle to catch up to her reminded Saavik of a fish fighting a river’s current to return to its ancestral spawning waters. By the time he reached her side, he was more than a bit winded. He bent forward and grabbed his knees. A moment later he held up one hand, a pleading gesture for patience. “Sorry. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“You should have paged me.”

“We tried, Director. Several times.”

Saavik concealed her fleeting mild embarrassment. Age was starting to take its toll on her, in ways both crude and subtle. One of her body’s more insidious betrayals had been the slow degradation of her hearing. “My apologies, Rokaath. I will have my aural implant adjusted. Now—what do you need to tell me?”

He held out a padd. “The QR sensors detected a dimensional breach.”

She took the padd from him. “An incursion from the other universe?” She skimmed the report, expecting the worst. Most of the previous crossovers from the other universe had occurred in the Bajor system—the one locale in which neither Memory Omega nor the Galactic Commonwealth could afford a disruption at this critical juncture. When she saw the coordinates of the breach, she was surprised. “It occurred inside Breen space?”

“Just barely.” Rokaath reached over and touched an icon on the padd’s screen to call up a map of the sector around the anomaly. “It happened within less than a light-year of the Commonwealth’s neutral zone.”

“Most unusual.” Saavik turned and walked at a brisker pace than she had before.

Rokaath hurried after her. “What do you think it means?”

“I have insufficient data to draw a conclusion.” She turned a corner and quick-stepped toward a nearby bank of turbolifts that would take her to the station’s subspace transporter facility. “Come with me. We need to return to Omega Prime.”

She led him into an open lift pod. As soon as the doors closed, she spoke her destination for the computer to hear: “Subspace transport.” The lift pod sped away without any discernible sensation of movement; only the flashing of lit panels on the bulkheads and a steady hum of electromagnetic drivers signaled their rapid passage to the station’s core.

The pod’s doors opened on a long passageway. Saavik and Rokaath exited the lift. Despite his youth and longer legs, he had to exert himself to keep pace with her, and he sounded out of breath as he spoke. “Do you think the Breen know about the incursion?”

Saavik tapped the padd and called up a tactical report. “Unlikely. We’ve detected no changes in their fleet deployments since the breach.”

“That’s good.”

“Not necessarily. It might suggest the Breen caused the event.”

The Zakdorn’s ridged, gray face scrunched with doubt. “I don’t see how they could have. They have no ships or stations anywhere near those coordinates.”

“Then that is good news.” She turned right, and a tall pair of doors parted ahead of her. Rokaath followed her inside a cavernous, silo-shaped compartment. Three curved banks of glossy companels ringed an elevated platform, which was accessible by short stairs between the control stations. White-jacketed technicians hailing from several species manned the various posts. One of them, a dignified-looking graybeard of a Tellarite, cracked a broad smile at Saavik. “Good morning, Director.”

“Hello, Doctor Treg. Please set coordinates for Omega Prime.”

“Yes, Director.” He nodded at his colleagues, who translated the order into action.

Saavik and Rokaath ascended the nearest flight of steps to the platform. They stood at arm’s length from each other in the center of the dais.

Treg checked the master console, which stood apart from the others. “Coordinates locked, coils charged.” He looked up at Saavik. “Ready on your mark.”

“Energize.”

The Tellarite scientist activated the subspace transporter. The oppressive force of the annular confinement beam seized hold of Saavik. It was an unpleasant feature of the system, but a necessary one to prevent mishaps during the dematerialization sequence. Next came a brilliant flash of white light that prompted Saavik’s inner eyelid to blink shut for her own protection, just as those of her ancestors would have done against the glare of Vulcan’s fierce desert sun.

The blinding flare abated. Saavik and Rokaath stood in a chamber identical to the one they had left on Erebus Station, but this one was located in the secret headquarters of Memory Omega, which was sequestered deep inside an enormous asteroid in the Zeta Serpentis system.

Looking back at her from this room’s master control panel was its Andorian supervisor. The tall, gaunt-faced thaan greeted Saavik with a small nod. “Welcome back, Director.”

“Thank you, Arrithar. Inform the observation lab that I’ll be down to see them directly.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She led Rokaath off the platform and out of the room. They crossed the corridor and stepped into the lift. Saavik ordered the computer, “Observation lab.” The lift hummed into motion, hurtling swiftly deeper into the core of Zeta Serpentis.

Rokaath grew anxious. “We need to secure the breach site as soon as we can.”

“We need all the jaunt ships standing by in case something goes wrong at Bajor.”

“All of them? We can’t spare even one? What if someone’s crossing over?”

His presumption vexed her to no end. “So far there’s no evidence of any crossing. You yourself told me we’ve detected no ships in that vicinity. No, this doesn’t merit a jaunt ship. Not yet, anyway. We’ll investigate through subtler means.”

“And if further action is required?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” The lift stopped, the doors opened. She led him to a checkpoint area secured by a variety of biometric scanners. “Saavik, authorization one nine alpha sierra seven kilo blue.”

As she crossed the room, devices she couldn’t even see confirmed her genetic profile; others verified her retinal pattern and voiceprint. One checked the distribution of her body mass while a related system analyzed her kinetic profile. By the time she reached the reinforced blast door on the far side of the room, it moved aside to grant her ingress to one of Memory Omega’s most closely guarded tactical secrets: the observation lab.

It was a small octagonal chamber just twelve meters across, and fewer than four meters from floor to ceiling. Its perimeter was packed with the fastest, most powerful computers Memory Omega possessed—all linked to the bizarre machine in the center of the room.

The bulk of the contraption was a free-floating gyroscope with a harness seat, all encased in two interlocking hemispheres of transparent aluminum. Welded to the harness seat’s frame, in a position optimized for viewing by its occupant, was a curve-cornered, rectangular frame of gray metal with a width-to-height ratio of 2.35:1. The frame was curved forward on both sides into a 120-degree arc.

Its inner sphere was enveloped by a larger one, also composed of transparent aluminum. Repulsor emitters lined the interior surface of the outer sphere and generated a steady field of uniformly distributed energy that kept the inner sphere suspended in place while also permitting it to pitch, yaw, and rotate freely on all three axes. Precisely ten centimeters of empty space separated the two hollow orbs.

Outside the spheres, four massive robotic arms—two mounted in the floor, two anchored in the ceiling—stood ready to seize the hemispheres when it came time to part them, whether for routine maintenance or to facilitate the comings and goings of its operators.

Inside the machine, strapped into the harness seat, was one of Memory Omega’s most skilled operators of the quantum window: a doe-eyed young human woman named Jesi Mullins. Her long dark hair was gathered into a utilitarian bun behind her head. Perspiration shimmered on her forehead as she guided the gyroscope back to equilibrium and a gentle stop.

Monitoring her progress from a control station a few meters away from the machine was the project’s current supervisor, Doctor Tsemiar. The lanky Efrosian wore his long white hair loose and wild, and his snowy mustache drooped and curled upward again with incomparable élan. Only the slightest hint of crow’s-feet beside his pale blue eyes betrayed his imminent slide into middle age. He noted Saavik and Rokaath’s arrival with raised eyebrows. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”

“It shouldn’t be. I told Arrithar to advise you I was coming.”

“And so he did. I merely sought to soften the rough edges of our day with a bit—”

“We need to use the machine.” Her interruption sounded more brusque out loud than she had intended, but she knew that Tsemiar could prattle on endlessly unless one curtailed his verbosity. She handed Rokaath the padd and pointed him toward the control panel. “Mister Rokaath will program the new coordinates.”

Mullins shot a desperate look at Tsemiar. “Doc? I’ve been strapped in for almost six hours. I need a break.”

Tsemiar’s eyes brimmed with pathos as he looked to Saavik for mercy. “I agree with her, Director. We should bring in a fresh operator.”

“No. This is a priority assignment. I need your best—and that’s her.”

The soft-spoken scientist demurred with a slight bow of his head. “As you wish.”

Mullins breathed an angry sigh that resonated inside the spheres. “Thanks a lot, Doc.”

Rokaath keyed in the coordinates of the breach, and then he looked at Saavik. “Which frequency? Ours or theirs?”

“Start with ours. If something made it through, we need to know immediately. If not, we can shift our investigation to their side and see what they’re up to over there.”

Rokaath tuned the machine. Countless times over the past century, Saavik had seen Memory Omega’s brightest minds use the quantum window to spy on a seemingly infinite variety of parallel universes—not for the sake of contact, or to discover the true extent of the multiverse. They had done it for two reasons only: to identify potential threats to their universe and neutralize them before they manifested, and to discover the greatest technologies of thousands of other realities—and steal them for Memory Omega.

The image of deep space appeared inside the holographic frame of the quantum window. Mullins rotated the gyroscope and let it free-tumble as she searched the interstellar void for any sign of an interloper from the most troublesome parallel universe of all—their closest quantum neighbor, whose previous incursions had altered the course of this universe’s destiny. The computer superimposed semitransparent, real-time telemetry and sensor data over the image while she worked.

Rokaath handed off the control panel to Tsemiar and returned to Saavik’s side. He sounded worried. “What if our friends from the other side are up to their old tricks again?”

“Then we might need to teach them the same lesson we taught the Alliance: that they cross us at their peril.”

Six

Every meeting was different. It was for security reasons, they had told Sarina, and once the methods were explained to her, she had understood. A major part of the rationale was to avoid creating anything that might be interpreted as a pattern, by whoever might be observing an agent. The result was that she never knew until the very last moment what to expect of her next meeting with Ilirra Deel, her Starfleet Intelligence liaison.

Sarina’s instructions came in the form of anonymous personal advertisements placed in various daily periodicals. Sometimes, if it was unclear where she would be when the message was sent, a global or interplanetary publication was used. At times when her location was relatively stable, such as her current residence on Andor, local media were used instead.

A complex set of ciphers governed the code. Different keywords were used to identify a coded message depending upon the date and the day of the week. Thanks to Sarina’s genetically enhanced eidetic memory, it had been easy for her to memorize the patterns.

Most often, the message was concealed in whatever section of the personals existed for “missed connections” or “casual encounters.” They were always phrased in the past tense, as if to imply the paths of strangers had crossed and one of them was reaching out in the desperate hope of reconnecting. Sarina often wondered whether anyone who placed or browsed such ads ever found the person they’d sought, or recognized themselves in someone else’s plea for contact. She doubted it. All she needed from the coded ads meant for her was a place and a time, and some hint as to what disguise Deel would be using to conceal their sub rosa meeting.

When Sarina needed to set the meeting—as was the case on this occasion—she used her own version of the cipher, one in which she posed as a male Bolian with a speech impediment seeking a second chance to make a first impression on some fetching beauty or other. On such occasions, Sarina dictated the specifics of Deel’s disguise. To amuse herself, she had taken to imposing the most absurd details she could think of—much to the Betazoid woman’s dismay.

Left to her own devices, Deel chose pedestrian cover identities, personas she could easily slip into and out of on a moment’s notice: a prim Vulcan woman with a penchant for midnight blue apparel; an auburn-haired, blue-eyed Trill student whose allergies to most ophthalmic medications and ocular implants forced her to correct her vision with old-fashioned glasses; or, when she was feeling lazy, she would simply wear blue contact lenses to cover her solid-black irises and don a blond wig to pose as a human.

For today’s meeting, Sarina had been determined to make Deel work a bit harder.

Sarina was the first to arrive at the meeting site in New Therin Park. It was only a short walk from the Federation Security Agency’s office tower in Lor’Vela, which had been appointed the new capital of Andor after the Borg invasion leveled the previous capital nearly five years earlier. She found a bench in the middle of the park, near one of the natural hot springs that sustained the lush green oasis, and pretended to read from a padd.

The bench across from hers was empty. Because it was early, just past dawn, there were few people in the park other than herself and a few joggers, plus a small multispecies group practicing tai chi on the south lawn.

A few minutes later, Deel arrived, disguised as Sarina had directed. Every exposed bit of Deel’s flesh had been painted the dark green of an Orion, and she wore a copper-hued wig that contrasted sharply with the rich emerald color of her eyes. Completing the portrait of a woman out of her element, she was decked out in an uncomfortable-looking latex bodysuit accessorized with thigh-high boots and an extra-short imitation leather jacket.

Deel made a point of avoiding eye contact with Sarina, who nonetheless felt the Betazoid’s resentment radiating toward her like the heat of a bonfire. Then she heard her liaison’s viperous telepathic voice inside her head.

<<I’ll get you for this.>>

Even though Sarina had no native telepathic ability, she had been trained by Deel to serve as an active receiver for psionic contact. Deel did most of the work; she had been born a gifted telepath, even by Betazoid standards. Now, after years of working together at Starfleet Intelligence, they had grown quite adept at sharing their thoughts.

Sarina focused her mind to reply, as Deel had taught her during her first months of training as an agent. Don’t be so dramatic. You look great.

<<I look like a damned socialator.>>

Socialator was a Betazoid euphemism for prostitute. As much as Sarina wanted to laugh at her friend’s expense, she concentrated on keeping her face slack and emotionless, and her eyes on her padd, as she projected her thoughts back at Deel. You’re too smart to be a socialator. Now, if you’re done feeling sorry for yourself—

<<Do you have any idea how long it takes to put this makeup on? I ought to kill you.>>

All in due time, Ilirra. They made contact with Julian last night.

That revelation added focus and intensity to Deel’s mental voice. <<What happened?>>

It was Cole. He all but rolled out the red carpet for him.

Across the path, Deel looked one way and then the other, as if searching for her absent connection, but her thoughts remained focused on Sarina. <<What did Julian tell him?>>

He played hard to get, like we planned.

<<Make sure he doesn’t resist too much.>> Deel feigned a disappointed sigh and stuffed her hands in her jacket’s pockets. <<We don’t know how many overtures Thirty-one is likely to make. If this is the last time they reach out to him, we can’t afford to let this opportunity slip away. We need you both on the inside to make the plan work.>>

Sarina tapped on the screen of her padd. I’m aware of that. But the Andorians crapped on the plan when they sprang him from jail, and zh’Tarash flushed what was left of it when she pardoned him. If Julian accepts Thirty-one’s invitation without a good reason, they’ll know something’s up. If you want me to get him inside, I’ll need to give him a better cover story.

<<Give him any legend you like, as long as it works.>>

We’ve already got one worked out. If it flies, I should have him inside Thirty-one by tomorrow morning.

<<And if it crashes and burns?>>

Sarina stood, tucked her padd inside her handbag, and walked away.

Then it’s been nice working with you, Ilirra.

*  *  *

Bashir’s enhanced hearing picked up the sound of Sarina’s footsteps while she was still outside their villa’s front door, crossing the walkway from the landing platform where they parked their personal transport pods. By the time she opened the front door, he had prepared himself for the scene they had planned the night before, under the cover of their sensor-jamming, synthetically produced cone of forced privacy. Everything they had worked toward for the past three years, all he had sacrificed in the name of conscience and duty, would be forfeit unless they played their roles perfectly in the next few minutes.

It took all his willpower to remain calm and keep his heart rate and breathing slow. If Section 31 was spying on him and Sarina—and he was sure they were—then they would be monitoring his vital signs for any sign of deceit or duplicity. He couldn’t afford to give them a single reason to doubt him or Sarina. That meant he needed to remain aware of every aspect of his feigned physical and mental states. He needed to lie so persuasively that even he believed his own falsehoods. He needed to own this charade so deeply that it became his new truth.

But, for now, he had to appear calm. He sipped his chamomile tea and set the cup on its saucer. Then he called out over his shoulder, “How was your day?”

Sarina drifted into the room, well submerged into her role as a woman struggling under the burden of a terrible secret. She subtly wrung her hands as she sat beside him on the sofa. Her averted eyes and taut posture made her a portrait of guilt and apprehension.

He regarded her with tender concern. “Is something wrong?”

She took her time mustering her faux courage. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“All right. I’m listening.”

She stalled with a sharp draw of breath. “It won’t be easy for you to hear.”

That was his cue to turn his affectionate worry into the first inkling of dread. “What is it?” He touched her shoulder, as if he thought he needed physical contact to draw her out. “No matter what it is, you can trust me.”

“That’s the problem, Julian. What I’m saying is . . . you can’t trust me. Or you shouldn’t have. I—” Her voice caught, and tears shimmered in her eyes. “I’ve been lying to you.”

He pulled back his hand. “About what?” As he leaned forward to reestablish eye contact with her, she turned away. “What’s this about?” Bashir darkened his countenance with jealous anger. “Is there someone else? . . . There is, isn’t there? Who is it?”

She shook her head. “No, no. It’s not— I mean, you—” She hid her face in her hands, slowed her breathing, and looked up at him with sorrow-reddened eyes. “It’s not that.”

Impatience put an edge on his voice. “What is it, then?”

Sarina stood and paced away from the sofa. She stopped to gaze out the broad picture window. The apparition of her reflection looked back at him from its surface, while beyond it the low urban nightscape of Sherlas glittered in the distance beneath an indigo sky.

“I’m not who you think I am, Julian.”

He did his best to sound confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Last year . . . when I accessed the Meta-Genome data for you. I didn’t get it through my contacts in Starfleet Intelligence.”

Now it was Bashir’s turn to stand. He took a hesitant step toward her. “What are you saying? Where did it come from? How did you get it?”

“I used my real contacts—inside Section Thirty-one.”

He froze and concentrated on making his mind draw a blank and his face go pale. A hard swallow left his jaw tight enough for him to mutter with convincing horror, “You did what?”

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Then she opened them and turned to face him. “I’m one of them, Julian. I’m part of the organization.”

Bashir let her “confession” take a few seconds to sink in. His outward expression shifted from shock to dismay, and then from fury to despair, all in less than half a minute. He turned away from her and stumbled back to the sofa. As his knees met its edge, he pivoted and collapsed onto it, sprawled like a beached invertebrate. “How? Why?”

“It was the only logical choice, Julian. Do you remember when Starfleet asked me and the others to help analyze their war-game scenarios against the Dominion?”

He didn’t react, though he did recall the first time he had met her, many years earlier, during the war. Back then Sarina had been practically catatonic, a victim of a genetic resequencing gone wrong. Her neural pathways had been accelerated almost beyond the ability of science to measure, but her sensory inputs hadn’t been upgraded to match. Consequently, all her mental processes had fallen out of sync, leaving her trapped in her own mind, her thoughts racing ahead of her perceptions, her body lagging behind her will to action.

However, he had found her locked-in syndrome almost endearing when compared to the behavior of her fellow patients: Jack’s violent mania, Lauren’s predatory sexual advances, and Patrick’s childlike naïveté. They all were products of genetic augmentation gone wrong. There was little that Bashir or modern medicine could do for most of them, but Bashir had been able to correct Sarina’s synaptic asynchronization. Since then, she had in many ways become his equal in her intellectual development—and, in some ways, she had far exceeded even his impressive abilities. In the process, she had become the woman he had waited his entire life to find: one who could not only keep up with him but also challenge him to better himself.

Now he had to convince whoever was watching and listening to them that she had crushed all his dreams for their future together. He stayed quiet and let Sarina take the spotlight.

She kneeled beside him. “Remember when we analyzed the threats facing the Federation? It looked hopeless. And if the facts we’d been given were true, it would have been hopeless. But we didn’t know the Federation had another line of defense, one that its enemies rarely see: Thirty-one.” He rolled away from her, but she grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back, forced him to look her in the eye. “We live in a hostile universe, Julian. There are powers we can scarcely imagine that would like nothing better than to see us erased from creation. The organization exists to keep that wolf from the Federation’s door.”

He shook his head. “No. You can’t tell me you believe their lies.”

“Lies, truth. You act like those are absolutes, but they’re not. One person’s truth is another’s lie. The only absolutes in the cosmos are life and death. Existence and oblivion.”

“No, there has to be more than that. Or else nothing we do matters.”

She pressed her palm to his cheek. “You mean morals, Julian? Can you still be that innocent, after all the horrors you’ve seen? After all the blood you’ve shed?”

He got up and retreated from her, tripping over furniture and his own feet as he backpedaled toward the kitchen. “I don’t even know who you are. You betrayed me.”

She wore a disappointed frown. “No, I’m trying to save you. I’m still the same person I was yesterday. The same person you thought I was. Nothing is different between us.”

“How can you say that? It’s all different! This changes everything!”

“Like what? It doesn’t change the fact that I love you. And I think that if you look into your heart, and if you’re honest with yourself . . . you’ll see that you still love me.”

He trembled with unchained fury. Tears brimmed in his eyes. “If you loved me, you wouldn’t have lied to me.” He slammed the side of his fist against the counter. “All this time!” He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “Wait! How long? When did this start?” His bark became a roar. “When did you join them?”

“They recruited me a month before I joined Starfleet Intelligence. In fact, I applied to SI because the organization asked me to. They wanted someone like me on the inside.” Somehow, she made her cheeks flush on cue. “And they told me to seduce you into the organization.”

Losing himself in the role, he let her words knock him back half a step, as if he’d been gut-punched. His voice trembled. “So that’s all this has been, since the beginning. Just a sham, all of it. You . . . me . . . the mission to Salavat . . . everything since then. Just one big lie.”

“Not everything. When I first joined, they didn’t even want you. They’d given up on you. They thought you’d never see reason, that you’d never understand why the Federation needs them. But I convinced them you could still be an asset. That you could learn to see clearly.”

He recoiled with ersatz offense. “Learn to see clearly? Are you mad?”

“Julian, you’re not just smart—you’re a goddamned genius. You know as well as I do that for all its noble talk, the Federation would be little more than the galaxy’s punching bag if it didn’t have someone to do the dirty work. Someone willing to make the hard decisions.”

“That’s why it has an elected council and a president, and why they appoint intelligence services to protect the interests of the Federation. Thirty-one has no charter, no oversight—”

“And a near-perfect track record of safeguarding the Federation from all threats, foreign and domestic, for nearly two hundred and thirty years.” She moved into the kitchen and cornered him. “It doesn’t exist to run the government, Julian. It doesn’t dictate how people live their lives. Most of the time, it stays hands-off, out of the picture. It’s only when someone or something comes along that threatens the safety of the Federation that it takes action.” She gently grasped his arms and stared at him until he looked into her eyes. “I know you, Julian. And Cole was right—you won’t be happy living on the sidelines. You joined Starfleet so you could be on the frontier, exploring and making a difference. You’ll never be satisfied with your life unless you know you’re being of service.” Her hands traveled up his arms, over his shoulders and neck, to the sides of his face. “We all need to serve something greater than ourselves, Julian. Even when that something turns its back on us.” Her face inched closer to his. “The organization is offering you a chance to go on serving the Federation. To live a life worthy of your potential. You should take it . . . Join me, Julian.”

He bowed his forehead against hers. “You’re asking me to serve something I hate.”

“No, I’m asking you to go on serving the Federation. The organization is just a tool.” She embraced him and whispered into his ear. “If we become part of it, we can change it. We can try to guide it. You say the organization has no conscience. We can become its conscience. We both need to be part of something that matters, and the organization needs us to steer it in the right direction. I can’t do it alone, Julian. I need you. Come with me.”

He kissed her, doing his best to believe she was still acting and not in fact trying to pull him down into the ethical morass of Section 31. Their lips parted, and tears fell from his eyes. “I won’t do it for the Federation. And I don’t give a damn about saving Thirty-one’s soul.” He kissed her again, then gently lifted her chin so she could meet his gaze. “But I’ll do it for you.”

*  *  *

The trio stood bathed in the blue flicker of the holovid. L’Haan appeared impassive as she watched the recording of Bashir and Douglas’s dramatic confrontation, which Cole had recorded less than an hour earlier. Their peer, Vasily Zeitsev, cocked one eyebrow with critical disdain as he watched the playback. He looked many years older than either L’Haan or Cole, though the Vulcan woman was at least a few decades Zeitsev’s senior. But where she still enjoyed the trappings of youth, he had given himself over to the gray shades of antiquity.

Suspended in the air before them, Douglas’s confession sounded to Cole like a moment out of a bad daily serial: “I’m one of them, Julian. I’m part of the organization.”

He shook his head. “She’s the worst actor I’ve ever seen. It’s a wonder she isn’t dead.”

L’Haan, who bore direct responsibility for managing Douglas as an asset, remained cool as she absorbed the indirect criticism. “Not Miss Douglas’s best performance, to be certain.”

The recorded scene continued, and Zeitsev crossed his arms. “She’s wooden, and he’s overselling it. Can anyone tell me why we wanted to recruit them in the first place?”

His derogatory query drew a shrug from Cole. “They did all right on Salavat.”

“Salavat was sloppy.” Zeitsev turned a scathing eye toward Cole. “They completed the mission, but they were identified by the Breen Intelligence Directorate, and she got captured.”

Cole was unwilling to let his superior’s hypocrisy go unchallenged. “So did Sloan.”

“Different situation.” Zeitsev held up a hand. “Hang on, I like this part.”

They stopped talking and watched the next few seconds of Bashir and Douglas’s face-off. In the hologram, Douglas put on her most earnest expression. “We live in a hostile universe, Julian. There are powers we can scarcely imagine that would like nothing better than to see us erased from creation. The organization exists to keep that wolf from the Federation’s door.”

Bashir protested, but his words were drowned out by Zeitsev’s derisive laughter. “She tries so hard. It’s sad, really. I want to believe her. There’s nothing I’d like more than to think such a brilliantly engineered creature was one of our true believers . . . What a shame.”

A dull pall of boredom settled on L’Haan’s elegant features. “We’ve known she was a double agent from the beginning. I fail to grasp why we have let her come as far as she has.”

“Keep your friends close,” Cole said, knowing his compatriots would by reflex fill in the second half of the ancient aphorism: and keep your enemies closer.

Zeitsev nodded. “True.” He squinted at the holovid. “What I wouldn’t give to send these two to some acting workshops. What’s she doing there? Is that some method-acting bullshit?”

L’Haan mimicked Zeitsev’s expression. “Perhaps. Though her style seems rooted more in the techniques of Strasberg than Stanislavsky. With some elements of Deltan realism mixed in.”

“You’re both full of shit,” Cole said. “She’s just hamming it up.”

The Vulcan wore her disappointment openly. “I should have made her spend more time studying improvisation.”

The supervisor waved off L’Haan’s lament with a callused hand. “It’s not your fault. She was never meant to be a long-term asset. There was no point teaching her all our secrets. She’d only have used them against us.” His eyes narrowed as he turned his focus toward Cole. “She might still be dangerous. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Positive.” He scrutinized the subliminal details of Bashir’s and Douglas’s performances, the microexpressions and hidden verbal tics that betrayed their words as hollow lies. “In fact, if they’re to be of any use to us at all, we need to let them embed themselves even more deeply than they already have. After all, if we try to freeze them out, they might realize we’re on to them.” He chuckled softly at their ham-fisted attempt at deception. “The key from this point forward is to keep them both on short leashes. We need to compartmentalize all intel they receive and make sure all their perceptions are filtered through our lenses.”

With a motion of her hand, L’Haan paused the playback of the holovid as Bashir and Douglas leaned their foreheads together. “I renew my objection. I think we will have more success manipulating them separately than together.”

“I disagree,” Cole said. “When I tried to run Bashir on Sindorin nine years ago, he nearly went off the reservation. If Salavat showed us anything, it’s that both of them are easier to control when they think the other is in danger. Keeping them together serves our purposes.”

Zeitsev nodded in assent. “I agree.” He staved off L’Haan’s protest with a raised hand. “I understand your concern. Having two double agents on one op is a risk. But Cole’s right. We can use them to keep each other in line. And in case you’ve forgotten, L’Haan, the success of our mission in the alternate universe entirely depends upon Bashir’s participation.”

“I have not forgotten.”

Cole harrumphed. “Good, because it’s too late to rewrite the mission profile.”

The older man mirrored L’Haan’s disapproving countenance. “You’d best be certain about this, Cole. I’m putting you in charge of the next phase of the operation. It’s up to you to make sure Bashir and Douglas play their parts—and end their turns on the stage, as planned.”

“I assure you, sir. One way or another . . . this mission will be their curtain call.”

Seven

The Alternate Universe

There was no room for error. All the officers on the bridge of the Enterprise understood the need for precision. Every word, every action would be scrutinized, and a single mistake would carry dire consequences for the lives of billions. No one on the bridge was more aware than its commanding officer of the stakes confronting the ship and its crew. Captain Picard felt his responsibilities weigh upon his shoulders like a lead apron. Its burden made him reluctant to stand from his command chair as the ship’s chronometer counted down to the fateful moment.

On his right, his first officer looked up at him, her mien both apprehensive and meant to encourage. K’Ehleyr shared his anxiety about the Dominion, but her training as a field operative for Memory Omega, coupled with her years as his executive officer on the Enterprise, gave her a measure of calm and poise in the face of what might prove to be a calamitous turning point in history’s long arc.

Standing above and behind Picard’s left shoulder, manning the tactical console, was his other trusted adviser. Deanna Troi had been Picard’s traveling companion for many years; they had entrusted their lives to each other long before they had sworn to serve as soldiers and explorers—and also, apparently, diplomats—for the Galactic Commonwealth. There was no one else whose counsel carried as much weight with Picard. He glanced in her direction, and her calm smile reassured him that everything would be all right, that all he needed to do was stand and soldier on, and Fate would take care of itself.

The chronometer beneath the main viewscreen reached 0900. It was time.

Picard stood tall and smoothed the front of his black uniform tunic. “Commander Troi, hail them. Commander K’Ehleyr, relay my command screen to the main viewer, left one-third.”

Troi keyed in the commands. “Opening hailing frequencies.” A moment later she touched the small, inconspicuous earpiece she wore while on bridge duty. “They’re responding.”

On the left third of the forward viewscreen, the text that Picard had been studying for the past several days was superimposed over the image of the fleet of Jem’Hadar warships that the Enterprise had met in the Bajor system. Picard swallowed his apprehensions. “On-screen.”

The daunting spectacle of the Dominion battle group was replaced by the unsettling image of one of the Dominion’s revered Founders. She was humanoid, pale, and vaguely feminine in her carriage and aspect. Her chestnut hair was taut against her skull.

To her left stood a Jem’Hadar who was intimidating even by the fearsome standards of his genetically engineered super-soldier brothers-in-arms. On the Founder’s right stood a creature Picard had come to recognize as a Vorta; this one was lovely, young, and female, and went by the appellation Eris.

The Founder acknowledged Picard with an almost imperceptible bow, a forward lean of just a few degrees. “Greetings.”

Protocol was of paramount importance now. Picard resisted the urge to extemporize and forced himself to follow what he had been told was the negotiated script for this encounter. He read the words from the side of the screen while doing his best to maintain steady eye contact with the Founder, despite the unnerving quality of her presence.

“Greetings. I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard, commanding officer of the free starship Enterprise. On behalf of the Galactic Commonwealth, I welcome you and your entourage in peace, and greet you as honored guests to our quadrant of the galaxy.”

The Founder’s reply was just as stilted as Picard’s salutation, which he supposed meant she was reading from the preapproved script, just as he had been.

“Thank you, Captain Picard. On behalf of the Founders, the Dominion, and my traveling companions, I accept your gracious welcome in the selfsame spirit of peace. May this first official visit prove beneficial to both our peoples.”

The script recommended a slight bow by Picard at that juncture, and he did as it directed. Then he straightened and put on a slight smile—one warm enough to be ingratiating but not so exaggerated as to call itself into question. “It is my duty and pleasure to confirm that you and a contingent of your choosing are invited to follow us to Bajor, the fourth planet of this system. On its surface you will be welcomed and offered accommodations meeting your previously stated requirements. After a brief interlude, you will be invited to a private audience with our elected head of state, Chairman Michael Eddington of the Commonwealth Assembly.”

The Founder copied Picard’s well-practiced smile with unnerving precision. “Thank you, Captain. We are honored to receive your gracious invitation, and I look forward to meeting with Chairman Eddington. My trusted lieutenants, Commander Eris of the Vorta, and Honored Elder Taran’atar of the Jem’Hadar, will stand ready to receive your approved flight plan and issue such orders as are necessary to follow your vessel to orbit of Bajor. There we will await final authorization from the planetary authorities to initiate our transport to the surface.”

“Very good.” Picard turned his head and nodded at Troi, who entered commands into her panel, as rehearsed. “We are transmitting the flight plan to your vessel now. In a few moments we will come about on a new heading. At that time, please follow us to Bajor. Once we’ve all made orbit, final transport coordinates will be sent to our vessel by Bajor Planetary Operations Command, and we will relay those coordinates to you.”

A curt half nod from the Founder. “We understand, Captain. Thank you.”

The transmission ended abruptly, returning the image of the Jem’Hadar battle fleet to the Enterprise’s main viewscreen. Picard sighed with relief. The exchange had ended on cue without any major gaffes by either party. So far, he had fulfilled his duty by not misspeaking the Commonwealth into an accidental war. He turned away from the viewscreen and looked at K’Ehleyr. “Commander, set course for Bajor, quarter impulse.”

“Aye, sir.” K’Ehleyr issued curt orders to the helmsman and navigator, who pivoted the ship back the way it had come, toward the Bajoran homeworld. Then the half-Klingon woman fired off a quick smile at Picard. “Nicely done, sir.”

“Thank you, Number One.” He sank back into his command chair. “Now all we have to do is lead those ships into orbit. After that, if someone starts a war by mistake, it’ll be Chairman Eddington’s fault.”

*  *  *

Chairman Michael Eddington stared dumbfounded at the array of cutlery set at each place along the banquet table. He had no idea why any meal should require a person to use three forks and two spoons, all of varying sizes, not to mention two knives, three glasses, and a teacup of bone china so delicate that he was certain his would crumble at the slightest touch of his hand.

No one in the Galactic Commonwealth had ever hosted an official reception for a visiting foreign head of state. A few persons ensconced within the fledgling interstellar government had once or twice acted as servants, attending the dignitaries at affairs of the now-defunct Klingon-Cardassian Alliance, but none of them had ever been privileged to coordinate such an event. Forced to improvise on nearly every detail of the formal soiree, the catering staff had delivered a state dinner marked by equal measures of pomp and paranoia.

The senior delegates of the Commonwealth Assembly gathered around the lanky, fair-haired Eddington. To his left, Kellerasana zh’Faila of Andor—“Sana,” to her friends—stood with Min Zife of Bolarus. Both the Andorian zhen and the Bolian man had bedecked themselves in off-white finery that contrasted with their blue complexions. Zife’s skin tone was a few shades darker than zh’Faila’s. Seeing them together, Eddington thought of cobalt and cornflower.

Behind the chairman’s right shoulder stood the Assembly’s other two senior delegates, who were also its most frequently opposed verbal sparring partners: Bera chim Gleer of Tellar and Sevok of Vulcan. Despite their proclivity for debate inside the Assembly chamber, the Tellarite and the Vulcan were inseparable friends outside it. Tonight, Gleer had draped his lean frame in green and gray; Sevok wore the humble, simple garb of his people, a dark brown hooded cassock cinched at the waist by a long, rough, unbleached rope knotted at each end.

Gleer picked up one of the forks. “What’s with the gardening tools?”

Zh’Faila almost swatted Gleer’s four-fingered hand. “Put that down!”

He wrinkled his snout at her. “Relax. I’m not going to steal it.”

“No one said that,” Zife protested, as if he feared a diplomatic incident were unfolding.

Sevok unfolded his clasped hands to gesture at the fork in Gleer’s hand. “Her advice is sound, Bera. A strict protocol governs events such as this one. Even the smallest item out of place can be taken as an intentional slight and undermine years of diplomatic groundwork.”

Eddington rested his hand on Gleer’s shoulder in what he hoped would be seen as a congenial gesture. “Please, Bera. Listen to Sevok and put the fork down before you start a war.”

A low snort escaped Gleer’s flared nostrils. “Fine.” He returned the fork to its place on the table. “I still think any meal that needs this much hardware isn’t worth eating.”

A fanfare sounded from outside the banquet hall and put an end to the discussion of flatware, much to Eddington’s relief. He and the others took their places.

The delegates lined up by seniority on either side of the red carpet that started just inside the hall’s gargantuan double doors and ran down the broad aisle in the center of the room. Interspersed among the elected representatives were high-ranking commanders from Starfleet, the Commonwealth’s defense and exploration agency.

Behind the lines of people in dress uniforms and crisply tailored formal wear, dozens of large circular tables awaited them and their guests from the far side of the galaxy. A minor legion of servers stood along the room’s back wall, all of them attentive and waiting for their cue to begin serving the dinner, one exquisite course at a time.

The towering doors swung inward. The Dominion contingent entered.

At the head of the long procession was the Founder who, as far as Eddington had been able to determine, had no proper name as he understood it. She was simply the individual selected by her race, the Changelings, to speak on behalf of the Dominion. He was unnerved by her oddly undefined face. Blank of detail or expression, her visage reminded Eddington of an artist’s mannequin, or an unfinished sculpture.

A male Vorta, slight of build but with keen eyes, trailed the Founder by just over a pace, behind her right shoulder. Opposite the Vorta walked a grizzled, scarred Jem’Hadar. As per the negotiated terms of the summit, no one had come to the reception bearing arms, but one look at the company of Jem’Hadar filing into the banquet room convinced Eddington that the Dominion’s soldiers were more than capable of killing them all bare-handed, and perhaps even blindfolded. He swallowed hard. All the more reason to make sure this meeting goes well.

The Founder stopped at arm’s length in front of Eddington. “Mister Chairman.”

“Madam Founder. Welcome to the Galactic Commonwealth.” He gestured to the delegates who stood closest behind him, on either side of the red carpet. “Allow me to present the senior members of our governing assembly.” He introduced zh’Faila, Gleer, Sevok, and Zife in turn. The Founder acknowledged each of them with the slightest bow of her head.

Then it was her turn to speak. She gestured first to the Vorta. “Allow me to present my senior diplomatic counselor, Weyoun.”

Her aide-de-camp clasped Eddington’s outstretched hand in both of his. The Vorta flashed the most obsequious grin the chairman had ever seen. “A pleasure to meet you, Chairman Eddington. I expect this conference to usher in great things for both our peoples.”

Eddington extracted his hand from Weyoun’s grip. “Very nice to meet you, sir.”

When he turned toward the Founder, he stood confronted instead by her imposing Jem’Hadar escort. For a moment, Eddington thought he saw a glimmer of mirth on the Founder’s smooth face, but if he did, it passed without comment. She folded her hands at her waist. “This is Taran’atar, the Jem’Hadar First and Honored Elder who discovered our terminus of the wormhole. He is the oldest and most accomplished Jem’Hadar who has ever lived.”

At the risk of having his hand crushed, Eddington extended it to Taran’atar. “Welcome.”

The Jem’Hadar looked at Eddington’s hand but made no move to accept the gesture until the Founder urged him in a low voice. “Taran’atar.” As soon as she spoke his name, he took Eddington’s hand in a firm but respectful grip and shook it once before letting it go.

Grateful to have escaped unscathed from his first encounter with a Jem’Hadar, Eddington took a half step back and smiled at the Founder. “Now that the pleasantries have been observed, why don’t we all take our seats and—”

“That won’t be necessary,” the Founder cut in.

Her stern rebuff made Eddington self-conscious. “I don’t understand.”

Weyoun shot an imploring look at his head of state. “Founder?” He waited until she nodded her assent, and then he looked at Eddington as he continued. “Perhaps it would help, Mister Chairman, if you explained why there are so many places set at these tables.”

Confused glances passed among the Commonwealth delegates as Eddington replied to Weyoun. “So that we can all sit and dine together. It’s a chance for us to get to know one another in a social setting before we start discussing the terms of our treaty and trade agreement.”

The Founder exuded disappointment as she shook her head. “So predictable. It’s been so long since we’ve dealt with solids who weren’t already socialized by contact with the Dominion, that we’ve forgotten how”—she let her disdainful gaze pass over the elaborately set tables—“quaint your customs can be.”

Eddington was not ready to give up so easily. “Perhaps you could indulge us this once.”

“Quite impossible, I’m afraid. My species does not ingest organic matter for sustenance.”

“And your entourage?”

Taran’atar spoke with pride. “Jem’Hadar require no nourishment other than the white.”

That left Weyoun, who shrugged and hid behind his fawning half smile. “Vorta have almost no sense of taste. I’m afraid my own palate is limited to kava nuts and rippleberries.”

Behind his back, Eddington heard Gleer quip under his breath to the other delegates, “Well, this was time and effort well spent.”

The chairman shot a quick skunk-eye glare over his shoulder at the delegates, quashing any nascent replies to the Tellarite’s off-the-cuff snark. He softened his aspect when he faced the Founder again. “Might I suggest we retire to a more private location, then?”

She approved with a tilted half nod. “A capital idea, Mister Chairman.” Her manner turned cold and steely as she spoke to Taran’atar. “Deploy your men. Secure the perimeter.”

A single gesture from Taran’atar was all it took to snap the Jem’Hadar into action. They moved swiftly, their every action precise and rehearsed. The rear half of the formation turned about and left the way they had come. The rest divided into squads of five and left through the room’s various exits. Some headed outside to establish a cordon around the ground floor of the Elemspur Monastery; others ascended to its upper levels to keep watch from above.

Eddington led the Founder, Taran’atar, and Weyoun out of the banquet hall through its rear exit. Mystified expressions traveled across the faces of the delegates and Starfleet officers who watched them depart. In accordance with instructions Eddington had given to his peers before their arrival on Bajor, zh’Faila and Sevok fell in behind them.

The group traversed a long hallway to a flower-filled solarium that, despite its seeming fragility, had been hardened with force fields into one of the safest sites on the surface of Bajor. A small round table awaited them in the middle of the circular, high-ceilinged room, whose transparent aluminum walls looked out upon a meticulously sculpted garden. Eddington took the seat that put his back to the garden’s hedge maze and motioned for the others to sit as well. The Founder sat opposite him, while Taran’atar and Weyoun remained standing behind her.

Emulating their visitors, Sevok and zh’Faila eschewed their planned seats to stand behind Eddington, offering him their silent support.

The chairman met the Founder’s unblinking stare. “To business, then.”

“Agreed.” Her eyes narrowed, as if she were sizing him up to devour him whole. “Let’s not waste time being coy. What does your Commonwealth ask of the Dominion?”

“Freedom to explore the Gamma Quadrant. A fair trade agreement for the importing and exporting of goods. An immigration policy. An extradition treaty. And full diplomatic relations.”

His request was met by a low, cynical huff. “Your political agenda is even more ambitious than your dinner plans.”

“We’re prepared to offer the same privileges that we seek. Your people would be welcome to travel in both directions through the wormhole, explore this quadrant of the galaxy, engage in—”

The Founder halted him with a raised hand. “It’s not your terms that trouble us. Many within the Great Link harbor concerns about negotiating binding treaties with a state born so recently of revolution. The Dominion has persevered for more than two thousand of your years, while your Commonwealth has barely been weaned from its violent mother.”

Weyoun cleared his throat as a preamble to butting in. “What’s more, your choice of a parliamentary representative democracy as your system of government seems . . . untenable.”

“I will concede it is the worst form of government,” Eddington said, “except, of course, all those others that preceded it.”

His attempt at levity was met by hard, unyielding stares. The Founder looked at Weyoun. “Give him our list of requested concessions.”

The Vorta reached inside his loose, flowing robe and pulled out a small electronic device that was similar to a padd. He offered it to Eddington, who deflected it with a small gesture into the hands of Sevok. The Vulcan accepted the padd without comment, and then he and Weyoun returned to their places, facing each other with naked suspicion.

The Founder collected herself. “Take as much time as you require to review our proposal. When you are ready to resume our discussion, send word to Weyoun.” She stood, so Eddington got up, as well. The Founder nodded once at the chairman and his colleagues, and then she turned and walked out of the solarium, followed by Taran’atar and Weyoun.

Sevok perused the information on the padd, then cocked one eyebrow. “Their list of demands is . . . substantial.”

“Of course it is,” zh’Faila said. “Once again, politics is merely war by other means.”

Eddington feared there might be more truth in the zhen’s complaint than she realized. “Sevok, review their demands and let me know which points seem the most negotiable. Sana, get word to Picard on the Enterprise and Saavik at Omega Prime. If this all goes to hell, they might need to be ready for anything—up to and including full-scale war.”

Eight

“Come in. Sit down.” Thot Tran ushered the Spetzkar company’s command team inside Ikkuna Station’s small auditorium. The six Breen elite commandos entered single-file and descended the ramp to the center row, where they settled into alternating seats. Tran admired their efficiency. Without hesitation or discussion, they had occupied the acoustic sweet spot of the tiered theater.

Tran walked past them to the front of the auditorium and took his place on its low stage beside Choska, who held the remote control for the holographic projector system. He reduced the volume of his vocoder for the sake of discretion. “All set?”

The Tzenkethi scientist nodded and stepped to one side of the stage, while Tran moved away to the other side. He cued Choska with a nod, and then he addressed the commandos as the holovid appeared in midair between him and his colleague.

“Thot Trom, by order of Domo Pran, and with the full consent of the thotaru, I am dispatching you and your company on a special assignment.” He gestured at the image of the dimensional rift projected over the stage. “You will command the fast-attack cruiser Tajny through an engineered breach into a close parallel universe.”

Choska stepped forward. “Thot Tran proved that this parallel quantum universe was the origin of a starship we discovered crashed in Federation space last year.” Sensor images and schematics of the wrecked vessel were added to the holovid. “Based on its engine design and other elements, he deduced that this ship possessed a wormhole-based propulsion system.”

The commandos leaned back and regarded one another with sly head turns, but none said anything, so Tran pushed on with the briefing. “The tactical value of such a propulsion system cannot be overstated. Not only would it enable us to project force anywhere in the galaxy at a moment’s notice, we could do so without warning. We would be free to strike at any target, at any time, without exposing ourselves to counterattack.” That drew approving nods.

Trom leaned forward. “Did we salvage the ship?”

“We tried.” Recounting the greatest failure of his career pained Tran, so he made his best effort to minimize the appearance of catastrophe. “Despite the sacrifice of many assets, we were unable to recover the wormhole drive from the surface of Tirana Three before it was destroyed by the Starfleet vessel Enterprise. Also, because of sensor-impeding compounds in the planet’s surface, our scans of the derelict were incomplete, and insufficient to replicate the drive system.”

Choska highlighted the dimensional rift in the holovid. “That brings us to now.” She called up an image of the Tajny, a narrow, dartlike starship. “Your ship has been equipped with a Romulan-made cloaking device. As soon as you’ve reached the alternate universe, you will engage the cloak and proceed to the next phase of your operation.”

Tran moved to center stage. “Your orders are simple, but accomplishing them will not be. You are directed to locate, intercept, board, and capture a wormhole-drive starship and pilot it safely back to this universe so that we may reverse-engineer its technology.”

The Spetzkar commander sat quietly for a moment. “What’s our exfiltration strategy for the captured vessel? Does this rift of yours work in both directions?”

“It should,” Choska said. “Theoretically.”

“Have you made successful crossings in both directions?”

Tran called up the project’s flight logs. “We have. Just over six hours ago, we piloted an unmanned recon vessel through the rift. After it completed a series of programmed long-range scans, it returned through the rift on autopilot, undamaged and with actionable intelligence.”

Trom absorbed the report with a sage nod. “All right. How much do we know about these wormhole ships? If we’re to capture one, we’ll need a full tactical profile.”

“We’ve prepared one,” said the radiant Choska. “It’s available on the station’s comnet. I urge you and all your troops to review it before you deploy.”

“We will. I guarantee it.”

Crin, the Spetzkar second-in-command, asked, “What time do we ship out?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Tran said. “You and your company have sixteen hours to load the Tajny and finish your combat prep. We’ve updated your navcomp software and the comm encryptions, but it’ll be up to your team to vet the tactical grid and the drive reactors.”

Trom stood, stepped into the aisle, and faced his command team. “All right, you heard him. Crin, muster the company in the Tajny’s main hold in one hour. Karn, supervise the weapons check. Solt, I want a full report on the warp and impulse systems in three hours. Rem, make sure all hands download and review the tactical profile before we ship out.”

The other commandos sprang to their feet and filed out of the auditorium at a quick step. Thot Trom followed them out. The door slid closed after him, leaving Tran alone on the stage with Choska. She turned off the holovid. “I think that went quite well.”

“It went as well as could reasonably be expected.” He tried to purge his thoughts of the memory of Tirana III and the calamity it became.

Choska remained inexplicably optimistic. “Cheer up, Tran. All we have to do is get the Spetzkar through the rift and then guide them back again. The rest is up to them now.”

“I know,” Tran said. “That’s what worries me.”

*  *  *

Morning came all too soon. Trom strode onto the command deck of the Tajny and was pleased to see everyone at their assigned posts, making final preparations for their mission to the alternate universe. Second officer Rem stood beside Karn at the tactical console, where they conferred in subdued tones. Yoab sat at the flight control station directly in front of the command chair. The flight-status indicators that Trom could see as he took his place in the center seat showed all systems fully operational.

First Officer Crin entered from the port-side turbolift and crossed the deck to stand beside him. “All hands aboard and accounted for, sir. The ship is ready for service.”

“Well done, Crin.” Trom used the panel beside his chair to open an internal comm channel to the Tajny’s engineering deck. “Solt. Status report.”

“All systems nominal, sir. Ready to launch.”

“Good. Look sharp down there. The lab rats say we might be in for some chop.”

Solt sounded confident. “Can’t be any rougher than the beating we took on Mazlas.”

“We’ll know in a few minutes. Command out.” Trom closed the channel and looked up at Crin. “Signal the station and tell Thot Tran we’re ready to depart.”

“Yes, sir.” Crin stepped away to the communications panel and sent the message. Several seconds passed while the first officer awaited a reply from the station. Then he raised the volume on his vocoder to address the entire bridge crew. “Thot Tran confirms he is ready to open the rift. He requests that we depart and move the ship to position one.”

“Acknowledged,” Trom said, knowing Crin would relay his confirmation to Tran. “Yoab, detach umbilicals, seal exterior hatches, and back us away from the station.”

Yoab entered commands at the helm. “Moorings cleared. We are free to navigate.” The edges of Ikkuna Station drifted beyond the frame of the forward viewscreen as the ship maneuvered to its designated starting position. The starfield outside slowed to a crawl, then settled into a static view. Yoab throttled back the impulse drive to standby. “Holding at position one. Ready for full impulse on your mark, sir.”

“Good work, helm. Karn, charge the shields and stand by for final nutation settings from Doctor Choska.” Trom sat back and did his best to project quiet confidence. There was nothing more for him or his crew to do until they received the order to proceed. All the pressure was now on Tran and his Tzenkethi partner to open a stable passage to the alternate universe.

Trom held out little hope of a prompt departure. Given how timid the lab rats are, maybe I should return to my quarters until they—

His train of thought derailed as a band of crimson fire tore an uneven scar across the face of the cosmos on the forward viewscreen. Within moments the wound in space-time ripped itself wide open and became an amoeba-shaped pocket of emptiness, a portal into a formless void. Then another gash formed inside that alien darkness and pulled itself apart, opening a window on another universe. Trom stared at the spectacle for several moments before recalling his orders.

“Rem, full-spectrum sensor sweep. Yoab, confirm the coordinates on the far side of the rift. Karn, verify the nutation settings from Thot Tran and compare them against the energy emissions at either end of the rift, as well as the null space between portals.” Trom opened an internal comm channel. “All decks, this is the commander. Secure for dimensional crossing and stand by. Command out.” He pointed his mask’s empty snout at Karn. “Anything?”

“The nutation settings are coming over now.” Karn entered new data at the tactical console. “They check out. Simulations look stable. Energy levels are within rated norms.”

Yoab reviewed the new intel on the navigation console. “Coordinates on the far side of the rift appear to be coterminous with those of our universe. The quantum signature of the other universe is a match for the one in the mission profile, and for the ship found on Tirana Three.”

“Excellent.” Trom swiveled his chair toward Crin. “Let me talk to Thot Tran.”

Crin punched in a command on the communications panel. “Channel open.”

“Tajny to Thot Tran. Are we clear to proceed?”

Muffled conversation filtered over the comm channel before the scientist replied. “A few moments, please. We need to make sure both ends of the rift are in phase.”

Rem turned away from his post. “Sir, we’re picking up signs of debris on the far side of the rift. It looks like the wreck of the recon ship Tran lost a couple of days ago.”

“Does it pose a navigational hazard for our trip through the rift?”

“Maybe. I recommend we adjust our flight plan and deflector configuration.”

This was the kind of petty complication for which Trom had no patience today, but it had to be addressed. “Coordinate with Yoab and Karn—and be quick about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The trio of Spetzkar hurried through a series of improvised changes to their flight plan as Tran’s voice returned via the overhead speakers. “Rift apertures are stable. Proceed.”

“Acknowledged. We are navigating into the rift.” Trom leaned forward, eager to meet this bold new mission head-on. “Helm, take us into the rift, one-tenth impulse.”

“Ahead one-tenth.”

The crew tried to pretend they all were paying attention to nothing but their own consoles, but Trom knew they all were stealing long looks at the main screen as the Tajny ventured through the first aperture, into the null space of the rift—each of them no doubt eager to see what it would look like to be outside of normal space-time, even if only for a moment.

Then everything turned to fear and fire. Horrific wails of stressed metal resounded inside the ship, and alarms cried out from every panel. The primary lighting system faltered and failed, leaving the command deck lit by the staccato flickers of malfunctioning companels. All of Trom’s men barked out reports. They overlapped one another and reduced the moment to pure chaos. Trom turned his vocoder’s volume to maximum and cut through the clamor with a distorted bellow: “Quiet!” He pointed at Karn. “Report!”

“Shields failed as soon as we hit the void! We’re losing power.”

Trom bolted from his chair to the flight-control station and loomed over Yoab. “Increase power! Divert emergency batteries to the inertial dampeners!”

Crin called out, “Sir! Thot Tran says to turn back!”

Then came a panicked shout from Rem. “Don’t do it, sir! The rift is destabilizing behind us, and it’s converging on us!”

Trom pointed at Rem. “Aft view, on-screen!” He turned to see the aperture behind the Tajny fold inward upon itself—and on them. That was all he needed to know. He slapped a gloved hand on Yoab’s shoulder. “Full impulse! We need to reach the other side before the rift closes!” The deck pitched and heaved as he struggled back to his chair, staggering like a drunkard. On the main viewscreen, the far end of the rift was contracting; its angry red wound stitched itself shut. Trom fell back into his seat and clutched one armrest for support while he used a control panel on the other to open an internal comm channel. “All decks! This is the commander! Brace for—”

His last order was lost in the din as the far aperture of the rift snapped shut on the Tajny, and everything Trom knew turned to darkness and thunder.

Nine

The Alternate Universe

Consciousness returned to Trom in painful fits and starts. Deep aches suffused his limbs, and even the smallest shifts of his weight made him aware of the blunt-force trauma that had racked his torso. The holovisor inside his mask was dark. He knew he wasn’t blind because he saw brief glints of light through some of the cracks in his helmet. To test the vocoder, he cleared his throat. The speaker embedded in the snout of his mask spat out staticky noise.

He heard the shuffling of boots on a starship deck. Then he was greeted by the vocoder-parsed voice of the company’s surgeon, Doctor Nev. “Are you all right, sir?”

Trom waved his hand in front of his mask. “Holovisor’s broken.”

“We know. It’s dark on the outside, too.”

Trom nodded. When operating correctly, a holovisor emitted bright green light over its exterior sensors. This light was engineered to be invisible from inside the helmet; as far as Trom had been able to determine, the exterior light’s only function was to prevent others from perceiving even the slightest clue to the species of the individual inside a Breen suit. This, Trom had long ago deduced, was how equality was enforced when administered by a committee: with brute force and identity-crushing mandatory anonymity. He kept his criticisms of the social order to himself, of course. To mention them aloud was tantamount to branding oneself a traitor.

Better to suffer in silence, he reminded himself.

He pointed at his mask. “How long to get it fixed?”

“Solt has a damage-control team making the rounds. I’ll—wait, here’s one now.” He lifted his voice to draw the mechanic’s attention. “Over here! The commander’s visor is out!”

Running steps and the clatter of tools reassured Trom that something was being done to address his dilemma. He felt bumps and prods against his head as the mechanic fixed his helmet. Meanwhile, with or without his eyesight, he had a job to do. “Crin!”

The first officer replied from a short distance away. “Yes, sir.”

“Damage and casualty reports.”

More footfalls. Based on the ambience and the echoes off the bulkheads, Trom knew he was still on the Tajny’s command deck. He heard the abrasion of fabric and the subtle interplay of armored plates as Crin squatted beside him. “No fatalities. Multiple injuries, most of them in engineering. The medics report all hands will be ambulatory within the hour.”

“And the ship?”

“Not nearly so resilient as her crew. We’re in an uncontrolled spin. Impulse and warp drive are off-line. Tactical grid is overloaded, so no weapons, shields, or cloak. Backup computer core and life support are operating on emergency battery power. Hull breaches in the aft sections of Decks Fifteen and Sixteen.”

“Communications?”

“Rem says the subspace transceiver is intact. He’s trying to raise Ikkuna Station.”

A flicker of pixels teased Trom with a ghostly afterimage of the scene around him. The mechanic tinkering with his helmet gave something a few more pokes and twists. “Hang on, sir. This should just about—”

Trom’s holovisor switched on, its wraparound view rendered in crisp detail and full color. He nodded and clapped his hand on the mechanic’s shoulder. “Nice work.”

“Thank you, sir.” The mechanic gathered his tools and hurried off to his next task. Trom stood and assessed the situation on the command deck. Ruptured plasma relays in the overhead rained intermittent sparks on the crew working beneath them. The forward viewscreen was dark. So were most of the duty stations. Adding insult to injury, his command chair was now ever so slightly crooked atop its pedestal. His sense of pride wanted to prioritize its repair. How could he be expected to command a company of Spetzkar while sitting tilted to the right?

The more pragmatic side of his nature prevailed. I’ll just have to lead while standing. He turned to face Crin. “Are the EVA pods working?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell Solt to have operators for those pods standing by. As soon as we recover impulse power and helm control, we’ll maneuver back to the wreckage of that recon ship Tran and Choska lost yesterday. Then we’ll deploy the pods and use them to salvage anything we can from the debris. Tell them I want everything—hull plates, wiring, spare parts, all of it.”

Rem pivoted away from the communications post. “I have Ikkuna Station.”

Trom moved to stand beside Rem. “Patch me in.” Crin joined them while Rem opened the channel on the dedicated speaker at his console. A nod from Rem was Trom’s cue. “Ikkuna Station, this is Thot Trom. Do you read me?”

Thot Tran answered, “Affirmative. Go ahead, Commander.”

“You first. What the hell just happened to my ship? You said the rift was stable.”

“It was, until your ship tried to cross it.”

“You have a keen grasp of the obvious. Can you explain why the rift destabilized?”

Choska responded, “Our current hypothesis is that the more intense energy signature of the Tajny, coupled with a feedback loop created by its shields, triggered an uncontrolled collapse of the apertures toward the highest energy point in the null space between them—specifically, your vessel’s warp core.”

The beast of Trom’s anger threatened to slip its reins. He tightened his grip on his temper before he continued. “I thought the adjustments to our shield frequency nutation were supposed to prevent that. Or did I misunderstand?”

After an awkward pause, Tran pushed on as if Trom’s question hadn’t been asked. “What is the status of your ship and crew?”

“Serviceable.”

“Can you elaborate?”

Trom nodded at Rem, who transmitted a quick data burst on the channel’s subfrequency. “I’m sending you our damage and casualty reports. We expect to recover attitude control within the next five minutes. After that, we’ll initiate salvage operations, followed by full repairs.”

“Understood. The micro-rift we’re using for this comm signal will close in a few minutes. It will be at least another day before we can reopen the rift to facilitate your return.”

“That won’t be necessary. Once the ship is repaired, we’ll be continuing the mission.”

Choska sounded concerned. “Are you certain that’s feasible, Commander?”

“Positive. You sent us here to steal a wormhole ship. That’s what we’ll do. All we need from you is a stable rift in place when we get back. But once we have your ship, if we jump back here only to find this thing closed, I’ll make you both wish you were never born. Understood?”

His warning seemed to have the desired effect on Tran. “I assure you, Thot Trom, when you return, the rift will be open, and it will be stable—and we’ll have corrected the flaw in the shield nutation frequency. You have my word.”

“Your word? How nice. I feel better already.” He closed the channel with a tap on the console, then stalked back to his off-kilter command chair. Damn the lab rats and their promises. He sank into the chair and lamented his shattered command deck. They’ll be the death of us all.

*  *  *

Omega Prime’s senior staff looked up as Sherlas Rokaath barged into the conference room. Most of the faces around the table registered surprise or annoyance at the Zakdorn. Saavik regarded him without emotion as he looked at her, his alarm evident in his gray eyes.

He held up a padd. “Forgive the intrusion, Director. I have urgent news.”

She motioned him toward the far end of the conference table, opposite her. “Proceed.”

With a few taps on his padd, Rokaath called up a star chart on the full-wall display behind him. “We’ve had another cross-dimensional breach, at the same coordinates we detected yesterday.” He used his padd to emphasize different details and produce new information on the wall display as he continued. “This was no accidental event, and it was not produced by natural phenomena. We’ve monitored this sector since the previous event, and we’ve detected signs of persistent disruption. Based on the energy levels involved, we deduced that someone or something was working to facilitate a high-mass transfer from the close parallel universe to our own. Specifically”—the image of a starship appeared on the display—“a warship capable of carrying more than a hundred personnel.”

The senior staff sat forward, their faces taut with concern. Most worried of all, if the furrowing of his shaggy brow was any indication, was Kol jav Megh. The sable-maned Tellarite logistician squinted his black eyes at the image on the wall. “Is that a Breen ship?”

“We think so.” Rokaath highlighted small details of the image. “There are some minor deviations from known Breen ship classes, but the general configuration is consistent with their design aesthetic. Its quantum signature confirms it originated in the other universe.”

Veen, the director of extradimensional surveillance, stared in dismay at the image. “We had no idea the Breen were developing this kind of technology, in that universe or any other.” The round-faced Bolian clasped his beefy hands over his bald pate. “Where did they get it?”

An answer came from Inglis Arkell, the head of Memory Omega’s scientific research division. “Look at the gravimetric deformations that define the rift’s mouth.” The dark-haired Trill woman keyed in commands from her interface at the table and overlaid a wire frame of the cross-dimensional rift’s invisible subspace geometry. “That was made by a Tzenkethi-designed wormhole generator, one modified to breach dimensional membranes.”

“That makes sense,” said Dannis Palancir, the director of counterintelligence. “In their universe, the Breen and the Tzenkethi are members of a military and economic alliance known as the Typhon Pact. It’s analogous to their membership in our universe’s Taurus Pact, except theirs also includes the Romulans and the Kinshaya.”

Fallanooran th’Sirris, Omega’s chief military strategist, twitched his antennae as he spoke. “Never mind the alt-history. If this was a deliberate incursion, what are the Breen after?”

Rokaath shrugged. “No idea. We’ve picked up some limited comms between the ship and something on the other side, but we haven’t been able to break their encryption yet. We could be looking at a scout, an explorer—”

“Or an invasion,” interrupted Ruxin Ejor, Omega’s political liaison to the Galactic Commonwealth. The young Bajoran was the newest member of the senior staff. The others tolerated his habitual pessimism for only one reason: his dire predictions frequently proved to be prescient. Today he directed his ire at th’Sirris. “We have most of the Commonwealth’s forces standing by for a showdown with the Dominion. You think it’s a coincidence that this”—he searched for a word and was frustrated not to find it—“whatever this is, showed up now?”

“Correlation is not evidence of causation,” Arkell interjected.

Ruxin remained irate. “This isn’t some science experiment, Inglis. This is the real world. When two events coincide in a way that can get you killed, odds are it’s not a fluke, it’s by design.” He aimed his pointed stare at th’Sirris. “So what’re you prepared to do about it?”

Saavik chose that moment to intercede. “He will do nothing until I order it, Mister Ruxin.” She turned attention back toward Rokaath. “Is Observer Mullins continuing to monitor the intruder’s actions?”

The Zakdorn looked abashed. “Negative. Intense gravimetric distortion caused by the breach disrupted our ability to focus the quantum window on those coordinates. The only way to track the intruder would be to dispatch a jaunt ship to intercept it.”

That turned Saavik back toward Megh. “What ships are ready to launch?”

The Tellarite lifted his bushy eyebrows. “None of them.”

His protest drew a dubious glare from th’Sirris. “Nonsense. You have four ships waiting to leave Erebus Station. Merge their flight-test crews for one mission and have them investigate.”

“Leave the logistics to me, Falla.” Megh became apologetic as he turned toward Saavik. “Even if we united all the test-flight personnel, we’d barely have a skeleton crew for one ship.”

“That might be enough,” Saavik said.

Rokaath leaned in to object. “I disagree, Director. Megh is right to be concerned about deploying an understaffed jaunt ship. If these intruders are hostile, sending an untested, understrength crew to deal with them might prove disastrous.”

Saavik was unmoved by their protests. “It is not my intention to send them on a combat mission, Sherlas. Their orders will be to intercept, observe, and gather intelligence. Nothing more. Even a skeleton crew can execute such a limited mission profile. Who can we send?”

Megh picked up his padd and reviewed his files with a frown. “The ShiKahr.”

“Very well. Send me a list of candidates for the command crew, and have the ship ready to jump to the breach coordinates as soon as possible.”

The Tellarite bowed his head. “Yes, Director.”

“Everyone else,” Saavik said, “task your divisions with learning all they can about this incursion. I want preliminary reports by tomorrow morning, with response protocols. Until we know more, treat this as an unplanned first-contact scenario.”

Ruxin met her order with wary cynicism. “And if the visitors turn out to be hostile?”

Rokaath gave voice to the unpleasant truth everyone in the room already knew. “Then we’ll need to be prepared to face new wars on two fronts instead of just one.”

Ten

“Wake up, Doctor.”

Cole’s voice jolted Bashir from a fitful sleep. He sat up in bed. “Computer: lights.”

Sarina tumbled out of bed into a defensive crouch as the room’s wall-mounted lights came up slowly, dispelling the darkness. They faced the black-clad Section 31 operative, who stood at the foot of their bed. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his relaxed but confrontational body language projected an air of smug superiority. “Sorry if I startled you.”

Bashir scowled. “No you’re not.” He and Sarina had expected this visit, but their anticipation hadn’t made Cole’s intrusion any less unwelcome in the wee hours of the morning. “Why can’t you use the comm or ring the door chime like a normal person?”

“My way has more finesse.”

“I think we have differing definitions of that word.”

A dismissive wave. “I didn’t come to talk semantics. The situation I mentioned during my last visit is evolving.” Cole picked up Bashir’s bathrobe from the foot of the bed and tossed it to him. “You weren’t interested in a hypothetical threat to Federation security. Now we have a confirmed threat. Are you ready to listen now?”

“That depends. Are you ready to stop talking in circles?”

“Do you recall the artificial wormhole technology the Tzenkethi developed?”

Bashir nodded as he got up and donned his robe. “The one they tried to use at Bajor?”

“That’s the one. The Breen repurposed it to open a portal to the alternate universe. Nine hours ago, they sent a fast-attack cruiser manned by an entire company of their elite Spetzkar commandos through a rift they created from an interstellar science station on our border.”

Sarina slipped into her own bathrobe without taking her eyes off of Cole. “Why would the Breen launch a military operation into another universe?”

“To capture something they failed to acquire here. Last year, the Breen executed a massive disinformation campaign against the Federation. They burned countless assets, including one of their top secret intelligence programs, all so they could steal the wreckage of a single starship that crashed on a planet under Federation control.”

Cole held up a short, slim metallic cylinder, which Bashir presumed the agent must have had hidden in his palm or up his sleeve. He used it to project a hologram in the air between himself and Bashir and Sarina. A grainy, indistinct sensor image appeared—the faintly visible outline of a starship’s fractured hull. “These scans of the downed vessel on Tirana Three were made by the Enterprise-E, moments before they fragged the entire site to prevent the Breen from escaping with a partial salvage of the wreck.”

Sarina and Bashir edged closer to the projection. Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape. “What makes this worth so much trouble and effort?”

“Intel from the alternate universe indicates this is something known as a jaunt ship. It generates its own artificial wormholes and is capable of making instantaneous jumps across almost any distance within the galaxy, and across vast reaches of the void outside it. This is what enabled the Terran Rebellion to prevail against its oppressors.”

Imagining the possible applications of such a technology, Bashir understood why Section 31 was treating its potential acquisition by the Breen as a crisis. “A fleet of ships with drives like these could project force anywhere in the galaxy, without warning.”

“Never mind the fleet, Doctor. All one would need to do is use these wormholes to bombard distant planets with a hail of photon torpedoes. Attacks could drop in beneath an enemy’s defenses and glass their planets before they knew what was happening.” He switched off the hologram. “If the Breen capture one of those ships and reverse-engineer it, they could wipe the Federation and its allies off the map in a matter of weeks. From a tactical standpoint, they’d become invincible.”

It was a sobering prospect, one that compelled Bashir to grasp at alternative readings of the evidence. “Are you certain the salvage operation and this latest mission to the alternate universe are related?”

“All the evidence points to it. Less than three weeks after the Breen operation on Tirana Three failed, they started pouring resources into their dimensional-rift project on Ikkuna Station. And the same scientist who ran the Tirana Three op is in charge of this one: Thot Tran.”

Sarina stood close against Bashir’s back while keeping her focus on Cole. “Cut to the chase. The organization has plenty of operatives. Why do you need Julian?”

“Actually, we want both of you for this mission. And I should think the reasons would be obvious. You two are the only Federation agents who have ever successfully infiltrated the Breen military. Based on your debriefings, it’s clear you’ve both retained a moderate fluency in the written Breen language, and your familiarity with their customs and body language would be invaluable for covert operations inside their territory. Add to this, Doctor, the fact that you are one of the few people to survive a visit to the alternate universe, and you should understand why your name is at the top of our list.”

“The experience you’ve cited qualifies me to advise your agents, not to be one.”

Cole reacted with a wry smirk. “Your performance on Salavat suggests otherwise.”

Bashir waved off the comparison. “Not an experience I’d care to repeat.”

“No one’s asking you to. I understand you had misgivings after the fact, especially with regard to what turned out to be civilians employed at the shipyard. This mission is something completely different. You’d be up against a vastly superior force of elite military troops. There won’t be any innocents in the crosshairs this time.”

“Am I supposed to take your word for it? Forgive me if I find you less than trustworthy.”

A pained smile. “Fair enough. If you want to limit your role to that of an adviser, so be it. But your counsel will be needed in the field, and you will be required to carry a weapon, for the protection of your teammates if not for yourself.”

“I still haven’t agreed to go.”

“Now who’s playing games, Doctor? I know you’re going; she knows you’re going; and so do you.”

“What makes you so sure?”

It felt to Bashir like Cole was looking right through his brave façade into his soul. “Because I know you better than you know yourself. You’re going to go because you can’t not go.” He glanced at Sarina, then met Bashir’s stare. “Get dressed, but don’t bother packing bags. We’re traveling light.”

“What about my medkit?”

“Leave it. From now on, Doctor, whatever you need, you’ll get from us.”

Eleven

The Alternate Universe

“Captain, we’ll be exiting the wormhole in five seconds.”

Hanalarell sh’Pherron, the captain of the free starship ShiKahr, acknowledged her flight control officer’s report with the slightest of nods and a renewed focus on the bridge’s main viewscreen. The blue chaos of the artificial wormhole raced past, a swirling blur so bright that it almost hurt to look at it. The Andorian shen squinted against the glare. Then it vanished, a curtain of energy abruptly pulled aside to reveal the familiar starry darkness of normal space. Nothing looked amiss, but sh’Pherron knew how deceiving appearances could be. She swiveled her command chair toward her chief of security. “Any sign of our cross-dimensional visitors?”

Ensign Riaow checked the readouts on her tactical console. “Negative, Captain.”

“Run another sweep. Omega wouldn’t have sent us here for no reason.” She rotated her chair forward again. The vista pictured on the holographic main screen was empty and serene. “Helm, are we sure we’re in the right place?”

“Positive, sir.” Lieutenant Zareth superimposed the ShiKahr’s coordinates on the viewscreen image. “We came out of jaunt precisely on target.”

The ship’s Vulcan first officer stepped away from his sensor console and moved to sh’Pherron’s side for a consultation at a discreet volume. “Captain, regardless of our knowledge of the Breen in this universe, we have no way of knowing the capabilities of a Breen vessel from the other universe. I recommend we proceed with the utmost caution.”

“I agree, Turak. Reconfigure the sensor array for a wide-area tachyon sweep.”

“That will take approximately ten hours to prepare, Captain.”

“Then you’d best get started, Commander. In the meantime, run all available sensor protocols for detecting cloaked vessels.” Turak nodded his understanding and returned to his post while sh’Pherron doled out further orders to the crew. “Mister Zareth, program a search pattern. Start in a tight radius around the reported position of the dimensional breach, and extend the search area gradually.”

“Aye, sir.” The Chelon plotted the ship’s course with the broad, scaly digits of his huge leathery extremities, which resembled hands in only the most general sense.

How can he work the helm with those stumps? It was a mystery sh’Pherron decided was better left unsolved. “Commander Turak, contact Memory Omega. Confirm that we’ve arrived, and that we’ve begun the search. Ensign Riaow, proceed on the assumption that we’re hunting a cloaked vessel. Take us to Yellow Alert, charge shields, and set all weapons to ready standby.”

Her officers confirmed her orders quickly and set themselves to work. Despite the vast emptiness of space pictured on the viewscreen, sh’Pherron refused to relax her guard. I played it fast and loose at Alzoc Prime, and I nearly got my crew killed. I won’t make that mistake again.

Some youthful spark of optimism deep within her wanted to believe this was all just a fool’s errand—that there was nothing to be found in this sector of the void except trace gases and stray neutrinos. But the hard-edged survivor instinct that had sustained her through a childhood yoked in slavery, an adolescence spent in rebellion, and a young adulthood mired in war told her there was someone else out here with her and her crew. Someone lurking unseen in the darkness, watching the ShiKahr. To what end sh’Pherron didn’t know, but she was determined not to call off the hunt until she found her prey—and learned for herself what its motives really were.

*  *  *

It was difficult for Trom to read the mood of his crew—just one more reason for him to resent and despise the snout masks they all were forced to wear as core elements of the Breen social costume. Further complicating the matter was the tendency of Breen vocoders to strip emotional cues from one’s voice, rendering all conversations in the same flat mechanical monotone. It made it hard for Trom to gauge when morale might be waning and in need of reinforcement.

Then there were the moments when no mask could hide his troops’ dismay.

Yoab stared at the overhead. His voice was hushed. “They’re hunting us.”

“No need to whisper,” Trom said. “They can’t hear you through vacuum.”

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?”

“Trojan horse assault,” Cole said. “We’ll hit Ikkuna Station fast and hard. Primary objective: seize control of the station and use its rift generator to move our own ship into the alternate universe. Then we destroy the station behind us.”

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

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.

The Breen in the docking bay stood frozen as the barrage of disruptor blasts erupted from the hold of the Królik. Most of the technicians and engineers fell or were launched backward as the fusillade slammed into them. All those who stood between the Section 31 team and the sealed blast doors that led to the station’s interior were downed within moments.

Bashir turned, crouched, and snapped off a flurry of shots at another group of Breen. He felled two in quick succession, then had to dive for cover behind one of the Królik’s landing struts, to dodge an incoming salvo from a Breen trooper in a guard post on an upper deck overlooking the docking bay. Before Bashir could recover his bearings to retaliate, Sakonna drew out the trooper with harassing fire, and Kitsom finished him with a precision head shot.

Then came the thunder.

Webb fired the CRM-114. A bone-rattling boom shook the docking bay and left Bashir feeling as if his innards had been quaked into pulp by sheer sonic force. Bright almost to the point of being blinding, a crimson flash leaped from the portable artillery piece and obliterated the blast doors at the far end of the docking bay. A storm of smoldering metal debris rode the rebounding shock wave and pelted the strike team and their ship. Bashir shielded his face with his arm until the shrapnel settled.

Cole barked, “Everyone up! We need to move!”

There was no time to protest or ask questions. Bashir sprang to his feet and followed Cole and the others toward the vast smoking breach. As they moved through the ragged gap wrought by the CRM-114, Bashir saw that the Section 31 agents had arranged themselves in a defensive formation around him and Sarina. Before he could remark on it, Cole turned, grasped Bashir’s shoulder, and pointed him at a nearby wall console. “Know how to use that thing?”

“I remember the basics.”

“Get on it. We need to scramble their internal sensors and find a route to the control room for the dimensional gate.”

Sarina joined Bashir at the wall console. Together they keyed in commands, parsing the bizarre alien symbols and syntax with ease thanks to their photographic memories of the Breen idioms they had learned during the Salavat mission. Whenever one of them strayed off the mark, the other was there to catch it and correct the error. Within seconds they broke through the station’s security lockouts, disabled its internal sensor grid, and called up a diagram of the station.

“Everything’s in lockdown because we blasted through the bulkhead,” Sarina said to Cole, pointing out details on the interactive map. “All the turbolifts are frozen, and security’s mobilizing against us. We can expect to have some serious company in about sixty seconds.”

“We’ll be gone by then. Where’s the control room?”

She highlighted it with a tap of her fingertip. “Up here. Operations level.”

Cole pointed at the core. “We’ll take the road less traveled. The station’s guts are automated—lots of open space, no air, zero gravity. Douglas, find us a way in there.” Alarms blared, and the station’s interior lighting turned bloodred. Cole noted the new circumstances with a sanguine nod. “And not to put any pressure on you, but sooner would be better.”

Sarina switched off the wall monitor and beckoned everyone to follow her. “This way.”

Bashir fell in behind her, and the rest of the team scrambled back into their protective box formation around the couple. He appreciated the extra protection, but as they raced to the nearest core access hatch, he found himself suspicious of the team’s desire to safeguard him and Sarina. They could’ve done most of this without us. Everything we learned during the Salavat mission was recorded. So why go to all this trouble to bring us here? What are they really driving at?

His questions would have to wait. The team charged into a terminal passage, and Sarina pointed at the pressure hatch on the far wall. “Through there.”

Cole waved Kitsom forward. “Open it.” The fair-haired young agent hurried to the hatch, unlocked it, and pulled it open. On the other side was an empty airlock.

The passageways behind the team resounded with the rumble of running footsteps and the angry buzz of mechanized voices barking orders. Time and options were both running out.

Cole waved the team past him. “It won’t take ’em long to figure out where we went.” He followed them inside the airlock and pulled the hatch shut behind him. “So get that next door open and move your asses before the Breen shoot them all off.”

*  *  *

“Cover!”

Bashir huddled, head down, behind the corner with the rest of the team as Webb targeted the control room’s reinforced door with the outrageous might of the CRM-114. The team’s ascent to the operations level had been swift and uninterrupted, and now their access to the heart of the station promised to be just as quick.

“Fire in the hole!” A red pulse and a thundering boom disintegrated the entrance to the secret laboratory. Webb dodged toward the opposite corner, half a second ahead of the rebounding shock wave and its chaos of sparks and shredded, half-molten metal.

Bashir adjusted the filters of his helmet’s holovisor to pierce the smoke, just as Cole windmilled his arm and marshaled the team into action. “Go!”

Kitsom and Sakonna sprinted down the smoke-filled passageway, firing suppressing shots through the jagged opening where the control room’s door had been. Cole and Webb fell in behind Bashir and Sarina, who charged with their disruptors leveled ahead of themselves, prepared to face any counterattack head-on.

Energy pulses ripped through the gap, forcing the Section 31 agents to duck to either side and press themselves against the walls. A wild shot grazed the shoulder of Bashir’s uniform with a sharp sizzle, followed by a puff of acrid smoke. He swatted the scar until it stopped smoldering, then shouted across the barrage to Cole, “We’re pinned down!”

“Relax. We’re just regrouping.” The leader fired a quick series of shots at the lab’s defenders, then hollered to the rest of his team, “Deploy spiders!”

Webb, Sakonna, and Kitsom slung their weapons. Each of them detached a pair of palm-sized, thin octagonal canisters from their uniforms’ utility belts and tossed them to the floor. All six canisters sprouted eight legs on impact, then skittered with unnerving speed under the enemy’s defensive barrage and scrambled into the control room.

Next came high-pitched whines and shrieks. Blue-white flashes filled the control room, which suddenly looked to Bashir like nothing less than a killing jar. The drones had the advantages of surprise, velocity, and superior accuracy. In a matter of seconds, all sounds of resistance from inside the lab ceased. Kitsom touched the side of his helmet, then he looked back at the rest of the team. “Clear.”

Cole strode toward the control room. “Move up, two by two, covering formation.”

Kitsom and Sakonna were the first ones inside. They split up to cover the Breen personnel who were still conscious. Bashir entered to see all of the control room’s armed guards incapacitated, bodies sprawled on the deck in agonized poses—but still breathing.

Standing in the middle of the laboratory, surrounded by the six spider drones, were two unarmed persons. One wore a Breen military uniform bearing a thot’s rank insignia. The other was a resplendent Tzenkethi woman. Her silvery skin, deep-copper hair, and elegant facial symmetry were striking amid the aggressive drabness of the Breen.

Cole stepped past Bashir and Sarina to confront the enemy duo. “Thot Tran. Doctor Choska. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintances after all this time.”

Choska’s voice was as sweet as a lullaby. “And you would be . . . ?”

“Unimpressed by your charms.” Cole aimed his disruptor at Choska’s head.

Bashir blocked Cole as Tran stepped in front of Choska. “What are you doing?”

The agent’s aim was steady, even with Bashir as its target. “Step aside, Doctor.”

“I didn’t sign on for this.”

From the sides of the room came the low whine of charging disruptors. Kitsom and Sakonna took aim at Choska. Sarina leveled her weapon against Cole, who breathed a sigh that the vocoder parsed as crackling static. “Time is short, Doctor, and we only need one of them.”

Tran raised his empty hands. “Do what you want to me. Don’t hurt Doctor Choska.”

In unison, Cole, Bashir, and Choska muttered with the same note of incredulity, “What?”

“I will cooperate,” Tran said. “No tricks. All I ask is that you not harm her.”

The Tzenkethi snapped at Tran, “What’re you doing?”

“Saving your life. So be quiet.” The Breen looked back at Cole. “I am in command here. Just tell me what you want.”

Cole shook his head. “Sorry, Tran, but your dossiers make it clear she’s the brains of this operation. I can’t let her live just so she can rebuild all of this someplace else. I hope you both understand—this isn’t personal.”

Bashir seized the barrel of Cole’s disruptor and forced it toward the ceiling. “You don’t need to do this. He’ll give us what we want.”

“What we want is to stop the Typhon Pact from sending missions to the alternate universe. And the most reliable means we have of ensuring that outcome is to make sure these two both end up dead. But in the name of compromise, I’ll settle for killing the smarter one.”

“If they die, you die, I die—everybody dies.”

To Bashir’s dismay, Cole seemed to consider his offer. Unable to peer beneath the man’s snout mask, Bashir had no way of knowing whether he had just struck a blow for diplomacy or had set in motion a bloodbath that would start with his own execution.

The tense standoff was interrupted by Webb, who noted with dry professionalism, “We have about sixty seconds before the security forces get here.”

Cole lowered his weapon. “All right, Doctor. Have it your way.” He leaned to look past Bashir at Tran. “You have one minute to power up your rift generator and program it to open us a passage to the alternate universe.”

“Understood.” Tran moved to a nearby master console.

Choska followed and leaned over his shoulder while he worked. “Are you mad?”

“Just do as I say, Choska. Initiate the stabilizer field.”

Kitsom and Webb moved to covered positions from which they could defend the entrance. Cole stepped close enough to Tran and Choska to monitor their work. Sakonna kept her distance and stayed where she could cover both Bashir and Sarina.

Bashir watched Choska and Tran work as he asked Cole, “What’s next?”

“Since you insist on letting them live, we’ll need to change our exit strategy. Once our new friends activate the rift generator, we’ll escort them to the nearest escape pod and put them in it. But someone has to stay here to trigger the self-destruct and sabotage the command systems to prevent it from being aborted.” He frowned at Bashir. “Which job would you prefer?”

Sarina touched Bashir’s arm. “I’ll make sure the scientists get out unharmed.”

He nodded. “All right. I’ll stay here to trigger the self-destruct.”

“So be it.” Cole returned his attention to the enemy scientists. “How much longer?”

Tran entered a few last commands. “The generator is activating now.”

A holographic projection along the wall opposite the entrance showed a sudden rent in the fabric of interstellar space. A radiant wound had appeared, as if slashed by a blade of titanic size. Choska made a few final adjustments to her console’s settings, and the brilliant incision in the skin of the universe began to widen. Its edges grew ragged with wild energies that left its contours tattered and aglow with eerie fires of unknown origin.

“It’s open,” Tran said. “It should remain stable for about seven minutes, or until one ship passes through.”

Cole offered the Breen a jaunty salute. “Well done, Tran. And my compliments to you, as well, Doctor Choska.” He gestured for them to move toward the entrance. “Now if you’d be so kind as to vacate the premises?”

Choska glared at Cole even as Tran gently ushered her out at his side.

“Webb, Kitsom, see them to an escape pod, then decoy the incoming security force. No matter what, after ninety seconds, use your recall beacons to get back to the ship and prep for launch.”

The two agents led Tran and Choska into the passageway outside the control room. Sarina paused at the doorway to look back at Bashir. All he could offer her was a single nod of encouragement. She parroted the gesture, then vanished into the smoky haze of the corridor to safeguard the fates of the two strangers for whom Bashir had just risked his life.

Cole pointed Sakonna toward the entrance, and she took over Kitsom’s previous position so she could act as a sentry. Then Cole directed Bashir toward the master console where Tran had stood. “Work quickly, Doctor. Time’s a factor.”

“I never would have guessed.” Most of the command systems resembled those Bashir had encountered during his mission to Salavat a few years earlier. It took him only a few seconds to isolate the command protocols and call up the interface for Ikkuna Station’s self-destruct system. “I don’t suppose you have command codes for—”

“Identify yourself as Thot Kren and use emergency command override five one swit zmierz nine nine three red.”

Bashir activated the self-destruct. The main computer requested his authorization, and he repeated the identity and authorization code as Cole had recited them. Then the computer’s mechanical voice prompted him, “Set countdown duration for self-destruct.”

Cole instructed him, “Set two minutes, silent countdown.”

Instead, Bashir told the computer, “Six minutes. Sound evacuation warning.”

“Acknowledged.”

A high-pitched alarm keened and echoed through the station’s empty spaces. The computer’s voice announced over the public-address system, “Self-destruct sequence engaged. All personnel evacuate. You have six minutes to reach minimum safe distance.”

Cole punched a nearby console. Then he pulled off his helmet to shout at Bashir. “What the hell are you doing? I gave you an order!”

“True. But I never agreed to take orders from you—or to condemn innocent people to die.” He turned his back on Cole and accessed the station’s emergency systems. “Computer: Lock onto all registered station personnel inside the command center and beam them directly to the nearest unoccupied escape pods.”

“Energizing.” Seconds later, coruscating swirls of light cocooned the unconscious Breen troopers lying on the deck around Bashir, Cole, and Sakonna. Within moments, they all had vanished, shepherded to safety. “Transports complete.”

“Computer: Launch those pods.”

“Pods away.”

Bashir took off his own helmet and stared back at Cole. “Now we can go.”

“Not so fast. If you’d set the countdown I’d requested, we could leave. But for some asinine reason you insisted on giving the Breen six minutes—”

“They need time to evacuate a station of this size and crew complement.”

“Perhaps. But by giving them time to evacuate, you also gave them time to respond. They’ll try to retake this command center and override the self-destruct. So thanks to you, we need to stay here and make sure that doesn’t happen.” He put his helmet back on and charged his disruptor. “Take cover. You’re gonna need it.”

Bashir pulled his own helmet back on. He crouched between Cole and Sakonna, behind a long bank of consoles whose back faced the wide-open entrance. He checked the settings on his disruptor. “Say what you will, Cole. I know I did the right thing.”

“No, Doctor, you did the moral thing.” He peeked over the top of the console as the sounds of boots crunching over dust and debris filled the passageway outside. “Let’s hope your renowned compassion doesn’t get us all killed.”

*  *  *

Like everything else made by the Breen, the escape pod was sturdy, functional, and soul-crushingly ugly. As a coffin it would have suited Thot Tran just fine, but it was a vessel most unworthy to ferry or contain Choska Ves Fel-AA’s ineffable beauty.

Tran had no time to dote upon Choska—not now, with so much at stake. Using tools he always kept hidden in the folds and pockets of his uniform, he detached the faceplate of the escape pod’s emergency communications system. He reached deep into the close-packed hardware that dwelled inside the pod’s narrow, efficiently designed bulkheads.

Choska’s enchanting voice filled his ears. “What are you trying to do?”

“I need to connect the comm system’s main transceiver to the reserve power cells.”

“To what purpose?”

“So we can generate a subspace signal powerful enough to pass through the rift and get a warning to the Tajny.” His fingers found the power cables and adroitly wrestled them free. When he went to connect them to the transceiver, however, he grumbled bitter curses.

“Now what?”

“I can’t feel the recessed auxiliary power port through my gloves.”

She shouldered him aside. “You Breen and your costumes. Let me do it.” Twisting like a slow flame, she snaked her limber arm inside the bulkhead and found the transceiver. After a few moments, a soft click from inside the machinery signaled her success. She extricated her limb and invited Tran back to the console. “All yours.”

“Thank you.” He powered up the comm system and opened an encrypted channel on the super-low subspace frequency that had been optimized for cross-dimensional transmissions and reserved for the Tajny’s use for the duration of its mission to the alternate universe. “Thot Tran to Tajny. This is a Priority One alert. Please respond.”

He feared that the pod lacked sufficient power to send the message, or that the rift might be too unstable to let the signal pass through intact. But after several seconds, Thot Trom replied. “This is Tajny. Go ahead.”

“Ikkuna Station has been compromised. Its destruction is imminent, and a hostile vessel is about to pursue you and close the rift. Adjust your mission profile for return strategy usta.”

“Understood. Tajny out.”

The channel closed abruptly, and the pod’s comm system reverted to its normal standby mode. Tran reset the system to send distress signals on all Tzenkethi military frequencies. Then he breathed a heavy sigh and slumped against one side of the hexagonal pod, opposite Choska.

Outside the view ports, the endless night wheeled past, the scattered stars transformed into blurs by the slow but erratic tumbling of the pod.

Inside the cramped emergency vehicle, an awkward silence festered between Tran and Choska. The Tzenkethi woman studied him with eyes as cold as they were lovely. She regarded him the same way she scrutinized experiments that deviated too far from her predictions.

Tran had no idea what to say to her, so he felt great relief when at last she spoke. “What were you thinking, Tran?”

“When?”

“Back on the station. When you told the intruders, ‘Do what you want to me. Don’t hurt Doctor Choska.’ What was that all about?”

Her question left him flummoxed. Then he realized the truth: I have nothing left to lose.

He had warned the Tajny and given its Spetzkar a fighting chance to defend themselves and find a new route home, but after surrendering Ikkuna Station to the intruders, his life would be forfeit if he ever returned to face his superiors in the Confederacy. His only hope of survival now lay in having the courage to do what he had wanted to do from the start.

He took off his helmet. Choska stared, wide-eyed, at the proud lines of his strong jaw, at his skin the color of rich, wet loam ready for planting, and into his chartreuse eyes. He peeled off his gloves and cast them aside. Then he reveled in the mild shock that came from touching her flesh as he kneeled and took her hand in his. The truth would be spoken, come what may.

“Dear, sweet Choska . . . my real name is Herlok Seltran, scion of the Clan Lokaar, born in the frozen north of Pacluro Prime, and I have something I need to tell you:

“I love you—and I want to defect.”

*  *  *

Leading the Breen astray inside the station had proved easier than Sarina had expected. Nearly half the force responding to the attack on the control room had detoured to pursue her, Webb, and Kitsom. Rather than engage the Breen directly, the trio of Section 31 agents had led them on a breakneck sprint through the station’s upper levels—a chase that terminated by design in a dead end. As soon as they turned the last corner, Webb’s order came through on their private comm channel via their Breen helmets: “Recall beacons!”

Still running, Sarina activated the automated signaling device on her uniform’s forearm. With one stride she was in the corridor, racing toward a solid gray wall. Her next step carried her off the transporter platform inside the Królik. Kitsom and Webb bounded off the platform and sped past her, pulling off their helmets as they dashed out the door. “C’mon,” Kitsom said. “We need to get to the rift!” She followed the two men on their mad dash back to the command deck, tossing aside her own helmet as they took their posts.

Kitsom dropped his helmet on the deck by the helm as he sat down and started tapping in commands. “Ventral hatch shut! Impulse engines online!”

Webb set his helmet atop the tactical station as he worked. “Disruptors charged! Firing!”

The ship’s main disruptor bank fired with a furious shriek. Sarina winced at the flash of light on the whited-out main viewer. The glare faded to reveal the absence of the outer docking bay doors—because Webb had just vaporized them. He called to Kitsom, “Clear!”

Sarina felt the deck lurch ever so slightly as Kitsom engaged the impulse drive. The inertial dampeners lagged by a few thousandths of a second, apparently confused by the Królik’s sudden departure from the station’s artificial gravity into zero-g deep space. “Coming about on course for the rift,” Kitsom said.

“Hold at thirty thousand kilometers from the station,” Webb said. “Warp drive to standby.” He looked at Sarina. “Scan the rift. Make sure it’s stable before we try to cross it.”

“On it.” Sarina pivoted toward the sensor console and made a comprehensive sensor sweep of the interdimensional rip. “Energy levels fluctuating. Quantum signature from the other side matches the known frequency for the alternate universe.”

A quick, steady percussion turned her head. She tracked the sound to Kitsom, who anxiously tapped his index finger against the side of the helm console. The dark-haired agent stared at the split image on the main viewscreen. On one side was the fiery chaos of the rift; on the other was the panicked flurry of escape pods rocketing away from Ikkuna Station.

Kitsom’s frown thinned and the creases in his brow deepened. “Where the hell are they? They should have beamed back by now.”

With a quick jab at the tactical panel, Webb opened a comm channel. “Królik to Cole. What’s your status and ETA?”

Static accompanied the whine of weapons fire over the channel. Cole’s voice pitched with stress. “Still helping the good doctor hold the control room!”

Concern darkened Webb’s expression. “Do you require assistance?”

“Negative! Are you in position?”

“Affirmative.”

“Stay there.” The screeching of disruptor blasts became deafening. “Hang on.”

The channel closed with a click. Webb and Kitsom traded grim looks. Kitsom shook his head. “What the hell are they doing? It was supposed to be two minutes and out!”

“Facts on the ground,” Webb said. “Gotta deal with what is, not what you planned.”

Kitsom pointed at the flurry of departing escape pods. “And what the hell is that? Why did we give them so much time to escape? It has to be that moron Bashir’s—”

“Enough!” Webb’s sharp rebuke silenced Kitsom. Their reciprocal angry glares persisted for a fraction of a second longer than Sarina might have expected, before Webb broke the moment with a new order. “Plot the fastest course through the rift and get ready to go. I get the feeling we’ll be cutting this one closer than usual.”

Both men continued with their tasks as if nothing odd had transpired between them, but Sarina was sure she had witnessed an accidental slip, a clue that something serious was amiss. And whatever it was, it had to do with Julian.

An alert buzzed on Webb’s console. He silenced it with a sweep of his hand. “They’re back.” He opened an internal comm channel. “Command to transporter room.”

Cole shouted over the comm, “We’re all here! Go!”

Webb pointed at the rift. “Punch it!”

The impulse engines thrummed, sending thrilling vibrations through the deck. The Królik leaped into motion, and the image of the rift swelled until its ragged edges slipped past the boundaries of the viewscreen’s oblong frame.

Emergency alerts flooded the sensor screens in front of Sarina. “The station’s exploding! Aft shields, now!”

Webb grimaced. “No shields inside the rift! We’ll have to outrun it!”

Kitsom pointed at the horrifying image on the screen. “The rift’s collapsing!”

Sarina pointed out the obvious. “If the station’s gone, so’s the rift generator!”

No one had to tell Kitsom to push the engines into overdrive. He released the safety lockouts on the impulse coils and accelerated the stolen Breen scout vessel through the rift.

The leading edge of a subspace shock wave made the Królik tremble as the aft hatch slid open and Cole, Sakonna, and Bashir scrambled onto the command deck. Sarina grabbed Bashir’s arm and pulled him to her as she warned the others, “Brace for impact!”

It struck with a roar like a volcanic eruption. Darkness dropped; the viewscreen and the consoles all went black, and the musical droning of the impulse engines fell silent.

Violent invisible forces—momentum, deceleration, wild shifts in direction—hurled Sarina through the dark. She stretched out her arms in front of her head and face and tried to prevent her body from tensing with anticipation. Stay loose, stay limber. Be ready to—

Her back slammed against a bulkhead or a console, and something hard took a bite out of the back of her head. Purple spots swam in her vision as she was launched again into the dark, tumbling and flailing blindly toward her next collision.

She bounced off something, then off of someone, before the cacophony ceased. The artificial gravity resumed and slammed her back onto the deck.

Dull greenish emergency lighting snapped on at regular intervals where the bulkheads met the overhead. Seconds later, most of the command deck’s consoles flickered back to life. The viewscreen displayed a grainy image cut by diagonal hashes of interference, showing the last remnants of the rift as it stitched itself closed and vanished from existence.

Cole pulled himself to his feet with a groan and walked with a stiff gait to the center chair. “Mister Kitsom, get a fix on our position. Everyone else, damage reports. Now.”

Kitsom recalibrated the helm, then checked the navcomp readout. “We’ve made it to the alternate univese. Our position is the same as it was in our universe, on the edge of Breen space.”

A slow nod from Cole. “Good. We’ll start the hunt from here.” He raised his voice. “Where are my damage reports?”

Webb spoke first. “Shields and weapons are good to go, but the cloak is fried.”

“Can it be fixed?”

“Not a chance. It’s a total loss.”

Cole sighed and pointed at Sakonna. “Engines?”

The Vulcan coaxed an update from her engineering panel. “Minor damage to the port warp nacelle. We can have it fixed within the hour.”

Sarina completed her own check and turned toward Cole. “All other internal systems check out. And the passive-detection system traced the subspace message Thot Tran sent through the rift after we ejected his pod. Which means we have an approximate position for the Tajny.”

“Good work, everyone. Douglas, go below with Sakonna and get that warp nacelle fixed. Webb, load the cloak-penetrating sensor protocols the Enterprise crew developed last year when they tracked the Breen to Mangala.” He lifted his arm and dramatically pointed at the stars. “Mister Kitsom, lay in a pursuit course, best possible speed.” He smiled. “The hunt is on.”

Fifteen

“Confirmed breach!” Ensign Riaow looked up from her tactical panel and beckoned the ShiKahr’s captain with a wave of her white-tufted paw. “Same coordinates as the first event! Sensors indicate a vessel came through from the other universe!”

“All sensors on those coordinates now.” Sh’Pherron left the center chair to review the data on Riaow’s console. With a gingerly touch of her fingertip behind her ear, she activated her subcutaneous transceiver. “Commander Turak to the bridge, on the double.” She sidled up to Riaow. “Show me what you’ve got. All of it.”

Riaow reconfigured her panel into a grid consisting of half a dozen correlated sensor reports. She touched her paw to the top left corner. “The event was brief, no more than a few minutes, but the energy levels were even higher than the last one. There was also a major subspace shock wave before it closed, which suggests something big exploded on the other side.”

“Okay. Did we get a clear reading on the ship?”

The Caitian called up a tactical scan from the center row of the grid. “Hull configuration suggests Breen design, but its energy signature is one we haven’t seen before, not on any Breen ship. It might be something new, or it might have been modified by someone else.”

“Or maybe the Breen make their ships differently in the other universe.” Eager to move along, sh’Pherron pointed at the full-sector target-tracking scans. “Where’s it going?”

“Bearing one-nine-nine mark twenty-six.” Riaow pulled up a subspace signal waveform. “The same general heading as a two-way subspace transmission we picked up between the rift and an unknown source in this universe, somewhere in this subsector.”

The highlighted subsector of the chart was interstellar deep space—no star systems, rogue planets, space stations, or even listening posts. Riaow’s observation seemed to confirm what sh’Pherron had suspected all along. “A cloaked ship.”

“Most likely, sir, yes.” Another warning flashed on the console. Riaow subdued it with a swat of her paw. “The new arrival just jumped to warp nine point seven.”

Thinking out loud, sh’Pherron pondered the evidence in front of her. “So, the first ship to come through the breach evades us by traveling cloaked. Then someone risks revealing the hidden ship’s position by sending it a subspace signal, to which it responds. Now another ship arrives and follows that heading at high warp.” The shen aimed a sidelong glance at Riaow. “What would you deduce from all this?”

“It would seem careless to risk sending a signal to a cloaked ship, unless something posed a threat to it.” A sideways nod at the console. “Such as someone coming after it.”

It seemed to sh’Pherron like a plausible reading of the facts. Still, she had to consider less favorable interpretations. “What if the first vessel is merely clearing the way for the second? Or the second is traveling uncloaked to serve as a decoy for the first?”

“Both are possible.” Riaow shrugged. “Either way, we need to pursue the new target.”

“Because?”

“It’s what we have. If it’s a decoy, capturing its crew could yield clues to the first ship’s intentions. If it’s in league with the first intruder, catching it will put us closer to both. And if it’s tracking the other ship, then it might be of use—by flushing out our quarry for us.”

The tactical officer’s arguments rang true to sh’Pherron. “Well said. Carry on.”

The starboard aft turbolift doors opened, and Turak emerged and moved to sh’Pherron’s side. “Situation, sir?”

“We have a new interloper, one whose identity and objectives are unknown. Review the sensor data with Riaow, then design a pursuit-and-attack plan with Zareth.”

The Vulcan man nodded. “When do you want to begin the assault?”

“I’m not sure yet that I do. I just want a plan ready to go.”

Her answer put a confused look on Turak’s face. “I do not understand.”

“We don’t know yet whether we’re dealing with friend or foe. Until we do, track the ship from maximum sensor range. Observe and report any changes in its heading or behavior to me.”

“Understood, Captain.” Turak cocked an eyebrow. “And if they prove to be a foe?”

Sh’Pherron hoped that scenario wouldn’t come to pass. She turned a hard and unforgiving stare toward her first officer. “Then we’ll make sure they don’t live to regret their mistake.”

*  *  *

Thot Trom hunched over the star chart displayed on the command deck’s aft situation table. New details popped into view every few moments as data from the Tajny’s sensors refreshed in real time. Watching the tactical reality unfold this way helped Trom see patterns of activity more clearly, which in turn aided him in developing responses.

It was, in some respects, a lot like improvising a dance to a tune one had never heard before: feeling the tempo and learning to expect when the changes would likely come. And though Trom was not one to boast, in his youth he had been quite the dancer.

A turbolift arrived. Crin stepped through its parting doors and turned on his heel to join Trom at the situation table. “Has something changed?”

“Everything.” Trom pointed at the tactical map. “Contingency usta’s been enacted.”

The first officer stared at the tabletop star chart. “Usta hasn’t been tested yet.”

“Then we’ll be breaking new ground.” Trom tapped the hexagon of an adjacent subsector on the chart. “Ikkuna Station’s gone, and whoever fragged it is coming after us.”

Crin leaned closer to the tabletop. “A scout ship? That’s the best they could do?”

“Don’t get overconfident. It’s one of ours, but its energy profile has changed. Which suggests that someone captured it and modified it somehow.” Trom touched both hands to the interactive display and widened the scope of the star chart by setting his fingertips at opposite corners and pulling them together, toward the center. “Fortunately, it’s traveling without its cloak, so we have time to lie low while we rethink our exit strategy.” He tapped on the B’hava’el system. “This is our real problem.”

“Bajor?” Crin looked up. “What’s our interest in them?”

“In the Bajorans? Nothing. But their wormhole is our only remaining path home.” Trom called up a classified report on the tabletop and rotated it for Crin to peruse. “According to secret Starfleet reports, there have been several crossings between our universe and this one over the past ten years—all of them utilizing the wormhole to one degree or another.” He highlighted a topological wire frame of the Bajoran wormhole’s interior. “That artificial structure is more than just a passageway between distant points in the Alpha and Gamma Quadrants—it’s potentially a gateway to a nearly unlimited number of parallel universes.”

Crin set his hands on the table’s edges and leaned forward, mirroring Trom. “Is the large number of Commonwealth ships lingering around the Bajor sector any reason for alarm?”

“At the very least, it’s cause for caution.” Trom selected the hexagon containing the Bajor system. “I’m more concerned about the unpredictable nature of the nonlinear-time entities who inhabit the wormhole. During the Dominion’s war against the Federation and its allies, the wormhole entities wiped out a fleet of Jem’Hadar reinforcements.”

A slow grim nod from Crin. “So they might not be amenable to granting us passage.”

“A distinct possibility.”

Crin magnified the subsectors directly adjacent to the wormhole. “There’s another wrinkle to consider. If we succeed in using the wormhole to return to our own universe, we’ll emerge on the doorstep of Starfleet’s new Deep Space Nine starbase. Even if we arrive cloaked, they’ll see the wormhole when it opens, and they’ll start scanning for us. They’d be certain to intercept us.”

“I admit it’s a less than ideal plan. But for now, it’s all we have. Put Solt and his engineers on it. See if they can cook up a better alternative.”

Rem lifted his visor from the tactical console. “Sir? We’ve picked up a new signal. There’s another ship following us.”

“I’m aware of that, Rem.”

“No, sir—not the scout ship. Another vessel. Much larger.” He checked his panel to confirm his facts before he continued. “I think it’s the wormhole ship we saw before.”

New sensor data appeared on the situation table as its display refreshed. Trom and Crin studied the icons representing their two pursuers. The first officer traced one gloved finger along the path of the hijacked scout ship. “They’re heading straight toward us.” He looked up at Trom. “Almost as if they have some means of seeing through the cloaking device.”

Trom nodded. “They very well might. Such advantages tend to be short-lived.” He reached out and tapped the icon representing the wormhole ship. “If the scout’s following our trail, then the wormhole ship is probably shadowing the scout. Which means we can use the scout to lead our prey into a trap—and rid ourselves of two pests at once.”

Crin reduced the volume on his vocoder. “That might not be wise, sir. What if the scout and the wormhole ship unite against us?”

“Unlikely.” Trom’s thoughts were a whirlwind of possibilities. “The wormhole ship is following the scout at long range. If they were in league together, they’d move as a pair—or else split up to cut us off. No, our hunters have become the hunted and might not even know it.” He stalked away from the situation table and returned to the listing center seat. “Helm, bring us about. Set an intercept course for the scout ship pursuing us. Rem, charge all weapons and tell Solt we’re going to need all systems operational within the hour. It’s time for a showdown.”

Sixteen

Sarina’s voice was soft and her breath was warm in Bashir’s ear. “What happened over there?”

He looked up from the sensor display and cast a furtive glance around the command deck to make sure the Section 31 agents weren’t paying particular attention to their conversation. “Nothing. Just a short holding action.”

“That’s not how Kitsom saw it.” She turned a wary look toward the crew-cut agent. “He got pretty bent out of shape about the delay. And he blamed you.”

Bashir shrugged off the news. “He was right. Cole wanted a two-minute countdown. I set it for six, so the station’s crew could reach the escape pods.”

“Risky move.” Her anxious eyes flitted toward Cole. “How’d he take it?”

“About as well as one would expect.”

“So? Was it worth the risk?”

“Most of the station’s crew survived. Their casualties were minimal and limited to armed combatants, and we accomplished all our mission objectives. So, yes—I think it was worth it.”

She wore a skeptical frown. “I’d bet Cole and the others disagree.”

He disarmed her warning with a smile. “And it’s my pleasure to disappoint them.”

Before Sarina could chide him any further, a fast-moving anomaly sent up chirps of alarm from the sensor console. Bashir turned to analyze the readings, with Sarina looking over his shoulder. More dire alerts sounded from the tactical console. Bashir raised his voice over the sudden din of feedback tones. “Neutrino surge! Dead ahead, moving on an intercept course, closing at warp nine point eight!”

Webb’s eyes widened as he read the report on the tactical panel. “It’s the Tajny! She’s coming right at us!”

Cole snapped out orders. “Shields up! Evasive pattern romeo four! Charge weapons!”

Kitsom pointed at the viewscreen. “They’re uncloaking!”

The Breen battle cruiser rippled into view, a ghost taking shape in the darkness. Then its main disruptor banks fired, and the image on the viewscreen flared. Half a second later, the bridge was filled with the ear-splitting boom of overpowering energy blasts pummeling the Królik’s shields. Something above Bashir’s head let out a fearsome bang. He and Sarina dodged clear of a shower of white-hot phosphors that rained down from a ruptured plasma conduit.

“Forward shields collapsing,” Webb shouted over the clamor of the attack.

Despite Cole’s level tone, Bashir heard the stress in the man’s voice as he issued new orders. “Transfer shield power to the aft and dorsal generators. Helm, come about, hard starboard! Get me a clean shot at their warp coil!”

Adrenaline put a tremor in Webb’s report: “They’re behind us!”

Another brutal impact rocked the Królik. The force of it sent Bashir tumbling forward. He slammed against a secondary duty console, then lost his footing as another thunderous blast sent him and the rest of the crew flying toward starboard. For a moment he was airborne, and then he landed on top of an auxiliary console, which cracked beneath him.

The lights went out. Bashir blinked, and a hazy, out-of-focus view of the command deck returned. He realized it wasn’t the lights that had gone out—it had been him, stunned into a semiconscious state for who knew how many seconds.

Sarina pulled him off the shattered console and helped him onto his feet. “Get up! We have to abandon—”

“Be advised,” rasped a mechanical voice over the ship’s internal comm network, “this is Thot Trom, commanding the Breen expeditionary force aboard the cruiser Tajny. Surrender without condition or delay, or you will be destroyed. You have twenty seconds to reply.”

On the viewscreen, the fearsome bulk of the Tajny orbited the smaller Królik like a massive carrion bird making a slow circle above its mortally wounded prey. Cole maintained his poker face while watching the cruiser. Around him, Sakonna, Kitsom, and Webb dusted themselves off but betrayed no sign of fear.

Quite the opposite, Bashir realized. Before the attack, they all acted as if they were under hideous stress. Now their ship is crippled and they’re about to be taken prisoner, and none of them shows a hint of concern. What are they up to?

A burst of blue light swirled into existence behind the Królik. Bashir recognized its telltale event horizon, a cerulean storm of churning dust and high-energy particles: it was a wormhole. But its limited scope and near-perfect symmetry betrayed its origin: it was artificial, the product of a jaunt ship. The vessel that had created the instant tunnel through space hurtled out of it and cruised into an attack posture against the Tajny.

Cole shot a look at Webb. “On speakers. I want to hear what they say to each other.”

The agent patched in an intercept of the ship-to-ship communications between the jaunt ship and the Tajny. “Attention, unidentified Breen vessel. This is Captain sh’Pherron, commanding the free starship ShiKahr. Power down your weapons and drop your shields.”

Kitsom reclined his chair, crossed his arms, and grinned at Webb. “Bet you a hundred credits the Breen don’t even respond before they open fire.”

“No bet,” Webb said.

Sarina wrangled a sensor report from the stuttering hash of her console. “The Tajny is coming about to face the ShiKahr. Wait, I’m detecting a power buildup—”

The Tajny unleashed a massive pulse of energy at the ShiKahr. The brilliant white sphere slammed into the jaunt ship. A crackling cocoon of wild, sapphire-hued lightning enveloped the vessel from its needle-shaped primary hull to its ring-shaped secondary fuselage. The creeping tendrils of blue energy snaked inside the ship, whose running lights dimmed and went dark.

Bashir recognized the weapon that had crippled the ShiKahr. He had been aboard the first Defiant when it was laid low by the Breen’s dreaded energy-dampening cannon. Although ships in his universe had since been hardened to repel that attack, the jaunt ships apparently had not.

As the same mechanized voice that had given its ultimatum to the agents on the Królik addressed the jaunt ship’s crew over an open channel, Bashir realized that he and the rest of Cole’s team had all just been played for fools.

“Crew of the ShiKahr. This is Thot Trom, commanding the Breen expeditionary force on the cruiser Tajny. Surrender and prepare to be boarded.”

*  *  *

In every direction sh’Pherron turned, she found bad news. “Riaow?”

The Caitian tapped at her console, whose surface danced with wild blue fingers of electricity. “Weapons and shields off-line! Tactical grid’s fried!”

Zareth swiveled his glenget—a kneeling chair custom-made to suit his peculiar Chelon physiology with its inflexible back carapace—and faced the captain. “Helm’s frozen!”

Turak stepped back from the master systems display, which had become a flickering mosaic of chaotic pixels. “All computer systems are off-line.”

“Which means we can’t initiate command lockouts or a manual override.” Desperate for good news, sh’Pherron tried to open an internal comm channel to main engineering, but the interface beside her command chair transformed into a garbled mess and went dark. “Uzaveh’s fire! What hit us?” She tapped the subdural communicator behind her ear and was relieved to hear the dulcet tone of the transceiver standing by to transmit. “Everyone, switch to personal communicators. Until we get the computer back, all comms need to be direct, from person to person. Riaow, tell security to repel boarders. Turak, let Mott know we need primary power and the main computer restored, as soon as possible. Zareth, contact the deck officers for casualty and damage reports, see if they—”

“Captain,” Turak cut in. “Boarders reported in main engineering and auxiliary control.”

“Have all personnel in those sections repel boarders by any means necessary, and—” Her train of thought was derailed by a singsong wash of noise and a flurry of light in the center of the bridge. “Hit the deck!” She turned her chair and raced to duck behind it.

A fury of white light was followed by a tooth-rattling detonation. By the time sh’Pherron realized what had happened, she was lying flat on her back, half blind, half deaf, and stunned.

Standing above her and the rest of her dazed bridge crew were a dozen Breen soldiers armed with disruptor rifles, stun batons, and flash grenades. The neon green glow of their visors cut through the smoky gloom of their attack’s aftermath. Acting on instinct, sh’Pherron tried to draw her phaser, only to have one of the Breen step on her wrist and pin it to the deck.

The hulking masked intruder loomed over her. A harsh scratch of mechanical noise spat from a speaker in the snout of his mask. A secondary speaker mounted beneath the snout translated the sounds for her. “I am Thot Trom. Do you command this ship?”

“Yes.”

“Order your crew to stand down and surrender.”

Trom waited several seconds for sh’Pherron to react, but she made no move to comply. Staring at the monstrous contours of his helmet, she felt her antennae twitch with revulsion.

Trom increased the pressure on sh’Pherron’s wrist, which cracked loudly beneath his weight. She dropped her weapon. “Give the order, Captain. Tell your crew to stand down.”

“No.”

The Breen aimed his rifle and snapped off one shot. Its crimson blast struck Zareth, who let out a roar of pain as he vanished in a fast-spreading blaze of red fire that left nothing behind but a handful of dust and the echoes of his death cry. Then Trom leveled his weapon at Turak. “Tell your crew to stand down and surrender this ship, or I will execute your bridge officers, one by one. After they are gone, I will have my men execute the rest of your crew the same way. And I will make you witness every one of their deaths.”

Handing over the ship went against all of sh’Pherron’s training. Worse, it offended her on a personal level; losing her ship so decidedly, and so swiftly, was a smirch upon her virtue as an Andorian. But her pride was not worth sacrificing the hundreds of lives under her command. She slowly raised her empty hand and touched the transceiver behind her ear.

“Captain sh’Pherron to all ShiKahr personnel. Attention, all decks. This is the captain. Stand down. This is a direct order. Lay down your weapons and surrender.” She glared up at the masked villain whose boot pressed on her wrist and whose rifle remained trained on her first officer. “Thot Trom is now in command of this vessel. That is all. Sh’Pherron out.” Another light tap on her subcutaneous transceiver closed the channel. She looked up at Trom, her eyes and her heart full of hate. “The ship is yours.”

“I know it is. Thank you, Captain.” He removed his boot from her wrist, kicked away her weapon, and barked orders in his machine-noise voice. There was no translation this time, but none was required; the actions that followed were self-explanatory.

The Breen soldiers hoisted sh’Pherron and her stunned officers from the deck, herded them into a turbolift, and marched them belowdecks, to the brig.

*  *  *

Time was short and Thot Trom was impatient as he entered the ShiKahr’s transporter room. “Energize,” he said as soon as he’d stepped through the doorway. One of his technicians, Chot Kine, initiated the transport sequence.

Trom faced the transporter platform. Half a dozen heavily armed Spetzkar troopers stood between him and the low dais. Six figures materialized on the energizer pads. As the prismatic whorl of light resolved into solid forms, Trom saw that his newest prisoners were wearing Breen military uniforms—but their faces were distinctly those of Federation-aligned species: four human males, a human female, and a Vulcan female.

As the annular confinement beam deactivated, freeing them from their in-transport paralysis, the Spetzkar troopers raised their weapons. To the prisoners’ credit, none of them made even the slightest attempt to reach for his or her own disruptor pistol, which were plucked from their belt holsters by two of the Spetzkar.

“Which of you is in command?”

As Trom expected, the eldest human male, a trim figure with close-cut dark hair and green eyes, stepped to the front of the group. “I am.”

“Name?”

“Cole.”

“How did you come to possess a Breen military vessel?”

The human shrugged. “I never thought to ask.”

“How did you learn of our mission?”

“What mission?”

Behind his helmet, Trom smiled at the human’s insouciance. “Feigned ignorance? Is that all you have to offer? You disappoint me.” He turned toward Thar Khol, the chief of the security detachment. “Take them to the nearest empty cargo bay. Have Doctor Nev meet us there with an interrogation kit.” As his men seized the prisoners and forced them toward the door, Trom permitted himself a rare moment of gloating. “You want to play? Then let the games begin.”

Seventeen

Bashir saw little of the jaunt ship during his forced march from the transporter room to the cargo bay—nothing but corridors either deserted or littered with the bodies of those slain by the Breen. The few details he noticed suggested the ShiKahr was a clean and orderly vessel, a bit tight on interior space but no less accommodating than many of Starfleet’s smaller ships.

The small cargo bay to which he and the rest of the Section 31 team had been led was also nearly immaculate, and it exhibited an efficient use of space. If he had one criticism of the storage bay, it was that it felt uncomfortably cold, but he attributed that to the fact that he and the others had been compelled by their captors to remove their stolen Breen uniforms, which had left all of them barefoot and attired in only their undergarments.

He also blamed his crushing headache on the Breen, because they were the ones who had strung up him and the others by their bound ankles and dangled them upside down with their fingertips just shy of scraping the deck. As if hanging inverted hadn’t been enough of an indignity, the Spetzkar guarding them until their commander’s arrival insisted on circling the group and jabbing them with stun batons at random intervals.

Muffled grunts and stifled shouts of pain answered every crackling thrust of the batons. Bashir dreaded his next turn on the receiving end of the Breen’s sadism. Just when he thought he might be spared another jolt, a stab of white heat in his ribs made his mind go blank.

Consciousness returned with a shudder. He had no idea how long he had been out. At first he thought it might have been only a few seconds. Then he assessed the size of the puddle of drool that had spilled from his mouth and gathered beneath his head, and he realized he must have been hanging stunned and limp for at least a minute, if not longer.

He turned his head toward Sarina, who hung like a rag doll beside him, and he mumbled under his breath, “If this is the Breen’s idea of a suspended sentence, I can’t say I approve.”

His rewards for the bad joke were a wince from Sarina and a gut-punch from a Breen that left him gasping like a landed fish. The quip had been an admittedly lame attempt to bolster his broken morale, but more than once he had found comfort in gallows humor during times such as this.

The cargo bay’s broad oval door dilated and vanished inside the bulkhead. A trio of Breen entered. Bashir recognized the insignia of the one walking in front of the others—it was the commander, Thot Trom. He surmised the others were two of Trom’s senior officers.

Analyzing their gaits and body language from an upside-down vantage made it more difficult for Bashir to guess the species of the individuals beneath the Breen uniforms. Even so, he was fairly certain the commander was a Silgov, a humanoid species whose members could mingle easily among the peoples of the Federation. The other two were harder to gauge. The lightness of one’s step led Bashir to think he might be an Amoniri, a low-density species whose need for cold had made refrigeration units standard issue on Breen uniforms; the other one was likely a Fenrisal, a lupine-featured race for whom the Breen masks had acquired snouts.

The Spetzkar officers approached the prisoners and spread out into a single rank before them. Trom looked at one of the Breen who had been guarding the group. Harsh noise spat from Trom’s vocoder like sonic confetti ejected from a blender. Despite Bashir’s experience with the Breen language, the device’s near-perfect scrambling of vocabulary and syntax left him no chance of decoding the conversation transpiring right in front of his face.

After a brief exchange with his men, Trom activated his vocoder’s translator circuit. “Who is ready to answer my questions?” His request was met by silence. “Your stoicism is laudable but futile. Most of you are unknown to us.” He looked at Bashir. “But not all of you.”

One of the other Spetzkar handed Trom the Breen version of a padd. He took a short look at it, then proceeded as if from memory. “Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir. Human, genetically enhanced. Former chief medical officer, Starbase Deep Space Nine. Dishonorably discharged from Starfleet after a court-martial in absentia. I’ll spare you a recounting of the formal charges.”

“Too kind.”

Trom pivoted toward his next subject of interest. “Sarina Douglas. Human, genetically enhanced. Former field operative, Starfleet Intelligence. Former deputy director of security, Starbase Deep Space Nine.”

“Senior deputy,” Sarina corrected.

He stole a brief look at his padd. “According to Breen Intelligence Directorate files, you and Doctor Bashir share more than a domicile. You also acted together on a covert mission to the Salavat shipyard, in the Alrakis system, three and a half years ago.” He leaned down, as if to touch his helmet’s snout to her face. “Your crimes on Salavat, including the murders you committed during your escape from interrogation, have not been forgotten, Miss Douglas. The Breen Confederacy considers you a fugitive from state justice.”

“Oh, sure. You say you remember me. But did you call? Did you write?”

The Spetzkar commander straightened and took half a step back, putting him just out of Sarina’s reach—not that she had showed any sign of making a move to attack. “Your former status as a Starfleet officer, as well as Doctor Bashir’s, intrigues me. If you both have left Starfleet, whom do you now serve? Your dossier indicates that you belong to the Federation’s civilian espionage and counterintelligence service, the Federation Security Agency.” He regarded the rest of the team. “But we have no records of your associates.”

“My associates? I don’t know them. They were just hitching a ride.”

Trom kneeled in front of Sarina and seized her by her throat. “I see your irreverence for what it is, Miss Douglas. Cease and desist, or I will kill one of these people. Understood?” Sarina nodded, so Trom let go of her and stood again. “Let’s continue. Are these associates of yours nonofficial agents of the FSA?”

This time, Sarina said nothing. She closed her eyes and drew a long slow breath—no doubt to calm herself in preparation for what she knew was coming next. Trom nodded at one of the men who had guarded the group. “Doctor Nev? If you please.”

Nev thrust his stun baton into the small of Sarina’s back. Her screams were piercing and shrill, and they cut Bashir to his soul. All he could do was wince and shut his eyes. I can’t give in to save her. That’s the Breen’s plan—and it’s the last thing she’d want me to do.

After minutes that felt like forever, Sarina’s monstrous howls came to a halt, and the Breen doctor—though Bashir doubted anyone capable of such horrors deserved to bear the title—stepped away to let the Spetzkar commander inspect his handiwork.

“She’s done for now.” Trom looked at the others. “Torturing the Vulcan would be pointless.” He waved dismissively at Cole, Kitsom, and Webb. “They’d enjoy it.” Then he looked at Bashir. “And our superiors have a bounty on this one. Him, we take home as is.” The commander turned and walked away, uttering a string of untranslated vocoder gibberish.

Before Bashir had time to wonder what Trom had said, the synthetic ropes holding the team went slack, and the six prisoners crashed hard, heads first, onto the deck. Gloved hands seized Bashir by his bound ankles and dragged him across the deck. On either side of him, the rest of the team was hauled with the same lack of dignity, towed like garbage out of the cargo bay and through the frigid corridors, until they arrived, finally, at the brig, which was packed to overflowing with the ShiKahr’s officers and crew.

The low humming of a force field ceased just long enough for the Breen to hurl Bashir and his comrades into a cell. The six of them landed together in a heap. Then the force field snapped back on, filling the cramped space with its incessant angry buzzing.

As the Breen troops walked away, Bashir saw Sarina’s left eye flutter half open.

“Sarina? Are you all right?”

“Shh. It’s okay, Julian.” She gave him a weak smile. “I have a plan.”

Her smile faded as she passed out in his arms. He sighed. “I feel better already.”

*  *  *

A sharp hiss roused Bashir from his all-too-brief nap. “Psst. Hey you.” Bashir blinked slowly as he got his bearings. He was still in the brig, slumped against the bulkhead beside the force field. The hissing and the voice were coming from somewhere close by, to his right. He turned his head. Across the corner from his cell, behind the force field of another holding area, a young rust-furred Tellarite pointed at him. “Yeah, you. ’Bout time you woke up.”

Bashir rubbed his eyes and surveyed his own cell. Sarina lay beside him, her head cradled on his thigh. Kitsom, Webb, and Sakonna slept on the deck. Cole had claimed the small space’s only bunk, where he had stretched out with his back to the rest of the brig.

The Tellarite became more insistent. “Hey.” He waited until Bashir looked back at him before he continued. “Don’t I know you?”

Whispering so as not to wake his cell mates, Bashir said, “I doubt it.”

“Your face is familiar. I know I’ve seen you before.” He grimaced, as if the effort of thinking was too great a strain for him to bear. “I’m Chief Tunk. What’s your name?”

“Unimportant,” Bashir said.

He pointed past Bashir with his three-fingered hand. “Who are they?”

“Even less important.”

The chief’s snout twitched as if he smelled something rotten. “If you were nobodies, you wouldn’t be locked in here with us. You’re not part of our crew—I know everybody on this boat. So if you aren’t with us, and you aren’t with the Breen, what are you?”

“Stuck in the middle.”

Tunk sounded annoyed. “You’re full of snappy answers, eh?”

“If I said my friends and I were here to help you, would you believe me?”

The Tellarite shrugged. “I might want some proof.”

“Sorry.” Bashir gestured at his scant undergarments. “What you see is what you get.”

Prisoners in other cells shuffled and shimmied closer to their force fields to join the hushed conversation. Most of them had no direct line of sight to Bashir, but he heard them moving: the scrapes of their feet on the deck, the soft rustling of fabric as they shifted position. Only a pair of faces, in the next cell down from Tunk’s, had a view of Bashir. A Bajoran woman and a Bolian man peered through the shadows at him. Bashir tried to inch away, to take cover deeper inside his cell, but he hesitated to wake Sarina or disturb the others, which left him trapped and visible. He looked back out at the ShiKahr’s officers in time to see the Bajoran woman’s eyes widen with surprise. “By the Prophets! Is that—it can’t be him. He’s dead.”

Bashir turned his face away, but he knew it was too late; the damage had been done. He had recalled reading of his alternate-universe alter ego in one of Captain Sisko’s after-action reports, but until now he hadn’t considered the possibility that he might be mistaken for the man—or the risk that his counterpart might be dead, instantly making his own presence suspect. In his imagination, a whoop and cry were about to go up, branding him an intruder.

Instead he heard the Bolian shush his shipmate. “Quiet, Raya. Keep this to yourself. You, too, Tunk. Not a word, not to anyone. That’s an order.”

Mumbled acknowledgments of “Yes, sir” came back from Raya and Tunk. Bashir turned back and looked across the dim confines of the brig. The Bolian man met his stare, smiled, pressed his index finger to his lips, and nodded once. His message was clear: Your secret is safe.

He had no idea why it mattered, but all the same he was grateful for the crew’s discretion. He gave a small nod of thanks, then turned as he heard his cell mates stir. Cole rolled over and sat up. Sakonna, Webb, and Kitsom sat up and roused themselves quickly but quietly.

Their synchronicity baffled Bashir. Did they all have implanted alarms? Or had the junior agents been conditioned to adapt to their superiors’ schedules? He decided it didn’t matter how they had awoken together, at least not for the moment. He twitched his thigh beneath Sarina’s head and jostled her gently from her light slumber. She squinted, then blinked as she sat up. “I see none of us are dead yet,” she said under her breath. “So far, so good.”

“The night is young.” Bashir got up and stamped his feet to get his blood circulating. The other agents stood and stretched their limbs. In such close quarters, Bashir found the sudden profusion of movement awkward and intrusive of his personal space. He stopped his exercise and put his back to the wall. “Any plan to get us out of here, Mister Cole?”

The senior agent bent side to side, like a willow tree caught between competing winds. “Not at the moment, Doctor. Unless you have a plan you’d like to share.”

Bashir ignored the verbal jab. “We’re at a distinct disadvantage.”

Kitsom cracked his knuckles. “Nice of you to notice.”

“I’m serious. We’ve lost our uniforms, our equipment. Everything we had was on the Królik, and now it’s in the hands of the Breen.”

Sarina rested her hand on Bashir’s shoulder. “Maybe we should relax, Julian.”

“Relax? Are you serious?”

Cole shot a weary look at Bashir. “Patience, Doctor. Sometimes, if you wait quietly, opportunity knocks. But you need to be still in order to hear when it comes to your door.”

“Patience? Opportunity? Forgive me, Mister Cole. I was under the impression that you and your ‘organization’ made a practice of planning for all contingencies. I find it hard to believe you didn’t see this scenario coming from light-years away.”

“Who says we didn’t?” Cole folded his hands behind his back and stepped to within a millimeter of the invisible force field. He looked out at the imprisoned officers of the ShiKahr, and then he turned to face his own team. “Trust me, friends: This is far from over.”

Eighteen

By some standards, half a day was not a long time; under the present circumstances, however, Trom found its duration interminable. He stepped out of the turbolift onto the bridge of the ShiKahr, hoping to put an end to the spell of waiting that was driving him to distraction.

He walked toward the center seat. His second-in-command relinquished the chair as Trom approached. “The bridge is yours, sir.”

“I’ve had my fill of this universe, Crin. Tell me some good news.”

Crin waved over the senior tactical officer as he began his report. “Main power restored. All overloaded relays have been replaced or bypassed. Command and control systems are back online. Communications are back up.”

One detail was conspicuous by its omission. “What about the wormhole drive?”

Karn, the tactical officer, stepped in to answer Trom. “The jaunt drive, as this ship’s crew calls it, sustained minor damage. Engineer Solt says repairs are complete. Pilot Yoab is making himself familiar with this vessel’s helm controls and the navigation software for the jaunt drive. Rem is assisting him with the calculations for a jump to the B’hava’el system.”

“Good work.” Trom directed his next question at Crin. “Status of the Tajny?”

“We’ve taken it in tow with a tractor beam. Factoring in its additional mass and its effect on wormhole topology is part of what’s complicating Rem’s calculation of the jump.”

That was less than ideal news, but Trom had expected it might be the case. “If bringing it with us becomes untenable, we’ll have to set its self-destruct and continue without it.”

“Rem is sure he can make the jump work. But just in case, I’ve put a skeleton crew on the Tajny. If the jump goes wrong, we’ll cut them loose and abort.”

It was a prudent plan, one that maximized the company’s options. “Well done. But make sure everyone knows our priority is to safeguard this ship. It has to be delivered intact to our research teams. If that means sacrificing the Tajny, then so be it.”

“Understood, sir.”

“What about the scout ship the Federation agents were using?”

“It’s in the main docking bay. It appears to have suffered heavy damage.”

The first officer’s choice of words stoked Trom’s curiosity. “Appears to?”

“Our priority was to fix this ship, sir. I told Solt not to waste his men or his time on the scout. When we get home, we can release it to fleet operations, and let it be their problem.”

“All right. How long until—”

Crin turned his head away and looked down; it was a habit of his when he received audio transmissions through his helmet. After a few seconds, he straightened and faced Trom. “Jaunt drive online, wormhole generator fully charged.”

Trom pivoted into the command chair. It felt very different from the seats on a Breen starship. It wrapped around his upper body and offered a generous cushion beneath him. Let’s hope the lab rats back home think to copy these seats along with the jaunt drive. He gripped the armrests and lifted his chin. “Yoab! Status!”

The pilot looked up from the helm and rotated his chair to answer Trom. “Calculations complete, sir. I was double-checking them to make sure I didn’t miss any variables.”

“And? Did you?”

“I don’t think so, sir.” Left to hang on his own noncommittal answer, Yoab corrected himself a few seconds later. “No, sir, I didn’t. Course plotted and ready.”

“Crin, sound general quarters. All hands to battle stations. Karn, advise the Tajny we’re about to get under way. Yoab, how close will your jump take us to the Bajoran wormhole?”

Yoab checked his navigational chart. “Approximately nine point two light-minutes.”

“Can you put us any closer?”

“Not without ripping us to shreds inside the Denorios Belt.”

Trom beckoned Karn. “What’s on long-range sensors?”

“Heavy activity in the B’hava’el system, sir.”

“Military or civilian?”

Karn bowed his head by the slightest degree. “At this range, our sensor readings are inconclusive. We’re picking up several energy signatures that could be from matter-antimatter warp drives, but we can’t ascertain any details beyond that.”

The commander nodded to mask his dismay. “So we’ll be jumping in blind. That presents a tactical hurdle. Recommendations?”

“It might be prudent to avoid confrontation, sir. We have the advantage of being in a military vessel. If the majority of traffic in the system is civilian, it’s unlikely anyone will try to challenge us. In which case, we emerge from the jump and set course for the wormhole. At warp two, we can reach it in less than ninety seconds.”

“Relay those orders to Yoab and brief the crew on the Tajny. We go in one minute.”

“Yes, sir.”

Trom settled into the command chair and drew deep breaths to calm himself as the moment of action arrived. The seconds passed slowly, dragged down by the weight of adrenaline and anticipation. Then Karn signaled Crin that all was ready. The first officer looked at Trom, who nodded his assent, and Crin gave the order: “Activate jaunt drive.”

“Engaging jaunt drive.” Yoab keyed in the jump command.

An indigo mandala of supercharged gases swirled into being on the main viewscreen, directly ahead of the ShiKahr. The cloud expanded to epic proportions in a matter of seconds, and then its center dilated to reveal the yawning throat of a wormhole, a shortcut through space-time. The interior of this artificial tunnel through the stars rolled like the sides of a kaleidoscope. Bursts of energy flared and danced along its ever-shifting curves.

“Increase power to the tractor beam,” Trom said. “Keep the Tajny as close to us as possible. Karn, charge the shield generators in case we need them. Yoab . . . take us in.”

“Yes, sir. Proceeding into the wormhole at one-half impulse.”

The maw of the wormhole filled the viewscreen as the ShiKahr accelerated inside it. Trom wasn’t sure what to expect of a trip through a synthetic wormhole, but he was surprised at how smooth the journey proved to be. No turbulence, no eerie sonic feedback. Just a hypnotic array of blue radiance that soon yielded to a point of light, which expanded within moments into a vista of black space dusted with bright stars.

All at once the ShiKahr was free of the wormhole, shot out into normal space-time with hardly any sense of disruption. Trom was glad no one could see his grin through his helmet. I could get used to this. “Yoab, report.”

“Right on target, sir. We’ve arrived in the B’hava’el system. Setting course for the wormhole, warp two.”

“Engage when ready,” Trom said. “The sooner we—”

“We’re being hailed,” Crin said. “On multiple frequencies.”

Karn’s console came alive with shrill alarms and flashing icons. “There’s a fleet of Jem’Hadar battleships in formation near the wormhole. Another Jem’Hadar battleship orbiting Bajor.” He paused as he saw the next detail. “As well as another jaunt ship.”

Crin turned from the communications panel. “It’s the jaunt ship that’s hailing us.”

“On speakers.”

A rich tenor voice wafted down from the overhead. “—why you’ve abandoned your assigned patrol sector. Repeat, this is Captain Jean-Luc Picard, commanding the free starship Enterprise. Captain sh’Pherron, please respond. Why has your ship—”

A wave of Trom’s hand cued Crin to mute the channel. “More than we bargained for.” He looked at Crin and Karn, then at Yoab. “To the wormhole, warp three.”

“Aye, sir.” Yoab triggered the warp drive, and the stars on the screen distorted into streaks as the ShiKahr raced toward its most viable route home. “Twenty seconds out.”

More alerts shrilled from the tactical console. “The Jem’Hadar fleet’s moving to block the wormhole,” Karn reported. “We should beat them there. Raising shields and—”

All the consoles went dark. The whine of the warp engines dwindled to a pathetic groan as the ship slowed and plunged back into normal space-time. Yoab struggled with the helm console, then slammed his gloved fists on its unresponsive interface. “We’re adrift!”

“Main power’s down,” Crin said. “Tractor beam’s off.”

Karn delivered more bad news: “Shields and weapons are off-line.”

Trom accessed his helmet’s comm circuit and opened a channel to his chief engineer. “Solt! What’s going on down there?”

“The warp reactor and jaunt coil are both off-line.”

“I know that, damn you! Why are they off-line?”

“If I had to guess, sir, I’d blame either a computer virus or a command lockout.”

“No one said our prey would make this easy.” Trom had only seconds to choose what to do next. He made his decision as he saw the image of a wormhole forming on the main viewscreen—followed by the swift arrival of the ShiKahr’s sister ship, the Enterprise.

That same deep voice wafted from the speakers again, unbidden this time: “Attention, crew of the ShiKahr. This is the Enterprise. Stand down and prepare to be boarded.”

Trom sprang from his chair. “Tajny, this is Thot Trom. Beam all our people off this ship, right now. Do not engage the Jem’Hadar, and be ready to raise the cloak as soon as I’m aboard.”

“Acknowledged,” came the reply from the Tajny.

The commander switched to his internal helmet channel. “All personnel, this is Thot Trom. Stand by for beam-out. Thar Khol, do you copy?”

“Affirmative, sir. Go ahead.”

“Can you secure the Federation agents for transport?”

“Negative. Boarders have already arrived. We’re cut off from the brig.”

“Then leave them behind. Stand by for emergency transport.” Trom reverted to the ship-to-ship comm channel. “Tajny, this is Trom. Energize.”

Trom cursed his luck as the transporter beam took hold of him. Now this’ll have to get bloody. The tingling sensation of dematerialization put his moment of grim reflection on hold.

After a momentary wash of green light and white noise, he was back aboard the Tajny. He hurried off the oversized transporter platform; it was one of several that the Spetzkar had developed for the rapid deployment and recovery of large numbers of commandos. By the time he’d reactivated his helmet comm, he was out the door and halfway down the corridor to the turbolift. “Command, this is Trom. Is everyone back aboard?”

The watch officer replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Cloak and go evasive, sublight only, pattern pioro.”

“Cloak engaged. Going evasive.”

“I’m on my way up. Keep us clear of the Jem’Hadar until I get there. Trom out.”

By some standards, Trom knew his mission might be deemed a failure at this point. He had lost the element of surprise, been forced to surrender the ship he’d captured, and given up custody of six enemy agents who might be able to expose his objectives to his targets.

But he was still drawing breath, still had a ship, and still commanded more than a hundred of the best-trained special operations soldiers in this universe or any other.

It hadn’t been a good day, that much was true.

But it wasn’t over yet.

*  *  *

The corridors of the ShiKahr were eerily deserted and quiet. Invisible in her Memory Omega–designed full-body stealth suit, Commander K’Ehleyr did her best not to break the silence as she skulked from one section of the ship to the next. She supported her phaser with both hands as she advanced. The weapon’s coating of optical camouflage particles kept it cloaked as long it remained in contact with the chameleon fibers of her stealth suit. Her aim was steady; her thumb hovered above the firing stud, ready to act at the first sign of hostile action.

Despite her advantage, she exercised caution as she neared intersections and corners. If the ship was under hostile control, there was no telling where traps might have been set. She let her suit’s built-in sensors sweep the passageway ahead of her, to expose unseen potential threats. The scan turned up nothing out of the ordinary.

A few sections ahead, at the next intersection, she saw the shimmering silhouette of another stealth-suited boarder. Her mask’s holographic HUD identified it as Lieutenant Dorina Arellano, one of the Enterprise’s senior security officers.

Arellano signaled all clear. K’Ehleyr returned the signal and directed Arellano to meet her at the entrance to the brig. Then she looked back and beckoned the rest of her camouflaged strike team to move up and follow her. Arellano’s cloaked team followed close behind her.

Other teams had already secured the ShiKahr’s bridge, engineering section, auxiliary control center, and armory. The brig and sickbay were among the last areas to be searched. As K’Ehleyr met Arellano at the entrance to the brig, an update flashed on her HUD, superimposed over the bottom of her field of vision: SICKBAY SECURED.

Then this is our last hope. She entered a command override code into the control panel beside the door, which slid open. With quick gestures, she ordered Arellano to enter and flank right. The lithe human woman slipped through the open doorway, her phaser steady at eye level. K’Ehleyr followed, one stride behind Arellano’s left shoulder.

In cells on either side of them, locked behind force fields, were the officers and crew of the ShiKahr. As far as K’Ehleyr could see, a few of them sported bloodied faces or scorches from disruptors set on heavy stun, but none of them appeared to have been seriously harmed. At the end of the entry passage, Arellano led her team right, and K’Ehleyr took her squad left.

More cells were packed with junior officers from all the departments of the ship—but there was no sign of their captors. The passage curved aft and terminated at a dead end. In the next-to-last cell were the ship’s senior officers. Still expecting a trap, K’Ehleyr ran a final sensor sweep of the area but found no evidence of sabotage or booby traps.

She deactivated her stealth suit and peeled off the close-fitting full-head mask. The rest of her team followed her lead, and they all shimmered back into view, like mirages turning solid. At once, the imprisoned officers of the ShiKahr leaped to their feet, faces bright at the prospect of rescue—all except their captain, who sat alone in the corner of the cell, eyes downcast.

K’Ehleyr entered her command override code into the control panel on the bulkhead outside the cell and deactivated all the brig force fields. She looked at her squad’s chief petty officer, a shaved-headed human man with a close-trimmed goatee. “Foster, see if any of them need to be beamed to sickbay.” With a tap behind her ear, she activated her transceiver. “K’Ehleyr to Enterprise.”

Picard answered without delay. “Go ahead, Number One.”

“The ShiKahr’s officers are alive and secure in the brig. Waiting on a final head count, but it looks like they’re all here.”

From the back of the cell, Captain sh’Pherron muttered, “Not all of them.”

A pall fell between K’Ehleyr and sh’Pherron. Then the Vulcan first officer, Turak, stepped forward and said in a low voice, “We lost Ensign Zareth. Our senior flight controller.”

K’Ehleyr acknowledged the news with a slow nod. “Correction, Enterprise. We have one confirmed fatality among the ShiKahr’s senior staff, Ensign Zareth.”

“Acknowledged. Be advised Commander Barclay will be beaming over with an engineering team to assist in repairs and check for any deep-level sabotage.”

“I’ll give their tool pushers a heads-up, sir. I’d suggest we also sweep all compartments and run a level-five diagnostic on—” Six strangers drifted out of the last cell on the block. Overcoming her surprise, she snapped her fingers once, and Foster appeared at her shoulder, his phaser rifle leveled at the motley half-naked and clearly brutalized group of four human men, a Vulcan woman, and a human woman.

Seeing the weapon pointed at them, the strangers came to a stop but remained quiet.

K’Ehleyr looked back at Turak. “Who are they?”

The Vulcan eyed the disheveled sextet with clear suspicion. “If my chief engineer and senior science officer are correct, these are visitors from the other universe.”

“Hostile?”

“Unknown. But, like us, they were prisoners of the Breen.”

It was a point in the newcomers’ favor, but not enough to persuade K’Ehleyr to lower her defenses. Not yet, anyway. “The enemy of my enemy is not necessarily my friend, Turak. Enterprise, are you still receiving me?”

“Affirmative,” Picard said. “Go ahead.”

“I have six persons of unknown affiliation in custody. I need to have them beamed to the Enterprise, and I want a full security detail standing by to meet them and escort them to guest quarters for a full debriefing.”

“Understood. Stand by for transport.”

The half Klingon couldn’t resist a smirk at the strangers’ state of hapless undress. “One more thing, sir. Let the quartermaster know our guests are in need of some new clothes.”

*  *  *

They were as nondescript a group as Picard had seen in some time, and yet looking their leader in the eye was profoundly unnerving. The six “compulsory guests”—he resisted thinking of them as prisoners when, so far as he knew, they had committed no offenses meriting the curtailment of their liberty—had been quiet, deferential, and cooperative. They sat on one side of the long oval dining table, opposite him, K’Ehleyr, and Troi.

So why did the stare of their leader, Cole, fill Picard with a sense of dread?

He tried to avoid direct eye contact with him as the interview continued. “You say you became aware of a Breen plot to enter this universe and hijack one of our ships. When did your organization first learn of this scheme?”

Cole was relaxed and his body language conveyed openness. “I don’t know for certain. I know we monitor Breen military research as a matter of routine. But the briefings I received indicated the Breen began working on their dimension-breaching wormhole technology about ten months ago, shortly after they discovered the wreck of one of your ships on an uninhabited planet inside Federation space. Until they actually broke through the dimensional barrier, we weren’t sure this was their objective. But once they started testing their rift generator, we put the facts together. At that point, we organized a mission to intercept them and stop them.”

“I see.” Picard glanced down. Troi sat to his right, with her right arm on the table and her left hand on her lap where Picard could see it. She had crossed her index and middle fingers—a signal that she sensed malicious deception from Cole. Taking the empath’s warning into account, Picard pressed on. “It appears, however, that your efforts were unsuccessful.”

A humble shrug. “What can I say? We were outgunned.”

Cole made a point of looking directly into Picard’s eyes. It was a blatant power play, one that made Picard uncomfortable. Picard shifted his gaze to look past Cole, over his shoulder.

Outside the transparent aluminum view ports of the spacious guest suite—one of only a few such luxurious accommodations aboard the jaunt ship—the stars seemed almost static; if one paid close attention, however, their movement became noticeable.

The Enterprise was traveling at full impulse back to Bajor. Using a wormhole jump within the system to intercept the rogue jaunt ship ShiKahr had been a matter of necessity. Now that the intruders had escaped in their cloaked vessel and the ShiKahr was back under the control of its intended officers and crew, safer protocols were once more in effect.

Unable to ignore his interview subject for more than a few seconds without seeming rude or disengaged, Picard forced himself to resume the debriefing. “Our government has been under the impression that your Starfleet had actively discouraged further operations in this universe.”

“That’s my understanding, as well.”

An artful evasion. “Then how do you account for your team’s presence, Mister Cole?”

“Technically, we aren’t acting on behalf of your Starfleet.”

Picard hunched forward, his interest growing. “Then you’re attached to a civilian body?”

“In a manner of speaking.” The man’s cold, disarming smile sent a chill through Picard. “I’m afraid it’s all rather complicated.”

K’Ehleyr leaned in, mimicking Picard’s pose as she glared at Cole. “Simplify it.”

“Our organization takes independent action to protect the people, culture, and institutions of the United Federation of Planets. We are self-directed and self-policing.”

In his imagination, Picard substituted Cardassia for the United Federation of Planets, and he realized he had heard this mission statement before; it once had defined the now-defunct Obsidian Order. “In other words, you’re the ones who watch the watchers. The secret police.”

“It’s nothing so dramatic, I assure you.”

The fingers of Troi’s left hand clenched into a fist. Malicious deception had degenerated into thinly veiled malevolence; she was warning Picard to tread with care. He decided it might be a good time to ease off the throttle. He put on his most ingratiating smile. “Well, whatever your charter might be, it seems we should be thankful for your efforts, even if they weren’t as effective as you might have hoped. Thanks to you and your team, we now understand what the Breen are after, which gives us a far greater chance of ensuring they don’t acquire it.”

“Unfortunately, the Spetzkar escaped with their ship, which means the threat still exists, Captain. My team and I can’t return to our universe until we verify that it’s been neutralized.”

“I appreciate your situation, Mister Cole. However, I’m sure you can understand why my superiors would rather not have your team operating without oversight in our jurisdiction. We are prepared to take any and all steps required to locate the Breen and eliminate the risk they pose, and we welcome your advice—but that must be the limit of your team’s involvement.”

Cole responded with a demure smile and a polite nod—both tagged as fake by Troi’s signals under the table. “Of course, Captain. If we could have completed our mission without anyone knowing of our presence, that would have been ideal, but that’s no longer possible. We’ll do whatever we can to help your people prevent the Breen from finishing their mission.”

“Thank you.” Picard stood, which gave everyone else permission to do the same. “Commanders K’Ehleyr and Troi will arrange individual quarters for the duration of—”

The door behind Picard opened. He turned to confront the source of the unannounced interruption. Striding into the suite was Weyoun, the Dominion senior diplomatic counselor. “Captain Picard! The Founder requires an immediate report on the incident at the wormhole. Why did one of your vessels try to violate the terms of our agreement? What was the other ship it had in tow? And why did it flee and cloak when challenged?”

Picard stepped forward and intercepted the Vorta with outstretched, open hands. “Mister Weyoun, I assure you, we are investigating the incident—which, as your own fleet commander will attest, we resolved.”

“Eris confirmed that your ship intercepted the ShiKahr. But that does not explain why you permitted the second ship to escape, or why the ShiKahr tried to enter the wormhole and gain access to Dominion territory!”

“The ShiKahr had been hijacked by a company of Spetzkar,” K’Ehleyr cut in. “Elite Breen commandos, more than a hundred of them. The second ship was theirs. After the ShiKahr failed to provide proper recognition codes when we hailed her, we remotely disabled the ShiKahr’s command systems. We then boarded the ShiKahr, and the Breen abandoned ship by beaming back to their own vessel.”

Weyoun pointed at Picard. “Which you then permitted to escape!”

“An error, I admit,” Picard said. “At the time, it appeared to have been captured by a vessel that was under potentially hostile control. Our focus was on securing our sister ship. When the Breen vessel broke away and cloaked, we were unable to lock a new tractor beam onto it in time to prevent its escape. For that, Mister Weyoun, I take full responsibility, and I apologize.”

“Your apology is welcome, Captain, but it fails to address the continuing . . .” Weyoun’s voice trailed off as his gaze landed on something behind Picard. Then the Vorta’s eyes went wide with fury. He stepped past Picard and pointed at one of Cole’s men. “You!” The cluster of bodies between Weyoun and his subject parted, until the human with the ash-and-charcoal hair and beard stood alone, facing his accuser with a bewildered expression. The room went quiet, and Weyoun’s next words spilled forth in a cry of hatred: “You killed a Founder!”

*  *  *

Frozen in place by Weyoun’s manic charge of murder, Bashir lost precious seconds struggling to understand what was happening. His mouth dropped open, but no words came out.

Weyoun filled the stunned silence with a tirade. “Fifteen years and eight months ago, this man killed the Founder known as Odo. He shot him down like an animal.”

Picard stepped between Bashir and the Vorta. “How can you know that?”

“Did you think we came through the wormhole without investigating what lay on the other side? We sent several agents ahead of our fleet. One of them learned the fate of Odo, with whom we’d lost contact decades earlier.” He circled around Picard to keep his eyes on Bashir. “He tracked down a backup of Terok Nor’s security records in an archive on Bajor. Those records show the slaying of Odo in perfect detail.”

Old memories rushed back to Bashir, recollections of a time and a place he had long preferred to forget. Near the end of his second year of service on the original Deep Space 9, a navigational accident inside the Bajoran wormhole had thrown him and Major Kira Nerys into this alternate universe, which had been visited a century earlier by four officers from Captain Kirk’s famed Enterprise. Once here, Bashir and Kira had been taken prisoner by her counterpart, the villainous Intendant Kira. Hastily struck bargains and alliances, coupled with a bit of luck, had made possible their escape aboard the runabout Rio Grande—but in the process of freeing himself from enslavement in the ore refinery, Bashir had been forced to defend himself from Overseer Odo. Not realizing the disruptor he had stolen from a Bajoran guard had been set to kill, he had fired a lethal shot at the Changeling—one that blew Odo, literally, to pieces.

Now Bashir was confronted by a representative of an interstellar power that would never forgive such a killing, and he realized he had yet to account for the life he had taken.

Weyoun pivoted toward Picard. “Our investigation also revealed that Odo’s killer was an interloper from another universe. Because we assumed we would never have a chance to face him, we decided to hold the powers of the Alpha Quadrant blameless for this heinous crime. But now, providence brings us this gift: an opportunity for justice, at last!”

Troubled looks passed among the Enterprise officers. Picard faced Weyoun. “What, precisely, do you mean by that?”

“Captain Picard, on behalf of the Dominion, I demand the immediate and unconditional extradition of Doctor Julian Bashir, so that he can stand trial for the murder of Odo!”

Nineteen

It galled Thot Trom that he and his men had been forced to slink away from a fight. From a tactical standpoint, retreat had been the best option. He had withdrawn his troops with only a few fatalities. Now they were safe aboard the Tajny, which drifted, cloaked and radio silent, within the Denorios Belt, well hidden from the probing sensors of the jaunt ship Enterprise and its Dominion allies. When a new opportunity to attack presented itself, Trom knew he would have at least nearly the full strength of his Spetzkar company at his command.

Regardless, he was angry. And he wanted answers.

He entered the Tajny’s briefing room with long strides and no patience. “We had our prize, and then it was taken from us. Someone explain to me why.” He looked down the plotting table ringed with his senior officers, then pointed at his second-in-command. “Crin, you start.”

“After-action review of our sensor logs suggests there were undetected comm signals passing between the Enterprise and the ShiKahr.”

“What type of signals?”

“Ultralow frequency, encrypted subspace radio pulses.” Crin tapped on the interactive surface of the oblong plotting table and called up an annotated sensor report on its central holographic display for everyone to look at as he continued. “It’s a system similar to the one Ikkuna Station used to warn us about the Federation team on the Królik.”

Trom spent a few seconds reviewing the projected data. “Backdoor command codes. We missed some kind of challenge-and-response, so they used this to take remote control of the ShiKahr and locked us out.” He looked at Solt. “How do we prevent that next time?”

The chief engineer traced a few lines in a schematic on the table’s display. “To receive that type of signal requires a special antenna. We can disable it next time.”

“I presume you’ll know where to find it.”

“It would be part of the main comm array. Once we find its input node on the transceiver router, we can trace that back to the antenna, and to any backups it has.”

“Good.” The next commando in Trom’s sights was his computer specialist and second officer. “Rem, is it possible there might be some other frequency the Commonwealth crews could use to hijack a jaunt ship from us?”

Rem shook his head. “No. Their computer cores are shielded against outside signals, and we’d be able to monitor the other comm channels. Now that we know about this security exploit, we won’t let them use it again. We’ll be ready for them next time.”

That was an answer Trom could accept, so he shifted his attention to someone new. “Karn, how did their boarding teams reacquire control of the ShiKahr so quickly? You assured me we had all the key areas of the ship secured.”

The tactical specialist shifted his weight, a telltale sign that he was nervous. “We aren’t entirely sure, sir. I’ve reviewed some of the recordings from our teams’ helmet comms, and as far as I can tell, they followed procedure. At the first sign of hostile transporter signals, they engaged the shroud circuits on their armor and assumed ambush positions.”

“And yet most of those men are dead, Karn.”

An anxious nod. “Yes, sir. A few of them reported picking up trace signals of other shrouded personnel shortly before being engaged by the enemy. My current hypothesis is that the Commonwealth starship crews also possess personal stealth technology—perhaps even one superior to our own. They also seem to possess superiority in their small-arms technology.”

Karn’s bad news drove Trom to pace while he considered his response. “If we can’t rely on a technological advantage, then we’ll need to exert tactical superiority the next time we board one of those ships. Work up a battle plan that neutralizes the enemy crew as quickly as possible.”

“What about prisoners?” Karn held up his padd. “You said we had orders to bring back prisoners familiar with the operation of the jaunt ship.”

“Countermanded. The lab rats will have to reverse-engineer it on their own.”

An obedient nod. “Understood, sir.”

Trom tapped the tabletop to summon a control interface. He relayed images of the two jaunt ships over Bajor, plus a slew of sensor data, to the central display. “As if we don’t have enough hurdles to clear on this mission, we’ve just uncovered a new one. Energy readings from the two jaunt ships indicate they’re both upgrading their deflector harmonics and shield geometry to negate the effect of our energy dampener. It was a nice trick the first time we used it, but these people learn and adapt much faster than the Federation did during the Dominion War. So not only have we lost the element of surprise, we’ve also lost our most effective weapon.” He looked around the table at his command team. “Suggestions?”

A deathly silence followed. No one said it, but Trom imagined them all thinking the same thing: Abort this disaster of a mission and go home.

“While you’re all thinking that over, consider this, as well: the Jem’Hadar battle fleet is dead set on denying us passage through the Bajoran wormhole. In other words, not only has our mission just gone from insanely difficult to damned near impossible, but even if we somehow pull it off, we currently have no way home. So I need you all to collaborate on two new tactical plans: one for how to breach a jaunt ship’s defenses and then secure it against counterattack, and one for drawing the Jem’Hadar out of position and clearing us a path to the wormhole.” He checked the ever-advancing chrono in the corner of the plotting table’s display area. “And I need both plans as soon as possible.” He switched off the plotting table and stepped back. “We reconvene in eight hours.” Groans of discontent were muffled by helmets with momentarily muted vocoders. Trom felt the slump in his officers’ morale. He did his best to project confidence. “I know starting from zero isn’t easy, and it’s not what we were counting on. But I, for one, don’t plan on going home empty-handed—and neither should you. Dismissed.”

Twenty

Two security guards—one Andorian, one Kaferian, both male—escorted Bashir through the corridors of the jaunt ship Enterprise. They had collected him at the temporary quarters he shared with Sarina, now that they had been separated from the rest of the Section 31 team, and they had walked on either side of him, leading him through turns at several key intersections and what had felt like the longest, most awkward turbolift ride of his life.

They stopped at a closed door. The insectoid Kaferian pressed one clawed manus against the visitor signal. While awaiting a response from the compartment beyond the portal, Bashir noted the nameplate mounted above the door’s control panel: PICARD, CAPT. J.

The captain’s deep voice answered over the door’s comm, “Come.”

The door slid open. The Kaferian entered, and the Andorian motioned Bashir inside. He followed the Kaferian while the Andorian stayed a few steps behind him.

In rapid fashion, Bashir took in the details of the captain’s quarters. Muted illumination was augmented by reflected light from Bajor’s surface through the sloped view ports along one side of the main compartment. The furnishings were simple but looked comfortable and clean: a table with four chairs, a sofa, a desk with a holo-projector mounted on its surface. Wall-mounted shelves were lined with old books and a few pieces of antique-looking bric-a-brac. A few small objets d’art sat alone on certain shelves or were mounted on the bulkheads. Through an open doorway, he saw a neatly ordered bedroom; beyond that, a private lavatory and refresher nook.

Picard stood next to the main room’s replicator, whose mellisonant whoosh of creation was just finishing. The captain picked up a small cup and saucer and walked toward Bashir. He nodded at the two guards. “That will be all. Please wait outside.”

The security officers exited without question or even a word of acknowledgment. Picard waited until the door closed before he spoke again.

“Can I offer you something, Doctor? Tea, perhaps?”

A polite wave of rejection. “No, thank you, sir.” Even though Bashir was no longer in Starfleet, old habits proved hard to overcome. Such as calling a superior officer sir.

The captain set his tea on the dining table, pulled back a chair, and, with a gesture, invited Bashir to join him. They sat across a corner from each other.

The older man took a slow, careful sip of his hot beverage. “It seems we have a delicate situation on our hands.”

“I wasn’t aware ‘delicate’ was a synonym for ‘explosive’ or ‘potentially disastrous.’ ”

Picard cracked a half smile. “I’ve also been surprised to learn how versatile that word can be when used in a diplomatic setting.” He took another sip of his tea. “Are you familiar with the abilities of Betazoids?”

“I am.”

“My chief of security is half Betazoid.”

Bashir risked a deductive leap. “An empath?”

“Precisely. She assures me that Mister Weyoun is quite sincere in his belief that you are a fugitive from Dominion justice and that this isn’t merely some ploy for advantage at the negotiation table. However, I’m not prepared to hand over a free sentient being to a foreign power about whose legal system I know very little, merely on the accusation of one man.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Captain.”

Picard’s expression turned grave. “However, I am obliged to investigate.”

A slow nod. “I understand.”

“As we speak, Mister Weyoun is asking his superior, the Founder, to lodge formal charges against you and to petition the government of the Galactic Commonwealth for your extradition. Before that happens, I would like to hear your side of the story.”

Bashir shook his head. “There’s not much I can add to what he’s already told you, except that I acted in self-defense. I was being held as a slave on Terok Nor. When the alarm sounded, people were running in every direction. It was total chaos. I saw a chance to steal a disruptor from a guard’s holster, so I did. Overseer Odo—the Changeling—saw me. He drew his weapon and aimed at me. I aimed back at him, and I fired first. Then . . .” The memory was so grotesque and disturbing to Bashir that it took him a few seconds to articulate it. “He exploded.”

“Exploded?”

“The weapon was set to kill, but I didn’t know that before I fired. If I had, I would have changed it to a stun setting. Anyway . . . where most humanoids would have vaporized, Odo’s body just erupted. It was one of the most horrible things I’ve ever seen. But there was no time then to dwell on it, so I ran. I kept running until I found Kira so we could get off the—”

“Intendant Kira?”

“No, Major Kira. The one from my universe. We came through together, by accident.”

“I see. Go on.”

“Well, that’s all there is.”

Picard frowned. “So, Weyoun calls it murder. You call it self-defense.”

“It was self-defense.”

The captain shook his head. He stood, picked up the teacup and saucer, and carried them back to the replicator. He touched a button on the control panel, and the machine dematerialized the cup and saucer in a whirlwind of glowing particles and a rush of pleasant high-pitched sound. “Cases such as this have unpredictable outcomes, Doctor. Your fate is likely to rest not with the evidence but in the sympathies of your judges.”

Bashir stood, paced a few steps away from Picard, then turned back. “Weyoun said the Dominion’s agents had acquired copies of Terok Nor’s security files from an archive on Bajor. If those files are as accurate as he claims, they’ll prove my innocence.”

“Perhaps.” Picard’s mien turned more glum by the moment. “Such files can be tampered with. But even if they depict events as you claim, we have no idea how Dominion law works. Its people revere the Founders as if they were deities. They might not consider self-preservation to be an affirmative defense when it comes to the death of one of their own.”

Those were sensible points, Bashir realized. The prospect of being held accountable for murder in spite of the facts gave him a new reason to be wary of his every word and deed in this universum incognitum. “What do you suggest I do?”

“I would humbly recommend you apply to the Commonwealth for asylum.”

“Excuse me?”

Picard held up his open hands, as if to forestall an argument. “I can’t promise you’d be spared charges or a trial, but you might stand a better chance of a fair hearing in our courts than in theirs. The Commonwealth is a civilization of laws, Doctor, but it’s also one of compassion.”

“Do you really think the Dominion would let me go that easily?”

“I’m no solicitor, but Terok Nor was a Bajoran possession at the time of your alleged offense. Now that Bajor is a member of the Commonwealth, events that transpired here in the past but are brought to light only now would fall within our jurisdiction. Likewise, any jury that might be called to hear your case would be one with no love for the Alliance—or for slavery.”

“I appreciate your offer, Captain, but I have to ask: How would a grant of amnesty affect your ongoing negotiations with the Dominion?”

Picard waved off the query. “That’s not your concern.”

“I can’t just accept that. I’m not sure I’d want my fate to be the reason a vital treaty discussion fails.”

This time, the captain looked away and permitted himself a low, cynical snort of derision. “This has been an extremely complicated negotiation, Doctor. There are hundreds of reasons it might fail.” He calmed himself with a deep breath, then he turned back toward Bashir. “I should also make clear that I can’t promise the Commonwealth will grant your request—or, if they do, that they’ll shield you forever. If the Dominion can show that it has sufficient cause to bring a criminal case against you, and that their system of justice meets our standards of evidence and reasonable doubt, then the Commonwealth Assembly might vote to authorize your extradition.”

“I have to say that sounds more than fair.”

“I agree. But unless you ask for our help, you’ll have no legal standing here—and we’ll have no right to refuse the extradition request, which could arrive at any moment.”

“All right, then.” Bashir adopted his most formal tone of voice. “Captain Picard, I request asylum aboard your vessel, and within the Galactic Commonwealth.”

Picard stepped forward and shook Bashir’s hand. “Request granted, Doctor.”

*  *  *

No sooner had Picard emerged from the turbolift onto the bridge of the Enterprise than he saw K’Ehleyr and Troi converge to intercept him at his command chair. He preempted their questions and protests with a raised hand, a stern look, and two words: “Ready room.”

The two women accepted his request with dour looks. They walked ahead of him toward his private sanctum, which was located just off the forward starboard quarter of the bridge. Its portal slid open. K’Ehleyr and Troi stepped inside and parted to let Picard pass between them on his way to his desk. As he sat down, they moved closer, and the door shut behind them. K’Ehleyr’s trademark veneer of calm was shattered by a sudden flaring of her temper. “Is it true you granted that doctor asylum? Without consulting us?”

He met her criticism with an arched eyebrow. “As the commanding officer of this ship, I am afforded a certain measure of latitude—particularly in matters of life and death.”

The lanky first officer reined in her emotions before she replied. “Yes, sir. I understand that. But offering the doctor protection could jeopardize our talks with the Dominion.”

“I’m well aware of what’s at stake, Number One. But I won’t let political expediency deprive this man of his right to due process. He is entitled to face his accusers and mount a defense, and I plan to ensure he has that opportunity.”

Troi waded with caution into the conversation. “Still, it might have been prudent to vet this man before inviting him to take refuge aboard the Enterprise.”

Picard considered Troi’s post facto advice. She had been his companion for many years before they had signed on to help lead the Terran Rebellion to victory; they had saved each other’s lives many times, and he loved her as if she were his own daughter. Consequently, her disapproval cut him more keenly than K’Ehleyr’s had. “You’ve interviewed him. Do you think he represents a threat to this ship, or to the Commonwealth?”

“I’m not sure. He seems to speak truthfully about the incident with the Changeling on Terok Nor, but I sense he’s hiding greater secrets.”

K’Ehleyr snickered under her breath. “Who isn’t?”

“Be that as it may,” Troi added, “I’m less concerned about him than about his friends.”

Intrigued, Picard leaned forward to signal she had his attention. “Explain.”

Troi struggled to put her concerns into words. “I can’t describe it. Except for their leader, they exhibit no direct feelings of hostility, and I’ve yet to feel as if I’ve caught any of them in a lie. But they exude deception. They have a hidden agenda, and I think it involves us as much as it does the Breen.”

Her vague warning drew a sarcastic glare from K’Ehleyr. “Really? You think a team of covert intelligence operatives has a hidden agenda?”

“Mock me if you like, but I know they’re not being honest with us.”

Picard intervened to stifle what promised to be a pointless debate. “Deanna, assume that the agents from the other universe are misleading us. What do you suggest we do?”

“Hold them in the brig until we know what they want.”

Picard knew better than to ignore Troi’s keen empathic senses, especially when they pertained to people whose motives were less than clear—but the anarchic era of the rebellion was in the past. Frontier justice was no longer the code they lived by. They were sworn to obey and to uphold the law of the Commonwealth. “We can’t detain them without reason, Deanna. Merely being from the other universe is not a crime. Legally, they’ve done nothing wrong.”

“That we know of,” Troi grumbled.

“Precisely. That we know of. The law requires evidence of wrongdoing to charge someone with a crime, or to deprive him or her of liberty. And at the moment, we have none.”

K’Ehleyr tilted her head at a rakish angle and cracked a wan smile. “Which isn’t to say we have nothing of interest. I had Kadohata run background checks on our guests, to see if we knew anything about their counterparts in this universe. I sent you the results. Have a look.”

Picard activated his holographic terminal to the ship’s computer. It automatically scanned his retina and genetic profile to confirm his identity, then presented his command interface. He opened the message K’Ehleyr had routed to him. Several dossiers appeared in new holographic extensions of the interface, which wrapped around him in a shallow curve. At a glance, he recognized all the faces attached to the files: Cole, Bashir, Douglas, Webb, Kitsom, and Sakonna. Then he noticed the one thing all their records had in common. “They’re all dead.”

“Yes, they are.” The lanky half Klingon pointed at the various files; the holographic screens appeared translucent on her side despite being nearly opaque on Picard’s. “Sakonna and Douglas both died at the Battle of Empok Nor—the same battle where the Alliance captured General Bashir. Webb and Kitsom were freedom fighters who were killed while trying to liberate Betazed. And Cole was one of hundreds the rebellion lost when Terok Nor was destroyed.”

Knowing that his guests all were alternate-universe echoes of people who had died in this one sent a subtle chill down Picard’s spine. It was as if they were hosting ghosts. Then the rational portion of his mind rebelled against superstition. “Could this be coincidence?”

“Maybe,” K’Ehleyr said. “But I have to say, Mister Cole and his group don’t strike me as the sort of people who leave anything to chance.”

Picard closed the dossiers and deactivated the holographic screens. “You think they knew before they came here that their counterparts in this universe were dead.”

Troi seemed convinced. “It would be a sensible precaution for a covert-ops team. If they know ahead of time that no one in their team has a double here, they reduce the risk of their group being infiltrated by a look-alike who can fool a biometric scan.”

“I’ll admit, it’s an interesting notion, but it’s hardly proof of hostile intent.”

Discouraged looks passed between Troi and K’Ehleyr. The first officer crossed her arms. “How do you wish to proceed, sir? Should we cut them loose?”

“I said we can’t hold them, Number One. I didn’t say give them the keys to the ship.”

Her mood took a turn for the mischievous as she sensed Picard’s true intentions. “Sir?”

“Their vessel is docked aboard the ShiKahr, correct?” Off the first officer’s nod, Picard continued. “The report I saw from Mister Barclay and his engineering team suggests Cole’s ship is in dire need of repairs. It seems to me we could assist with those repairs—and offer to host Mister Cole and his team here on the Enterprise until the work is complete.”

Troi’s frown became a sly smile as she caught on. “And if we happen to glean a few secrets about the latest Breen starship designs—”

“Or the newest Romulan cloaking technology,” K’Ehleyr interjected.

“Or whatever else Mister Cole and his team have seen fit to bring with them to our universe,” Picard said. “I think we’d have to call that a serendipitous reward for our generosity.”

K’Ehleyr looked amused. “I’ll have Barclay assemble repair teams right away.”

Troi feigned concern. “It would be a shame to fix Mister Cole’s ship only to find out the Breen had booby-trapped it. Maybe I should lead a security team to sweep its interior.”

Picard dispatched his two most trusted officers with one shared order: “Make it so.”

Twenty-one

The solarium was a riot of living color. Flowers in full bloom dotted the vines wrapped around the trellis over the entryway. Planting boxes erupted with new blossoms, and the trees were heavy with ripening fruit. Outside its force field–reinforced walls of transparent aluminum, the grounds of the Elemspur Monastery were lush and vibrant with as many shades of green as there were in Bajor’s pristine seas. Every breath Saavik took was perfumed with floral scents and the rich fragrance of dark soil that was freshly turned and ready for planting.

The only sour note in the enclosed garden came from the unyielding visage of the Founder. She and her counselor, Weyoun, sat opposite Saavik and Chairman Eddington. Looming behind the two Dominion dignitaries was the Jem’Hadar known as Taran’atar.

Looking back at the Honored Elder from behind Saavik and Eddington was their chosen bodyguard, Nyyl Saygur, a Brikar with a body like a large hill and a voice like a rockslide in a thunderstorm. Although Saygur had extremely high density for a humanoid, he wore a gravity compensator on a belt around his waist; with its assistance, the hulking Brikar could move with shocking speed and grace without sacrificing any of his fearsome native strength. Whether he had the nerve to prevail in his staring contest against Taran’atar, only time would tell.

The Founder broke the uncomfortable silence that had prevailed since the solarium’s doors had been closed to guarantee the meeting’s privacy. “I was profoundly dismayed to learn of the actions taken by the captain of the Enterprise.”

As the Commonwealth’s elected representative in the room, Eddington was responsible for answering the Dominion’s head of state. “Could you be more specific?”

“There is no need to be so coy, Mister Chairman. We both know what we’re discussing.”

Eddington struck a deferential note. “I don’t assume to know the minds of others.”

His deflection only sharpened the edge of the Founder’s manner. “Your starship commander granted legal and political asylum to Doctor Julian Bashir of the parallel universe. He did this knowing full well that we are seeking Bashir’s immediate extradition.”

“Captain Picard’s log shows that Doctor Bashir made a formal petition for asylum,” Eddington said. “The captain was well within his authority to grant that request.”

The Changeling’s slow burn of anger intensified. “By what right do any of your people claim authority over this matter?”

“Bajor is a charter member of the Galactic Commonwealth. As such, it falls—”

“At the time of Odo’s murder, it was a protectorate of the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance. Because that political entity no longer exists, any retroactive claim to jurisdiction over Terok Nor is voided. Further, because Terok Nor was destroyed while still technically a possession of the Alliance, neither Bajor nor your Commonwealth has any right to assert authority in this matter.”

Saavik saw from the reddening of Eddington’s complexion and the throbbing of the veins in his temples that the chairman was losing his patience with the Founder, but she was reluctant to interrupt him without cause. He leaned forward as his voice began to grow in volume. “We can sit and argue over jurisdiction as long as you like, Madam Founder. But the fact is, we have jurisdiction on Bajor, and our laws give us retroactive jurisdiction, whether you like it or not. No matter how weak you might think our claim to authority, I guarantee: yours is weaker.”

“Do you think us unfamiliar with your laws, Mister Chairman? Our finest Karemma and Vorta barristers studied your civil and criminal codes in preparation for this visit. I think you will find that because Doctor Bashir—a citizen of a foreign state—killed a Dominion citizen while under the jurisdiction of a political entity that no longer exists, the formerly secondary jurisdiction of the Dominion now obtains primary status, and by virtue of precedence trumps any retroactive authority your government might now choose to assert, regardless of Bajor’s accession to such. In other words, custody of Doctor Bashir rightly belongs to the Dominion.”

“Prior to his request for asylum, that might have been a correct interpretation of our laws. But the fact is, asylum was requested and granted. Until you satisfy our terms for extradition, he’ll be under our protection.”

The Changeling’s body language resembled that of a coiled serpent tensing to strike. “How can we negotiate for extradition when we have no treaty in place?”

“Perhaps this would be a good time to resume our talks, then.”

“Of all the impudent—”

“Madam Founder,” Saavik interrupted. “Might I offer a suggestion?”

The Changeling delegated her reply to Weyoun with a dismissive glance. The Vorta leaned forward with his hands folded together in a pose of mock obeisance. “Forgive us. We remain unclear on what role you play in this discussion.”

“The same as yours,” Saavik said. “Senior counselor.”

Weyoun bowed his head like a corrected pupil. “I see. Carry on.”

“Perhaps both our concerns could be addressed by trying Doctor Bashir in a Commonwealth court. An impartial jury—”

“Impartial!” the Founder snorted.

Saavik remained aloof from the room’s rancor. “I assure you, Madam Founder, our people would have no reason to favor him or disfavor him. He is a stranger, not only to our worlds but also to our universe.”

“But he is a solid, just like the rest of you.”

“It might surprise you to learn that ‘solids’ feel no sense of communal identity such as your people suggest. If the Dominion can present compelling enough evidence to persuade a jury of Doctor Bashir’s guilt, he would be sentenced accordingly.”

Distrust infused Weyoun’s reply. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“If he is convicted of murder, he would face lifetime imprisonment.”

The Vorta shook his head and waved one hand. “Unacceptable. The penalty for murdering a Founder is death.”

“Corporal and capital punishment are banned in the Galactic Commonwealth.”

Weyoun raged, “But his crime wasn’t committed against one of your people, it was committed against one of ours! And not just any person, a Founder.”

Saavik was confused. “I fail to see why such a distinction would be legally relevant.”

The Vorta gestured emphatically as he struggled to explain himself. “How would you feel if someone your people considered sacred was murdered in the Gamma Quadrant by a stateless actor from another universe? Then, when agents of your Commonwealth finally identified the culprit in custody aboard a Jem’Hadar ship, the Dominion refused to let the criminal face your justice. Would you be so calm, then? Would you demur and let others dictate terms to you?”

The elderly Vulcan woman refused to be baited or browbeaten. “First, Mister Weyoun, the Commonwealth does not venerate any individual, class of persons, or species above any other. It considers all sapient life sacred. So much so, in fact, that the state has been denied the power to end the lives of individuals under its authority. Murder is murder, regardless of whether it is committed by an individual, a group of persons, or the state. Second, I would be more than satisfied to see such a person face criminal charges in a Dominion court of law, so long as the proceedings were public, impartial, and conducted according to strict rules of evidence, and the sentence imposed was humane and proportional to the offense.”

“In other words, you lack the will to mete out real justice and fear to let others exact the retribution that you cannot. Your moral cowardice sickens me.”

“Weyoun!” the Founder snapped. “Enough.” She sighed. “It seems, Mister Chairman, that we remain at an impasse. A most regrettable outcome.” She stood, and Weyoun did the same. The Founder turned to leave, but she paused to look back at Eddington and Saavik as the duo rose from their seats. “You and your Commonwealth have ventured down a perilous road. You are about to learn that defying the Dominion comes with dire consequences.”

The foreign dignitaries made a swift exit from the solarium. Eddington and Saavik watched them leave, and then he turned to her, his face drawn with dismay. “Now what?”

“We prepare for the worst. Because I predict that’s exactly what’s coming.”

*  *  *

On the edge of the Denorios Belt, the Bajoran wormhole exploded into view, a blue flower unfolding in the endless night of space. As the throat of the wormhole dilated, a glorious fountain of light spilled from it, a white jet of pure energy coursing from the azure storm of ionized gas that ringed the wormhole’s maw. It was one of the most beautiful of all the galaxy’s wonders, and it captivated Jean-Luc Picard every time he saw it.

Standing on the bridge of the Enterprise, he marveled at the furious majesty of the wormhole depicted on the viewscreen, even though he suspected the moment was about to take an unwelcome turn. Then the pillars of light streaming from the wormhole darkened with the silhouettes of dozens of enormous warships. Ominous shadows coursed in formation and made wide swooping turns to clear the way for the steady stream of ships that followed them.

Troi monitored the new arrivals from the tactical console. “Seventy-five Jem’Hadar vessels, ranging in size from attack cruisers to battleships, have joined the Jem’Hadar fleet holding station four hundred thousand kilometers from the wormhole.”

K’Ehleyr leaned toward Picard from her chair on his right. “They sure know how to make an entrance, don’t they?”

“I can’t deny it’s an impressive display of power. But we can’t afford to be goaded into a mistake, Number One. It’s possible this is all just for show, an empty bit of saber rattling.”

On the viewscreen, the wormhole contracted and twisted in upon itself with alarming speed. It vanished with a final flash of light, leaving only a star-flecked expanse of darkness. The Jem’Hadar fleet was lost in the yawning gulf of the cosmos—until the image on the viewscreen was magnified to reveal the fearsome Dominion warships in crisp detail. Within seconds, Picard noticed signs of shifting parallax in his view of the fleet from the Gamma Quadrant, and he deduced what was happening before Troi reported it.

“The Jem’Hadar fleet is moving,” Troi said. “It’s on a direct heading for Bajor—and us.”

Picard knew the crisis at hand might have repercussions far beyond the fate of his ship and crew. This was no time to act rashly, or to make decisions in a vacuum. “Lieutenant Commander Troi, hail Chairman Eddington on Bajor. Make it clear this is an emergency.”

“Aye, sir.” Troi keyed in the command. After a few seconds she said, “Channel open.”

“Mister Chairman,” Picard said. “We have a rather tense situation developing in orbit.”

Eddington sounded as unflappably calm as always. “Let me guess, Captain. A sizable force of Jem’Hadar reinforcements has come through the wormhole?”

“Precisely, sir.” Picard checked the tactical details with a look at the command screen next to his chair. “The combined Dominion fleet is en route to Bajor. ETA, five minutes.”

“Captain, I want the Enterprise and the ShiKahr to maintain their positions in orbit. Do not fire unless you are first fired upon. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mister Chairman.”

“Good. Carry on. Eddington out.”

A palpable air of anxiety took root on the bridge as the channel closed. Picard took the shift in the collective mood as his cue to stand and address his officers. “Friends, this is a test of not just our resolve but also of our restraint. Our leaders and our people are depending on us to stop this situation from escalating into armed conflict. The Jem’Hadar fleet will try to provoke us by approaching Bajor. Its commanders will try to intimidate us with their superior numbers. But the purpose of our mission, the reason we are here, is to safeguard these negotiations. If we attempt to meet this force in kind, we risk destroying any chance of a diplomatic solution to—”

His call to arms was cut short by a staccato series of brilliant flashes on the viewscreen. In less than ten seconds, two dozen of the Enterprise’s sister ships jaunted into the system, each through its own self-generated artificial wormhole. The Commonwealth reinforcements arrived already in near-perfect formation, between Bajor and the approaching Dominion forces. A few seconds later the Dominion fleet slowed and came to an abrupt halt.

Alerts chimed on Troi’s console. “We’re picking up audio communications between the Jem’Hadar fleet commander and Captain Siddiqui on the Syrinx.”

Despite his well-founded dread at what he might hear, Picard gave in to his curiosity. “On speakers, Commander. From the beginning.”

The Dominion commander’s voice was feminine, articulate, and as cold as vengeance. “Attention, Commonwealth vessels. This is Eris. I have orders from the Founder to bring our fleet into orbit of Bajor. Cease and desist obstructing our approach.”

“Eris, this is Captain Shiraz Siddiqui of the free starship Syrinx. Any attempt to bring your fleet into orbit of Bajor is a violation of the protocols for this treaty summit. You and your fleet are ordered to withdraw at once to your assigned coordinates adjacent to the wormhole.”

Eris replied, “Our fleet will enter orbit, Captain, with or without your permission.”

“If your fleet attempts orbit without my permission, it’ll do so in the form of burning scrap. Stand down and return to your assigned coordinates, immediately.”

K’Ehleyr looked up at Picard with world-weary eyes. “You were saying something about ‘a diplomatic solution,’ Captain?”

He frowned at the high-powered standoff taking shape high above Bajor. I came to help broker a new peace, and instead I find myself with a front-row seat to a new war. He sat down and distilled his fears and regrets into one eloquent word, spoken under his breath.

“Merde.”

*  *  *

Kort poked at the lukewarm lump of rolled dough and brined vegetables that lay on his plate, and then he shot a disgusted look at the other patrons enjoying late-night dinners at the open-air café in the heart of Bajor’s capital. “How can anyone stand to eat like this?”

Regon, his dining companion and fellow traveler in Bajoran guise, looked up from her own lunch. “Are you referring to the cuisine or the setting?”

“Either. Both. Pick one.”

She took a bite of her own hasperat and mumbled as she chewed, “Tastes good to me.”

The surgically altered Klingon sulked behind his weak Bajoran nasal ridges. “Of course you’d say that. You’re Cardassian. Your kind always has been partial to Bajoran cattle feed.”

She glowered at him. “Say it a little louder. I don’t think the state security agents in the next restaurant heard you.”

Before he could retort, the waiter arrived with Kort’s second course. “Arnisios steak,” the young Bajoran man said as he set down the platter. “The cook prepared it just the way you asked, but he wants me to warn you that eating undercooked food can be dangerous, and—”

“Thank you.” Kort waved off the youth. “I’m fine. Go.”

The waiter backed away, warily at first, and then he turned and hurried to the far end of the café, as if he couldn’t wait to get as far from his peculiar raw-meat-eating patron as possible.

Kort’s wet chomps and smacks of mastication were almost too much for Regon to bear without wincing. She felt her façade of politesse crumble while she watched him stuff his maw with huge forkfuls of purple-blue meat that had barely been kissed by the grill’s flames.

“The concept of being undercover and in disguise means nothing to you, does it?”

He gulped down a massive bite of half-gnawed raw flesh. “I need to eat. Not my fault these heathens can’t serve a meal without burning it to a crisp.”

“Luckily for us, you’re not the most interesting thing in the café today.” Regon draped one arm over the back of her chair as she turned to watch the news report on a nearby public holoscreen. A fair-haired female Trill’s talking head prattled between cutaways to fuzzy images of the two fleets of starships that were, at that moment, faced off in orbit above Bajor.

“The standoff began today at just after fifteen twenty hours, Capital Time,” the Trill newscaster said, her manner earnest and authoritative. “Communications between the two fleets have been encrypted, so we’re unable to report precisely what has been said by their respective commanders. Furthermore, a spokesperson for the Assembly has so far declined to comment on what appears to be a significant turn for the worse in the Commonwealth’s negotiations with the Gamma Quadrant power known so far only as the Dominion.”

Kort forced down an oversized mouthful, then blocked a belch with the side of his fist. “This is a bomb waiting for a spark. A shame neither of our governments has the will to act.”

“I wish we had some idea what instigated this,” Regon said. “Then we could target the sore spot. Aggravate it. Exacerbate it. Make it bleed, and then stand back and enjoy the show.”

“Dream on.” Kort washed down his quickly devoured raw steak with a mouthful of wotyr, a clear and extremely potent hard spirit distilled from rare tubers grown only in the Jokala Mountains of Bajor. He sleeved a sheen of blood and liquor from his lips. “You know these Commonwealth types. All talk. They’ll yammer on until the Dominion loses the will to fight.”

Regon stole another look at the Dominion fleet in the news vid. “I’m not so sure. The Terrans and their ilk might have underestimated their enemy this time.”

A dubious shrug. “Maybe. But I’ll bet my finest bat’leth the Commonwealth won’t fire the first shot. And unless this Dominion is stronger than it looks, I doubt it wants to go toe-to-toe with those jaunt ships. Which means this little standoff probably won’t amount to much.”

“Not without a push.”

“From who? Regent Duras? Legate Damar? Don’t make me laugh.”

A dastardly notion put a taut smile on Regon’s face. “We need to think beyond our own borders. Our peoples don’t want to get in the middle of this. And neither the Dominion nor the Commonwealth wants to see this situation turn bloody. So we need to seek help from someone who stands to gain by turning this standoff into a shooting war.”

She sat back and enjoyed the befuddled look on Kort’s stupid-looking fake Bajoran face while he struggled to catch up to her runaway train of thought. Then a sharp gleam illuminated his eyes. He grinned as he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The Taurus Pact.”

“Exactly. The Gorn are too far away to be of much use, but the Breen and the Tholians are right on Bajor’s doorstep. Both would love a chance to bloody the Commonwealth’s nose.”

“They won’t work for free,” Kort said, thinking out loud. “Neither will the Tzenkethi.”

“Revenge is what drives the Tholians. They’re still angry about the crimes of the Terran Empire. They’ve said many times they’ll gladly take out their grudge on the Commonwealth.”

“True, the bugs are single-minded to a fault. But the Breen are opportunists. They won’t get involved unless we can show them what they stand to gain.” Something amused him. “Of course, what they think they’ll get and what they receive don’t need to be the same thing.”

“For example?”

“If we let them infer they might acquire control over the Bajoran wormhole—and with it a monopoly over traffic between the Alpha and Gamma Quadrants—that might be enough to enlist the aid of a Breen attack squadron. Maybe even two.”

Regon understood Kort’s endgame. “Then the dust settles, and a joint armada of Klingon and Cardassian forces secures Bajor—for the good of its people.”

“And ensuring the safety of Bajor would require securing the wormhole.”

“Naturally. That only stands to reason.” She toasted her colleague with her last sip of spring wine. As she set down the glass, her enthusiasm for their new scheme was dimmed by a sudden flash of recollection. “There’s just one problem.”

“That being?”

“The Pact’s consular chief on Bajor.”

Concentration wrinkled Kort’s brow. “Why? Who is it these days?”

With great reluctance, she told him the consul’s name.

Kort downed the rest of his wotyr in one swallow. “On second thought, kill me now.”

Twenty-two

House arrest aboard the Commonwealth starship Enterprise was far from what Bashir considered a hardship. The accommodations were spare but comfortable, and they came with a view that faced aft, toward the jaunt ship’s ring-shaped secondary hull and its sleek warp nacelles. As limited as its replicator’s menu was, the food it produced was enjoyable. There was even a fair selection of freely available entertainment media, including books, vids, and music—a privilege Starfleet had denied him during his brief incarceration several months earlier, after he was arrested for stealing classified information in order to save the Andorian people from slow extinction. If not for the locked door with guards standing outside, Bashir would have felt more like a guest than a prisoner.

But the door was locked, and he was alone. It felt like solitary confinement again.

His enhanced hearing detected the cessation of a low hum from the door’s magnetically secured dead bolts, which retracted with a soft click most people would not have noticed. The door to the corridor slid open, and Sarina rushed in. Behind her, Bashir saw the female Deltan security officer who had been assigned to shadow Sarina from one secure space to another—a precaution extended to all members of the Section 31 team. The bald woman halted shy of the door’s threshold. The door closed as Sarina hurried to Bashir, who stood by the view ports.

She threw her arms around him. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” He tightened his embrace for a moment, then relaxed. She backed away, and they let each other go. “Where have you been?”

“They’ve been debriefing us all, one by one.”

“What lies are Cole and the others spinning now that they’re in custody?”

Sarina seemed bewildered. “They’ve been telling Picard’s people the same thing they told us: that we’re tracking the Breen and trying to prevent the theft of a jaunt ship.”

“Which is a fairly good indicator they’ve been lying to us since the start.”

“How do you figure?”

“If Thirty-one tells you something in secret, then openly tells the same thing to someone else, then you’re part of a misinformation campaign. Halting the theft of a jaunt ship might be part of their op, or it might just be the cover story. Either way, I’m now sure it’s anything but the real reason we’re here.” He took a breath and looked out at the stars, then at Bajor. “Do I even want to know what’s happening out there?”

“Probably not.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Sarina joined him in gazing out into deep space. “To put it mildly, the Dominion was irked when it found out Picard had granted you asylum.”

That boded ill. “How irked?”

“They brought another fleet of reinforcements through the wormhole and made a run at Bajor. Then the Commonwealth sent in a couple dozen jaunt ships, and now we’re smack in the middle of a standoff that’s just waiting to go wrong.”

He nodded. “So, better than we expected.”

“Much better. I figured the Jem’Hadar would’ve glassed Bajor by now.”

“Be grateful for small mercies. Any leads on the Spetzkar?”

“No, but it’s not like anyone’s all that keen to keep us in the loop. Most of them treat us like we’re in the way, even when we’re offering to help.”

He cracked a sly smile. “Almost as if we’re outsiders.”

“Well played.” She stretched her arm across his back and rested her head against his shoulder. “What are we supposed to do if you get extradited?”

“I don’t know. Get me a good lawyer?”

She looked up, a flash of anger in her eyes. “We can’t just let the Dominion take you. I won’t see you tried in some Gamma Quadrant kangaroo court.”

He took her by her shoulders. “If it comes to that, we might not have any choice. Thirty-one has its tricks and its gadgets, but one team of agents can’t take on the entire Dominion.” He pulled her close and adopted a more soothing manner. “But no one’s voted to hand me over yet. If the Assembly grants my request for asylum, I won’t be going anywhere.”

“That’s almost as bad. What are you supposed to do then? Spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder for a Dominion extraction team?” She turned away and anxiously pushed her fingers through her flaxen hair. “Hell—what if you get asylum, and the Dominion responds by leveling Bajor and the rest of the quadrant?”

The soft chime of the door signal spared Bashir the indignity of admitting he had no answers to her questions. Sarina faced the stars. He turned toward the door. “Come.”

Cole walked in, leaving behind his security shadow, a male Triexian. The three-legged, three-armed alien moved on down the corridor as the door closed between him and Cole, who folded his hands behind his back and adopted an at-ease posture. He seemed oddly calm for a man at the potential flashpoint of a war. “How are you holding up, Doctor?”

“I’ve had better days.”

“I know what you must be thinking.”

“I doubt that.”

“I just want to assure you that no matter how the rest of this op pans out, we won’t leave you behind. And we damned sure won’t let you be extradited to the Dominion.”

Despite his contempt for Cole, Bashir resisted the urge to stoop to naked sarcasm and mockery. “Does this mean we’ll be getting back in that ship of yours and heading home?”

The question drew a grimace of frustration from Cole. “Not right away, no. Even if we wanted to leave now, our ship is stuck aboard the ShiKahr. ‘Under repair,’ Picard says. Every time I ask how long until it’ll be spaceworthy, they tell me ‘a few more hours.’ ” He shook his head. “It’s like dealing with a Pakled mechanic at a Ferengi used-spaceship lot.”

Bashir parsed Cole’s statement in his head, gnawing on a detail that troubled him. “What did you mean when you said, ‘Even if we wanted to leave now’? Why do we want to stay?”

“Because we have no choice. Our mission’s not done yet.”

“But the Commonwealth has been warned. They’re on the hunt for the Breen.”

Cole scolded Bashir with a waggle of his index finger. “Never trust someone else to do your work for you. We came here to terminate the Spetzkar’s mission with prejudice, and we’ll stay here until we know they’ve been permanently neutralized.”

“And how do you propose we do that without access to our ship or our equipment?”

“One thing at a time, Doctor.” The older man smiled, turned, and walked toward the door. “One thing at a time.”

*  *  *

Saavik stood alone in the transporter room of the Dominion command ship, facing a trio of Jem’Hadar soldiers. Each of the hulking creatures was armed with a battle rifle. The two on either end also carried kar’takin, short pole-arms with massive cutting blades that ended in long stabbing points. None of them spoke, blinked, or so much as twitched. In that place and moment, it was as if they had been born for no other purpose than to stand watch against her, one elderly Vulcan woman, lest she take an unauthorized step off the transporter dais onto the hallowed ground of their drab, hyperutilitarian starship. Their eyes bored into her with cold malice.

The door behind them opened, and their commander returned. Taran’atar’s deep voice was freighted with authority. “Let her pass.” His subordinates moved aside as Saavik stepped down to the deck. He regarded her with the same savage intensity as his men. “Follow me.”

He led her through the command ship’s narrow passageways and ladder wells. They passed only a handful of other Jem’Hadar as they traversed the ship, and each time the others tucked themselves into nooks or niches to make way for Taran’atar and Saavik.

It took a few minutes for them to descend three decks and reach one of the sections in the heart of the vessel. They stopped outside a door that bore no markings. He pressed his palm to a sensor panel. It shone with bright blue light. He removed his hand. “She is here.”

The panel turned from blue to a warm shade of amber, and the door slid open. Taran’atar entered first, and Saavik followed him. The compartment was empty. No furniture, no creature comforts, no decoration or signs of habitation. Two rows of narrow, translucent white panels on the overhead filled the room with low, diffuse light. There were no other doors inside the room. For a moment, Saavik wondered if she had been led into a trap.

One of the bulkheads started to melt. The gray metal surface deformed and slid into a puddle on the deck. In seconds, the gray goo transformed into an amorphous blob of luminous golden liquid, transmutated itself into a humanoid shape, and finally solidified into the smooth-featured, gray-robed form of the Founder. The Changeling met Saavik’s emotionless gaze with a cryptic, almost beatific smile. “You are a most persistent visitor.” She looked at Taran’atar. “Wait outside.”

The Jem’Hadar First opened the door, stepped out, and closed it after himself.

Saavik faced the Founder. “Thank you for seeing me.”

The Founder folded her hands together. “Perhaps I should thank you for coming in person. I suspect it’s you I should have been dealing with all along.”

“My presence is a violation of protocol. Chairman Eddington is the elected head of state.”

“But he doesn’t represent the true power of the Commonwealth, does he?” She sized up Saavik with a keen, penetrating stare. “That’s your role, isn’t it? It’s why you’re here now.”

It was vital, Saavik knew, not to let the Changeling sidetrack her. “I am here to urge you to accept some measure of compromise, so that we can resume our treaty negotiations.”

“I’ve made my position clear. No half measures. No compromises. We want Bashir.”

“This is a complex matter, Madam Founder. Intractable demands and thinly veiled threats of military reprisal—”

“Our threats are not the least bit veiled.”

So much for an appeal to reason. “I would like to show you something. A recording I made several years ago, for the benefit of the Commonwealth’s more belligerent neighbors.”

“As you like.”

Moving with caution and transparency of action, Saavik took a small holographic projection disk from a pocket inside her tunic. She kneeled, set the disk on the deck, and activated it with a single touch. A three-dimensional image of a lifeless, rocky planet appeared, suspended in the empty space between her and the Founder. A female voice filled the room.

“This is the planet Rhenvara Five, a Class-G world in an unpopulated star system that lies just beyond the Terran Neutral Zone, inside sovereign Terran space. It has no natural resources worth exploiting, and its lack of indigenous life-forms is well documented.”

The Founder remained stoic as a fiery streak manifested from thin air and arced slowly past her from behind, on a direct path toward the holographic planet. “This is the Genesis Device, a technology we mastered nearly a century ago.”

The projectile made impact and detonated. A shock wave expanded from the blast point, spread at hypersonic velocity, and engulfed the entire surface of the planet in crimson fire.

“Genesis is capable of transforming lifeless worlds like Rhenvara Five into lush, Class-M worlds capable of supporting humanoid life—not over the course of years or even months, but in a matter of hours. Know this: if a Genesis Device is deployed on a world where life-forms already exist, it will destroy such life in favor of its new matrix. And remember that our mastery of wormhole propulsion means we can deploy these devices at any time against any world in the galaxy.” The image of the burning world faded away.

Saavik searched the Founder’s face for a reaction, only to find the Changeling’s mask utterly devoid of expression. “Do you understand my meaning, Madam Founder?”

“Indeed.” The Founder’s mood turned pensive. “It was a most chilling demonstration. Such a weapon, if delivered with the speed and precision demonstrated by your jaunt ships, could obliterate every world in the Dominion so swiftly that by the time we knew we were under attack, the war would be over.”

“I should also add that the Genesis Device represents the beginning of our arsenal, not its end. We’ve been developing far more devastating technologies for over a century.” She squatted, picked up the miniature projector, and pocketed it as she stood. “With that in mind, are you now ready to discuss a compromise regarding Doctor Bashir’s extradition?”

“No.”

Saavik did a double take. “Excuse me?”

“There will be no compromise.”

“You would continue to push us toward war, even knowing we can destroy you?”

The Founder’s countenance was serene. “Principles betrayed are worthless. A civilization that lacks the courage of its convictions, even in the face of certain annihilation and oblivion, does not deserve to live.” In the space of a breath, her blank visage turned doleful. “We had hoped that your Commonwealth would share our commitment to the rule of law.”

“The Commonwealth is a civilization of laws, Madam Founder. But it is also much greater than that. The law needs to be more than an arbitrary and inflexible code. It represents a blueprint for the social contract between a government and its people—and the spirit of that contract is just as important as its letter.”

“Perhaps. But without respect for the law’s letter, its spirit has no agency in the world.” She touched a panel on the bulkhead and opened the door. As soon as the portal slid aside, Taran’atar entered and looked at the Founder, who gave him new orders. “Take Director Saavik back to the transporter room and see that she is returned safely to her point of origin on Bajor.”

“Yes, Founder.”

Saavik paused at the doorway and looked back. “Is your wrath toward Doctor Bashir worth risking the survival of your civilization?”

“Is exempting him from responsibility for his actions worth committing genocide?”

Both questions were left unanswered as Saavik made her exit, troubled as much by the implications of the Founder’s moral calculus as she was by her own.

Twenty-three

“I thought our circumstances couldn’t get any worse. Once again, I am proved in error.” Thot Trom and his command team had reconvened ahead of schedule to assess the rapidly changing tactical scenario that confronted them. “How many is that now?”

First Officer Crin manipulated the holographic image above the briefing room’s plotting table to magnify the details of the two opposing fleets. “Over a hundred Jem’Hadar warships and twenty-four Commonwealth jaunt ships.”

Rem added, “All sitting in front of the wormhole at high alert. A perfect blockade.”

“What’s impressive,” Karn added, “is that the jaunt ships are outnumbered nearly five to one, but they repelled the Jem’Hadar advance on Bajor and pushed it all the way back here.” The tactical officer triggered a time-compressed playback of the Dominion ships’ retreat and regrouping. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Jem’Hadar attack group react that way to anything.”

“All of which underscores why we were sent here to capture one of those ships.” Trom reset the hologram to show the fleets’ current deployments. “However, thanks to this standoff, our plan to lure the Dominion ships away from the wormhole has gone from outrageously difficult to practically impossible.” He looked around the table. “Any new ideas?”

The first to speak was Rem. “What if we modify a torpedo for passive deployment? We could release it inert while we stay cloaked. Then we maneuver clear. After a preset delay, the torpedo activates and locks on to the nearest ship in the blockade.”

“To what end?”

“Sir?”

“What would that accomplish?”

Rem nodded at the projection. “We fire the first shot. They fire the rest and blow each other to bits. When they’re done, we cruise through the wormhole at our leisure.”

“An interesting theory, Rem. But what if the Dominion emerges victorious? Our job is to capture a jaunt ship, not scoop up the fractured debris of one. Who else has a plan?”

Solt lifted his snout. “I have some ideas, but I’m not sure how feasible they are.”

“As long as they don’t involve goading the Jem’Hadar into blowing up our target, you can speak freely.”

The chief engineer took control of the projection above the table. Detailed schematics of two complex machines appeared and rotated slowly in opposite directions, side by side. “The first challenge we need to address is how to get aboard a jaunt ship. We don’t want to risk a direct attack, and without the energy dampener, we have no way of disabling their shields—which means we can’t use transporters for the boarding phase of the assault.” He pointed at the schematic closer to him. “I dug up some old plans for a dimensional shifter and—”

Trom interrupted, “A what?”

“A folded-space transport system. Some variants were called inverters.”

“Stop,” Rem said. “I’ve read about these things. They damage organic tissue.”

Doctor Nev cut in, “Only gradually, over the course of several exposures to the inverter’s energy field. A single use will cause some tissue damage, but nothing that can’t be managed.”

“More important,” Solt continued, “folded-space transport can bypass shields, force fields, and any other surprises those jaunt ships have locked inside them. We can even use it without dropping the cloak—which means we can stage a true sneak attack.”

Trom was satisfied that the benefits outweighed the risks. “All right. Can you build one?”

“Maybe. My team is replicating the component parts. Unfortunately, the schematics we have all rely on mutually exclusive systems for directing the transport coordinates, and because they were all stolen from other powers’ research facilities, we have the specs for the hardware but not the software. Still, I think there’s a good chance we can reverse-engineer it.”

“How good a chance?”

“Exponentially better than our odds of surviving a direct attack on a jaunt ship.”

“Carry on, then.” Trom pointed at the second holographic schematic hovering above the plotting table. “What is this?”

“The second part of my plan,” Solt said. “Getting onto a jaunt ship is one thing. Getting it home is another. At this point, I think we need to accept that trying to slip past the blockade to the Bajoran wormhole isn’t going to work.” He deactivated the image of the dimensional shifter and enlarged the remaining design to fill the empty space. “This is a miniaturized version of the rift generator Thot Tran built on Ikkuna Station.”

It was Trom’s duty to ask, “Where did you get that?”

“I took the liberty of accessing his lab’s computers and downloading his research before we deployed. It occurred to me that we might find ourselves in a predicament such as this, and I thought it best to take appropriate precautions.”

“When we get home, Solt, I’m putting you in for a commendation and a bump in pay grade.” With a wave of his hand, he added, “Continue.”

“From what I’ve seen of the jaunt ship’s wormhole propulsion system, I think it might be possible to modify it with some of the components from the Ikkuna rift generator. Balancing the flow of energy in a jury-rigged system will be dangerous—but if we’re successful, we’ll be able to use a jaunt ship’s own propulsion system to breach the dimensional barrier to go home.”

Trom’s imagination reeled at the possibilities raised by such a leap in technology. Not only would he and his team be able to deliver their superiors’ most sought after prize, they would be improving it in the process—and extending the reach of the Breen Confederacy farther than anyone had ever dared to dream possible. “How long do you need?”

Solt shrugged. “Not sure. We can probably turn our transport platforms into dimensional shifters in about a day. As for upgrading the jaunt ships’ wormhole drives, we can make the parts in about twenty hours. But I can’t be sure how long it’ll take to integrate them once we’re aboard a ship. Might be a matter of minutes, might take all day.”

“We won’t have that much time after we’re aboard. Do whatever you can to minimize the refit time. We won’t be able to buy you more than an hour, at best.”

“Noted.”

“Crin, task anyone with a Level Five or higher tech rating to assist Solt’s team on the dimensional shifters. Rem, take point on that project, get it done. Solt, I want you and your best engineers working on the wormhole drive modifications.” Trom straightened and switched off the holographic projector. “Men, this might be our last shot. Make it count.”

*  *  *

There was so much to do, so many places to be, so many egos to appease. The Commonwealth was teetering upon the precipice of war over a matter of principle and the life of one man. All Saavik wanted was to find some way to craft a compromise, but she found herself snared between the immovable fanaticism of the Dominion and the fragile idealism of the fledgling interstellar power she and her colleagues in Memory Omega had midwifed.

Now, instead of addressing the myriad issues already at hand, she found herself answering the summons of a stranger.

Two guards, a male Tellarite and a female Trill, stood watch outside a suite of guest quarters on the Enterprise. Although Saavik wore no uniform, both security officers recognized her; neither challenged her as she approached. She asked them in her most polite manner, “Unlock the door, please.” The Trill pressed her hand to the biometric sensor beside the door, which sighed open. “Thank you,” Saavik said as she walked inside.

Cole was alone, seated in an armchair upholstered with gray microfiber. The dark-haired human set down the padd from which he had been reading and stood. “Director Saavik. Thank you for coming. I hadn’t expected you so soon.”

Saavik stepped away from the door’s proximity sensor, allowing the portal to close. She regarded him with cool reserve. “What do you want, Mister Cole?”

“A chance to talk.” He beckoned her toward the sofa perpendicular to his chair. “Please.”

She kept her eyes focused on his. “My time is limited.”

“Of course. But still, have a seat. We needn’t be so formal.”

As if to set an example, he relaxed back into the armchair and crossed one leg over the other. His change of situation suddenly made Saavik’s pose seem needlessly confrontational. She crossed the small room to the sofa and sat down. “What do you need to discuss?”

“The guards on my door, for starters. I know that Doctor Bashir needs to be kept under watch until his legal status is resolved, but I was led to understand the rest of my team and I were here as guests—not as prisoners.”

“An unfortunate consequence of our confrontation with the Dominion armada. Under normal conditions, you and your people could have been granted limited access to nonclassified areas of the ship. But with the fleet on combat alert, all privileges are rescinded.”

“Ah.” Cole stroked his stubbled chin. “It’s good to see you’re taking the Dominion threat seriously. They’re far more dangerous than you might realize.”

“Is that so?”

A grave nod underscored the import of his words. “In my universe, the Dominion were a threat second only to the Borg. My people waged a war against them that cost millions of lives. Entire worlds were laid waste. To be frank, they nearly beat us. The only reason the Federation finally came out on top was a few lucky breaks right near the end.”

She studied his face for microexpressions that might betray an attempt at mendacity or evasion. “That sounds like an exaggeration, Mister Cole. Surely, luck can’t have been the only thing that decided the war’s outcome.”

A grimace and dubious tilt of his head. “Not the only thing, no. But an important one.”

He was a gifted liar, Saavik decided, one practiced in the art of deception. It was almost as if he believed his own prevarications. “Why tell me this?”

“Because it looks to me like you’re on the verge of war with the Dominion.”

“And you think my people need your advice?”

A faux-humble shrug. “I doubt it could hurt. The organization I work for amassed a significant amount of actionable intel against the Dominion in our universe. I know not everything is exactly the same on this side as it is back home, but I’d be willing to bet our intel could give you options you might not have considered. Alternatives to glassing all their planets with your stacks of Genesis torpedoes.”

How did he know about— She halted her speculation. Cole was a covert intelligence agent. It was possible—even probable—that the entity he served had some means of monitoring events in this universe and of intercepting messages, such as Omega’s warning to the Alliance.

“Let us presume, Mister Cole, that the information you offer is of value to my people. Why would it be in your interest to share it?”

“For the same reason it was in our interest to cross the dimensional barrier to stop the Breen commandos from capturing one of your ships.” He sat forward, folded his hands together, and rested his arms on his thighs. “It’s in the best interest of the Federation to know that it has a stable and nonhostile power calling the shots on this side of the barrier. We don’t want someone like the Breen or the Dominion getting hold of the kind of technology you people possess.”

Saavik’s suspicion manifested in the form of an elegantly raised gray eyebrow. “In that case, Mister Cole, one might wonder how your organization feels about the fact that my people possess this technology. Is it even possible for you and your masters to trust someone else?”

“We trust everyone. We just like to verify that our trust isn’t being abused.”

“Sensible.”

“We like to think so.”

She admired his restraint. It was obvious that he had omitted a crucial detail from the conversation, but he appeared content to wait for her to broach the topic.

“Let’s cut to the heart of the matter, shall we? What do you want in exchange for this allegedly valuable information about the Dominion?”

“My team and I would like to be moved out of your impending war zone, to safer ground.”

“Such as?”

“Such as wherever it is that you go when you’re not brokering peace treaties.”

He wants access to Memory Omega. To the headquarters, Omega Prime.

She shook her head. “There are numerous neutral worlds where—”

“We’d still be vulnerable in a place like that. Especially since Captain Picard and his friends on the ShiKahr don’t seem to be in any hurry to give us back our ship. But even if we were back on the Królik, we’d be at a distinct disadvantage in this universe.”

“What disadvantage?”

He gestured at his confining quarters. “We’d still be pilgrims in a strange cosmos. What’s the preferred euphemism? ‘Stateless actors’? As long as we remain out in the open, we’re people without citizenship. No matter where we go in this universe, we’re legally nonpeople.”

“I assure you, that is not the case within the Commonwealth. We welcome those dispossessed from other states. All who seek refuge here are protected under the law.”

Cole frowned. “I’d like to trust you, but for the sake of my team, I can’t take that chance. What if I sweeten the deal? My organization has all kinds of intel on the Breen, not to mention detailed files on the Delta Quadrant. If you’d be willing to bring me and my team to safe ground, we’d share all of it.”

“Tempting. But I think you and your team are better situated here on the Enterprise.”

“Is that the last word? Is there anybody I can talk with other than you?”

She stood. “If you like, I can ask my peers if they wish to consider your proposal.”

He got up as well. “Please do.” He offered her his hand. “Thank you for coming.”

Reluctantly, she shook his hand, but only for a moment. Then she let go and stepped back. “I will let you know what the board decides. Good day, Mister Cole.”

He watched her as she left the room. She had no doubt that he was, by training and by nature, contemplating all the means by which he might escape, as well as those by which he might take her life. Knowing this did not trouble her, for one simple reason.

She had already decided how Cole was going to die.

*  *  *

Precision and attention to detail were essential traits in effective Jem’Hadar soldiers. Taran’atar made certain to arrive in the strategy room of Battleship 774 several minutes before the appointed hour. As not just the First but also the most senior Honored Elder, he was obliged to serve as an exemplar for his men. He had summoned his four chief lieutenants to join him there at the top of the day’s seventeenth hour, as measured by the ship’s chronometer.

Half a minute before the top of the hour, the door to the strategy room slid open, and his men entered in descending order of rank: Second Ankan’igar, Third Keltan’iklan, Fourth Morgul’itan, and Fifth Golgan’adar. Aboard their own vessels, among their own regiments, they each held the title of First; here, however, aboard the Founder’s command ship, in Taran’atar’s presence, they reverted to subordinate ranks in deference to his venerable status.

Just after they had taken their places in a line before Taran’atar, the chronometer changed over, marking the top of the hour.

The Honored Elder welcomed them with a nod. “Let’s begin.” He stepped to his left and used a freestanding control console to activate a display on the bulkhead in front of his men. The first image to appear was the likeness of the human Bashir. “The Vorta Weyoun and our revered Founder have demanded that the Commonwealth extradite this man, a human physician named Julian Bashir, to stand trial for the murder of the Founder Odo.” He added a second image, one of another human, an older man with a bald head. “Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Enterprise has granted the fugitive Bashir asylum aboard his vessel. Consequently, he and the Galactic Commonwealth have refused our leaders’ requests for custody of Bashir.”

Taran’atar noted his men’s intense focus on the images of the two human men. These were the gazes of soldiers memorizing the faces of future targets. “Any questions so far?”

Second Ankan’igar pointed at Bashir. “Is he still aboard the Enterprise?”

“All available intelligence suggests he is. The reason we are here is to develop a viable strategy for boarding the Enterprise, taking custody of Bashir, and returning him alive and with minimal injury to this vessel so that he can be held accountable for his crime.” Taran’atar switched the image to a schematic blueprint of the deck plans for a jaunt ship. “These are an approximation of the Enterprise’s interior, based on sensor analysis and limited firsthand observation by covert operatives.”

“Question,” said Fifth Golgan’adar. “How heavily guarded is their brig?”

“Its automated defenses are formidable,” Taran’atar said. “But that is of no concern. We have intercepted communications that suggest the fugitive Bashir has been confined to guest quarters, along with the rest of his associates. That should facilitate his capture and repatriation.”

Third Keltan’iklan nodded at the schematics. “These plans show several suites of guest quarters. How are we to find the correct one before the ship’s security forces intercept us?”

“We will go aboard shrouded and remain so while we scout the vessel. As there do not appear to be other ‘compulsory guests’ on the Enterprise at this time, we need only determine which suite is under armed guard. That will be the one containing Bashir.”

A turn of Fourth Morgul’itan’s head telegraphed the next question. “How are we to board the vessel? Any approach by one of our ships will cause the Enterprise to raise its shields before we achieve transporter range.”

“The mission profile calls for us to be smuggled aboard the Enterprise as passengers on a shuttle carrying the Founder. We will shroud ourselves and debark the shuttle after the Founder and her Vorta entourage have departed.”

Doubt crept into Second Ankan’igar’s tone. “Why would they not beam over?”

“We will express reservations regarding the safety of the transporter systems on the Commonwealth’s vessels. Though we were willing to beam the Founder to the surface, we will refuse to entrust her life to a hand-off between our respective systems.”

The explanation did not seem to sit well with Keltan’iklan. “If they don’t believe us?”

“Then we will have no choice but to board the vessel and take Bashir by force.”

All the subordinates responded with nods of affirmation. Morgul’itan studied the jaunt ship’s plans with keen eyes. “If the Founder or one of her Vorta could disable the Enterprise’s primary shield generator for just a few seconds, we could beam over.” He stepped forward and tapped a point on the schematic. “If we materialize here, we could split into two groups and investigate all the guest suites in under two minutes.”

“Yes, good,” Golgan’adar said. “But this plan’s viability depends upon the response time of the Enterprise’s security forces.” He looked at Taran’atar. “Do we have any intel on them?”

“Not as such. However, intercepted comms suggest they were able to retake their own commandeered vessel ShiKahr from hostile forces in under four minutes.”

A low growl of respect from Ankan’igar. “They’re not amateurs, then.”

Taran’atar met his second’s inquisitive look. “No, they are not.”

Golgan’adar was unfazed by the news. “We should always assume we face opponents who are, at the very least, our equals. Given that presumption, how do we propose to exfiltrate the prisoner Bashir alive? Can we count on the Enterprise’s shields staying down long enough for us to transport out once we secure him?”

“Unlikely,” Keltan’iklan said. “The jaunt ships seem to have multiple redundancies built into their key systems. We might knock down the shields long enough to get aboard but not long enough to complete the search and transport back out.”

“There is another concern,” Morgul’itan said. “The ShiKahr remains in orbit with the Enterprise. If the crew of the Enterprise deduces our objective, even if they cannot raise their own shields, they could call upon the ShiKahr to protect them with its defensive screens.”

Ankan’igar bristled. “Then we mount simultaneous assaults on both ships!”

“How?” asked Golgan’adar. “Our initial attack upon the Enterprise depends upon a covert strike against its defensive systems from within. If we mount an open attack on the ShiKahr at the same time, the result will be a full-scale engagement between our fleets.”

“That’s a likely consequence if our mission succeeds,” Ankan’igar said. He turned toward Taran’atar. “Is that the Founder’s goal? To trigger a war with the Commonwealth?”

The second’s query unleashed a flood of similar questions.

Keltan’iklan asked, “Are we expendable in the name of protecting Bashir?”

“What are the Founder’s orders regarding collateral damage?” asked Morgul’itan.

It was Golgan’adar who asked the question that left Taran’atar dumbstruck. “When does the Founder want us to launch the mission?”

Their attention weighed upon Taran’atar. He had been born incapable of lying to his own men. The effectiveness of the Jem’Hadar as a martial entity depended upon unbreakable unit cohesion at all levels of the command hierarchy, from the most venerated Honored Elders to the lowliest of new hatchlings waiting their turn to draw their first blood and earn their names. He did not want to tell his soldiers the truth, but he knew they would discern it from his silence.

Keltan’iklan’s countenance became grave. “Who ordered the planning of this mission?”

“No one,” Taran’atar said.

Dark, paranoid glances passed among his men. Ankan’igar was the first brave enough to meet Taran’atar’s stare. “You launched this operation on your own initiative?”

It was imperative that Taran’atar correct his soldiers’ misunderstanding. “I have not launched this operation. No action has been initiated. I have anticipated one possible request the Founder or her agents might make of us, and I am ensuring that if such a request comes, we will be ready to carry it out without delay. That is all, and nothing more.”

Slow nods of fearful caution. Once again, the others let Ankan’igar speak for them. “We understand, First.”

“That will be all for now. Dismissed.”

Taran’atar faced the jaunt ship schematic as his soldiers filed out of the room. They had accepted his explanation, just as they and all of their kind had long ago been genetically programmed to do. This was the way of things, the shape of their existence.

Hidden from their sight by the closing of the strategy room’s door, Taran’atar surrendered to a bitter flush of shame and self-castigation.

What was I thinking? How could I have dared to think I might know the mind of a Founder well enough to anticipate one’s desires? Never has a Jem’Hadar been so arrogant!

He could only hope that none of his men had discerned his error of judgment. Because if any of them reported this irregularity in his behavior to any of their Vorta, then this first mistake born of pride would likely be Taran’atar’s last.

*  *  *

“Come in, sit down, and start talking. And do try to get to the point. I don’t have all day.”

As brusque as the Taurus Pact consul’s invitation was, Kersil Regon accepted it with a gracious smile and a follow-me-inside glare at Kort, who plodded into the diplomat’s office. The two spies in disguise settled into the comfortable armchairs that faced Zolim Fel Tun-A’s desk. Regon smiled. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Zolim. It really has been too long.”

The aging Tzenkethi squinted at his two guests. Though he once had been luminous like so many other members of his species’ upper echelons, his glamour had faded with time’s passage. His golden hair had dulled, and his majestic complexion, which once had sparkled in the right light, now betrayed an ashy texture. Even his eyes had darkened and given up their inner light. Just as withered now was his patience. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize you.”

“Nor should you. We’ve had quite a bit of work done recently, and Tellus Prime was such a long time ago.” A diabolical smirk lifted one corner of her mouth. “How’s your knee?”

She saw that her invocation of places and events from their shared past had jogged his memory. His mild annoyance became surprise, and then it gave way to barely contained rage. “Regon.” He shifted his glare to her companion. “Which means this must be Kort.”

“Yes, I must be.” The surgically altered Klingon looked himself over, and then he shrugged, as if to say without words, What is one to do? “What do you think, old friend?”

“First, I was never your friend. Second, you’ve looked better.”

Regon harrumphed. “We could say the same.” She looked around at his barren office. “Never thought I’d see you give up intelligence work.” Unable to help herself, she added with a cruel note, “I guess the Autarch finally put you out to pasture, eh?

Zolim’s manner grew sharper by the moment. “Last I heard, you were the one left out in the cold. A shame your masters in the Obsidian Order lacked the foresight to provide you with a retirement plan.” He snickered under his breath at Kort. “Or the compassion to keep you on the payroll long after you’d outlived your usefulness.”

Kort tensed to spring from his chair. Regon slapped her hand against his chest to keep the ill-tempered old coot in his seat. “You’d be dead before you got across the desk.”

The Tzenkethi steepled his long fingers. “Heed her well. She just saved your life.”

“Yours as well, petaQ.” Kort eased back into his chair.

Regon put on her most businesslike demeanor. “As much fun as it’s been catching up with you, Zolim, we’re here for a reason.”

“What a relief. I was starting to think I’d have to kill you for nothing.”

She settled back into her own chair and crossed her legs. “I presume you’re aware of what’s going on in orbit?”

“The great showdown? I might have caught a few details on the news.”

“Well,” Regon said, “how long would it take the Taurus Pact to muster a few battle fleets on either side of this fast-brewing apocalypse?”

Zolim laughed. “Why would we do that? This isn’t our problem.”

Kort leaned forward. “We never said it was. In fact, we think you and your allies ought to be looking at this calamity in the making as an unparalleled opportunity.”

The sales pitch garnered Zolim’s suspicion—but also his interest. “How so?”

“Obviously,” Regon said, “the Taurus Pact has nothing to gain from going head to head against either the Commonwealth or the Dominion. But if those two titans square off, there’s a good chance they’ll do each other a lot of damage, especially in the sectors adjacent to this one.”

Picking up the rhetorical baton, Kort continued. “Not only would the Pact be well positioned to lay claim to strategically valuable planets and star systems; if you had forces here when the fighting starts, you could lay claim to the Bajoran wormhole—and seize control of all shipping and passage between here and the Gamma Quadrant.”

“In other words,” Zolim said, “you want my people to do your people’s dirty work.”

Regon shook her head. “Not at all. If done correctly, no one ever needs to know the Taurus Pact lit the fuse on this war. The Commonwealth and the Dominion will each blame the other for firing the first shot. And while they’re busy wiping each other off the map, the Pact—and, yes, the Klingon Empire and the Cardassian Union—can divvy up the Commonwealth’s shipping lanes and vital resources.” A rakish tilt of her head. “And if we happen to find, floating amid the wreckage of their fleets, some of that secret technology they’ve been using to keep the rest of us running scared for the last few years . . . so much the better.”

Zolim reclined his chair and pondered their proposal. “Would I be correct if I presumed the two of you had a plan in mind for how to make this happen?”

Sly looks passed between Kort and Regon. She flashed a sinister smile. “You would.”

The weathered old Tzenkethi spy turned diplomat got up and walked from his desk to a small low cupboard against the wall. He opened its two front-facing doors. He removed three glasses, which he set on top of the cupboard. Then he took out a squat decanter filled with pale liquid and poured two fingers of liquor into each glass.

He handed one glass to Regon and another to Kort; he set the third on his desk. The careworn ex-spy slumped back into his chair. His face brightened as he picked up his drink and lifted it as if to toast his visitors. “Now then, my old friends . . . tell me everything.”

Twenty-four

My mind to your mind.

Sakonna pressed her ear and her fingertips to the bulkhead. Its insulation would prevent most sound from carrying through to the quarters in which she and the rest of the team had been confined, but her psionic talents—which the organization had honed far beyond her native gifts—could penetrate the duranium and its embedded cabling and machinery with ease.

My thoughts to your thoughts.

She felt the presence of the sentient mind on the other side of the locked door. When a pair of security officers had escorted Cole from the suite a short while earlier, Sakonna had seen a dark-haired woman standing in the corridor beside the entrance. It had been only a brief glimpse, but to her trained eye she had looked human. Her eyes had been hazel, so she had ruled out the possibility that she might be a Betazoid; full-blooded members of that telepathic species had solid black irises. She also had lacked the distinctive hairless protrusion near the temples that identified Ullians, another telepathic threat. Also absent were epidermal spotting patterns, which meant there was almost no chance Sakonna would encounter the dual mind of a joined Trill.

Open your mind. Feel my thoughts becoming your thoughts.

One by one, the layers of the young human’s psychological defenses melted away. Her mind was untrained. Each new wave of suggestions from Sakonna washed over the ramparts of her psyche like a neap tide overpowering a sand castle. Surge after surge wore down the weak battlements of her unconscious, until at last her will vanished, swallowed up by the Vulcan’s.

Sakonna heard the woman’s thoughts echo her own: My mind to your mind.

Her memory became an open book to Sakonna. Her name was Bonnie Burton. She was an ensign, a graduate of the first class of cadets formally trained for service in the Commonwealth military. Her pride at being part of the vanguard of a new era in galactic history was powerful to the point of being intoxicating. The colors of her thoughts were bright and hopeful. It was almost a shame to use her so cruelly, but Sakonna had her orders.

The Vulcan withheld her thoughts from Burton. Instead, she projected an irresistible suggestion into the human woman’s beautiful mind. Unlock the door to the guest suite.

It was almost too easy. Burton turned toward the control panel on the bulkhead by the door. She entered a security override code that she knew by virtue of rote repetition. The door’s magnetic locks released, and the portal slid open.

Remain still, Sakonna directed her psionic puppet. She pushed away from the wall, stepped through the door, and walked quickly to stand beside Burton, who remained locked in place, a statue of flesh and bone. The Vulcan touched her fingertips to key neural junctions on the side of Burton’s face, initiating an even deeper telepathic link. You will stay at your post. You have seen nothing out of the ordinary. You will not remember our link.

Burton stood, rigid and unblinking. I will stay at my post. I have seen nothing out of the ordinary. After reciting the first two directives, her mind turned as blank as virgin parchment.

Sakonna withdrew her hand from Burton’s face and walked away at a brisk pace. She had to reach the nearest transporter room before any other member of the ship’s crew saw her outside her quarters. Voices from a short distance ahead made her duck down a side passageway. She pressed her back to the bulkhead and held her breath as two of the ship’s crew, a Bolian male and a feminine Andorian (Sakonna had never been able to discern that species’ multiple genders), passed by without so much as a look in her direction.

As soon as the corridor was clear, Sakonna was moving. It was fortunate that whoever had designed the Commonwealth’s jaunt ships had taken pains to post informative signage and deck diagrams at regular intervals in all the main passageways. Two minutes after escaping her confinement, Sakonna reached a transporter room. She extended her psionic senses through the bulkhead and determined to her satisfaction that the compartment was unoccupied.

She hurried inside and moved to the control panel. Its interface was highly intuitive, and most of its controls were similar enough to others she had used that she was able to power up the console with ease. The target coordinates posed a more serious challenge. She had to access the Enterprise’s sensor network and locate its sister ship, the ShiKahr.

To her relief it was orbiting Bajor in close proximity to the Enterprise, likely as a precaution after having recently been boarded. She focused the transporter’s targeting sensors on the ShiKahr’s main docking bay, and then she fine-tuned its coordinates to the interior of the Królik, which remained under guard inside the ShiKahr. A quick review of the transporter’s sensor data confirmed there were no personnel currently inside the Królik. Sakonna programmed her beam-in coordinates for the interior of the Królik’s main fuselage and decoupled the security circuits on the transporter panel, so that it would not alert the Enterprise’s bridge crew of an unauthorized transporter activation. As for the ShiKahr, she could only hope that its crew was too distracted by its ongoing repairs and security review to notice this brief visit of hers.

Sakonna activated the dematerialization sequence on a five-second delay and hurried onto the platform. She positioned herself beneath an energizer coil and stood still as the world around her blanched to pure white and filled with melodious noise . . .

. . . and resolved instantly into the dim gray interior of the Królik. As soon as the annular confinement beam released its hold on her, Sakonna raced forward and opened a hidden panel in the deck. Underneath was a second panel, this one equipped with a biometric sensor. She pressed her palm against it.

“Sakonna. Clearance, tango nine four red oscar seven blue echo.”

The disembodied masculine voice of the ship’s computer replied, “Confirmed.”

A thunk and a subtle vibration in the deck indicated the panel was now unlocked. Sakonna lifted it open. Inside were four large bundles, each just over a meter long and forty centimeters in diameter. She pulled them from the secret storage space, closed the inner panel, and waited until she heard its locks reengage. Then she closed the outer panel.

She slung a pack over each shoulder, picked up the other two by their protruding handles, and hauled them to the Królik’s transporter room. Its interfaces roused themselves from standby mode as she entered the compartment. She walked to the transporter platform, issuing orders to the computer as she went. “Lock on to viridium tracer signals in subjects Webb and Kitsom.”

“Coordinates locked.”

“Set for stealth transport and beam me to those coordinates.” She took her place on the platform, beneath the foremost energizer coil, facing the control console. “Energize.”

Next came the quickest of flashes. Sakonna barely felt the touch of the annular confinement beam because its embrace was so brief. In the space of a breath and a blink, she was back inside the guest suite on the Enterprise. Webb and Kitsom jogged toward her.

“That was fast,” Kitsom said as he took hold of the bundle stenciled with his name.

Webb grabbed the bundle that had been marked for him. “Nice work.”

“Thank you.” Sakonna tossed them the other two bundles. “Retrieve the parts and assemble the machine before Cole returns. We don’t have much time.”

*  *  *

It all had happened so quickly. Not that the swiftness of Memory Omega’s response to his offer had surprised Cole in the slightest. Based on what the organization knew about them, Cole’s circumstances fit Omega’s documented modus operandi.

One moment he had been relaxing in the guest suite he shared with Webb, Kitsom, and Sakonna on the jaunt ship Enterprise; the next he had been collected by a pair of armed guards, who now delivered him to Saavik in a nearby transporter room. “The board has agreed to meet with you and hear your proposal,” Saavik said. Before he could mutter so much as a thank-you, she pulled him with her onto the transporter pad and snapped, “Energize.”

They disappeared into a wash of white light and a mellifluous curtain of sound, then they materialized inside a long, high-ceilinged tunnel. As soon as they were free of the transporter’s confinement beam, he sensed the perfect fluidity of real gravity exerting its hold upon him. Long ago he had learned to distinguish the subtle differences between artificial gravity and the natural pull of a planet’s mass. Because Bajor was the only world within the range of most starships’ transporters, he deduced he was somewhere on the planet’s surface.

“Follow me, Mister Cole.” Saavik led him a short distance down the tunnel to a set of double doors that parted as they approached. Beyond them lay an imposing silolike chamber. In its center was a short dais surrounded by high-tech terminals, all of them manned by personnel wearing white laboratory jackets. His hostess acknowledged one of them, a male Zakdorn. “Good morning, Doctor Ropaal. My guest and I are bound for Omega Prime.”

“Very good, Director. Please step onto the platform.”

Saavik led Cole up a short set of stairs onto the main dais. He looked around, uncertain what he was getting himself into. “What is this?”

“A subspace transporter. For security reasons, our destination’s coordinates must remain a secret.” She looked at Ropaal. “Energize.”

The Zakdorn worked the controls of his panel with deft movements of his long digits. A crushing force seized Cole and knocked the air from his lungs. Before he could signal anyone for help, another pulse of light and sound erased his surroundings for a moment that felt strangely elongated. His senses returned, and he found himself and Saavik in a nearly identical chamber, surrounded by different scientists wearing similar long white jackets.

The Vulcan woman stepped off the dais and beckoned Cole. “Welcome to Omega Prime, Mister Cole.” He followed her out of the subspace transport chamber.

Together they moved through what Cole imagined had been designed as a labyrinth of corridors. None of the junctions or compartments were marked in any way. He was sure that someone who lacked his ability to memorize routes and minuscule details would become disoriented within a matter of minutes inside this maze. If they think these cheap tricks are enough to confuse me, they’re in for quite a surprise.

Saavik led him to a door, which opened ahead of her. They entered a long room. Its walls and floor were dark. At the far end of the room, opposite the entrance, a holographic display was projected in front of a blank wall. A long conference table dominated the room; its surface was polished obsidian. Gathered around it, seated in high-backed chairs, were several persons, all in civilian garb. Saavik took the empty seat at the head of the table, and she motioned for Cole to take the chair to her left. “Thank you all for coming on short notice.”

Her thanks were met by nods of acquiescence. Cole sat down and did his best to project calm and confidence. Once he had settled, Saavik opened the meeting. “Everyone, this is Mister Cole. A visitor from the other universe.” She furrowed her brow and asked him in a confidential tone, “Forgive me—do you have a first name?”

He couldn’t help but crack a wan smile. “Just Cole will suffice, Director.”

“As you prefer.” She went around the table, starting from her right, making introductions. The first member of the board was a female Betazoid. “This is Dannis Palancir of Betazed.” Next was a Bajoran man with a receding hairline and hostile eyes. “Ruxin Ejor of Bajor.” At the end of the far side of the table was an Andorian thaan with a warrior’s hard mien. “Fallanooran th’Sirris.” At the foot of the table, opposite Saavik, sat a black-maned Tellarite. “Kol jav Megh.” On Megh’s right was a pie-faced Bolian man of middling years. “Mister Veen.” One seat closer to Cole was a burly male human. “Yoshi Dehler.” The last person to be introduced was the professorial-looking Trill woman sitting next to Cole. “And this is Inglis Arkel.”

“A pleasure to meet you all,” Cole said. None of the board members tensed or flinched as he reached inside his tunic and removed an isolinear data chip from an inside pocket. Okay, so we know they’re not jumpy. Maybe they’re overconfident. He held up the data chip. “This contains several hundred gigaquads of classified intelligence my employers have gathered over the past decade regarding such powers as the Dominion, the Breen Confederacy, and the Tzenkethi Coalition. Although there are bound to be differences between them and their counterparts in this universe, I think that you’ll find enough of value in these documents to—”

“How did he bring that here?” asked Palancir.

Saavik arched her brow at the Betazoid. “I warned you he was resourceful.”

“Never mind how I got it here.” Cole slid the chip across the table to Palancir. “I’m giving it to you. No questions asked. As a show of good faith.”

His gift was received with incredulity. Ruxin snorted derisively. “Good faith?”

Palancir picked up the chip. “It does seem . . . unlikely.”

“Everything we know about the Breen’s mission to steal one of your jaunt ships is on that chip. Along with all the data we collected on their dimension-breaching technology, and intel on the new Romulan-made cloaking devices they’re using.”

Megh leaned forward to get a clear look at Cole. “Nothing of value is ever given freely. What are you hoping to obtain, Mister Cole?”

“Your trust. And your help. I was sent here with two missions. The first was to stop the Breen from acquiring your jaunt ship technology. The second was to open a direct line of communication between your organization and mine. Call it a back channel between our universes. Our goal is to safeguard the Federation at all costs. And unless we’re mistaken, your mission is to do the same for the Commonwealth. We both benefit by having each other’s back.”

The mood in the room turned cold and suspicious. Cole had known this might be a hard sell, but until that moment he hadn’t realized just how much resistance he would face from the puppetmasters who pulled the Commonwealth’s strings.

It was th’Sirris who broke the silence. “Why should events in your universe concern us?”

“They already do. The Breen are here, and they’re a threat. And they won’t be the last.”

The Andorian remained unconvinced. “And why should the events of our universe be of any consequence to yours?”

“Because if you people can’t keep your technology under wraps, your carelessness might cost trillions of lives in my universe—and destroy the Federation I’ve sworn to protect.”

Grim looks were volleyed around the table until Saavik abruptly halted the meeting. “We’ll take your advice under consideration, Mister Cole. But until we reach a decision, I fear the time has come for me to escort you back to your confinement on the Enterprise.”

*  *  *

Silence and suspicion defined Cole’s chaperoned return from Omega Prime. From the moment Saavik had ended his meeting with her peers, she had not spoken to him except to dole out curt directions: “This way.” “Turn left.” “Stay in front of me.” They had returned to Bajor via the subspace transporter and then had beamed back up to the Enterprise. The old Vulcan woman led him to his quarters and nodded at the female security officer guarding the door. With simple, quiet efficiency, the human woman unlocked the door to the guest suite.

Saavik ushered Cole back inside his gilded cage. “I will inform you when the board reaches a decision. Until then, make yourself comfortable.”

“Too kind.” He met her stare and extended his hand. She shook it, feigning politeness, but she was visibly uncomfortable with the tactile nature of the gesture. Cole stepped through the doorway, which Saavik closed and locked behind him as soon as he had cleared its threshold.

Sakonna, Webb, and Kitsom emerged from the private sleeping quarters situated off either side of the suite’s main room. The men wore hopeful expressions.

Cole let slip the slightest glimmer of self-satisfaction.

With the merest lift of an eyebrow, the Vulcan woman prompted him to elaborate.

“It went well.” He moved toward the middle of the main room, and the others met him there. Sakonna opened her clenched left hand to reveal a privacy module: the tiny device enveloped the four of them in a cone of silence augmented by spoofed sound waves. Anyone eavesdropping, either by ear or by device, would hear a sanitized version of their conversation, one devoted to the most mundane topics: dinner, sleep schedules, and a host of petty complaints about minor maladies and inconsequential inconveniences.

The four agents huddled. “Since you have that,” Cole said, “I presume you made it safely back aboard the Królik.”

“I did. All the gear we set aside is stowed in our private rooms.”

“Did you meet any resistance?”

“None.” Her eyes shifted toward the door. “The woman guarding our door is an open book to me now. We can make her do whatever we need of her.”

Cole nodded. “Outstanding.” He pried open the lids of his left eye and with his right index finger gingerly removed one of the high-tech contact lenses he had been wearing since before the team’s capture by the Breen. He passed the first lens from his fingertip to Sakonna’s, and then with gentle care he removed the second lens from his other eye and passed it to her in the same manner. “I got detailed scans of the entire route through their facility on the planet, and their headquarters facility. I’m pretty sure I also got a look at a few screens in the distance that had base schematics. Look those up and magnify them. They should help us locate the target.”

Webb activated a tiny encrypted-signal receiver; it resembled a stylus with a data port on one end. “I’m downloading the data from your transceivers now. Signals look good.”

The transceivers were tiny subdural implants, each half the size of a grain of rice. They were implanted behind Cole’s ears and had circuits that made them register on most scanning devices as benign nodules of fatty tissue. In fact, they were extremely sophisticated devices; one recorded with perfect fidelity every sound Cole heard. It could store several months of audio data. The other scanned and recorded each new genetic profile it detected.

A red progress light crept across the receiver’s side. When it turned green, Cole switched off the device. “Done.”

“Pull up Saavik’s voiceprint first, then get a transcript of her orders.” He extended the back of his hand toward Kitsom. “Are Saavik’s fingerprints legible?”

The serious-faced young man scanned Cole’s hand with a miniaturized tricorder. “Yes.”

“Webb, how long until Sakonna’s prosthetics are ready?”

He thought it over. “Five hours. I need time to set up the fabricator and mask its energy signature from the ship’s sensors. Once it’s ready, we can program a voice patch and configure a sensor-spoofing transceiver that’ll mask Sakonna’s genetic profile with Saavik’s.”

Kitsom nodded. “As long as you got a straight look into Saavik’s eyes, we can copy her retinal patterns.” He glanced at his tricorder’s display. “And we have all the prints for Saavik’s right hand. As long as no one asks Sakonna for a blood sample, she ought to be golden.”

Cole nodded. “From what I’ve seen, they all defer to Saavik, regardless of rank.”

Webb asked, “How ’bout snagging some of those Memory Omega stealth suits for us?”

“My new puppet will provide them,” Sakonna said. “She knows the location of the ship’s armory and has a high enough clearance code to gain access. When we’re ready to deploy, I’ll send her to retrieve three of their stealth suits. She’ll hand them over when she unlocks our door. Then we can all walk out together and not have to fear being accosted by the ship’s crew.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Cole said. “Let’s get this new intel analyzed on the double. Every second we shave off this op gets us one second closer to going home.”

Twenty-five

Drawn from his ready room by the whooping of the Red Alert siren, Captain Picard stepped onto the bridge of the Enterprise expecting to face a worst-case scenario. He was not disappointed.

K’Ehleyr met Picard in the middle of the bridge. “Long-range sensors have picked up three battle fleets converging on our position from separate vectors.”

“Whose fleets, Number One?”

She nodded toward the main viewscreen. “Tholia’s Third and Fourth fleets, bearing one-nine-seven. The Breen Confederacy’s Seventh Fleet on bearing three-five-three. And the Tzenkethi Coalition’s Gold Fleet, bearing one-five-five.” The lanky half Klingon frowned. “All are en route at maximum warp. They all have the same ETA, five hours and nine minutes.”

Picard frowned. “A coordinated assault.” He tried to make sense of it. “Why is the Taurus Pact taking such an aggressive stance? We’ve done nothing to provoke them.”

“Not directly,” K’Ehleyr said. “Not recently, anyway.”

Troi spoke up from behind them. “They’re capitalizing on our standoff with the Dominion. Apparently, the Taurus Pact believes hostilities between us are imminent.”

“They aren’t the only ones,” K’Ehleyr grumbled.

Ignoring his first officer’s cynicism, Picard asked Troi, “To what end?”

“If I had to guess? I’d say they hope to land forces on Bajor, and perhaps attempt to salvage the wreckage of our ships and the Jem’Hadar’s for new technologies.”

Confronted with such base motives, all Picard could do was scowl and clench his teeth. “Send an encrypted request for reinforcements.”

K’Ehleyr recoiled in mild surprise. “Really? We already have nearly half the fleet here.”

“I’m prepared to face a single hostile force that has a fivefold advantage in numbers,” Picard said. “But we can’t prevail against a four-front attack outnumbered twenty-five to one.”

“Aren’t you always telling me ‘pessimism is a misuse of imagination’?”

“You must have me confused with someone else.”

Troi interrupted, “We’re being hailed by the Dominion command ship.”

That can’t be good. Picard turned and faced forward. “On-screen.”

The image of the Dominion warship orbiting behind the Enterprise was replaced by the fearsome visage of Taran’atar. “We have detected three battle groups converging on this star system.”

“As have we,” Picard began, only to be cut off.

“They will not arrive in time to save your fleet.”

“I doubt they have any intention of doing so,” Picard said. “Those vessels belong to a political alliance known as the Taurus Pact. They are not our allies—nor are they yours.”

Taran’atar narrowed his eyes, as if doing so would enable him to pierce some imagined veil of lies. He sounded almost insulted. “The Jem’Hadar have no need of allies.”

Picard had no idea how to overcome the Jem’Hadar’s innate distrust. “You’re missing my point. The inbound attack groups have no wish to engage in battle. Their true aim is to push us closer to violence and then feast upon the scraps of whatever our two forces leave behind.”

“Then they act in vain. Because when our battle is done, we will leave no trace of you or your precious technology. You have one hour to hand over the fugitive Bashir. If you refuse, we will take him by force—and destroy you in the process.”

The transmission ended, terminated from the Jem’Hadar’s side. The image on the screen reverted to the threatening profile of the hulking Dominion battleship.

Already exhausted, Picard settled into his command chair with a heavy sigh.

So much for diplomacy.

*  *  *

The news was not unexpected, but it sank Bashir’s spirits all the same. “An hour?”

“Less than that now,” Picard said. He stood in front of Bashir and Sarina, who sat together on the sofa, their hands entwined. “We have just under forty-nine minutes until the Dominion makes this a contest of arms rather than one of ideas.”

Bashir absorbed that with a slow nod. “And the Taurus Pact?”

“Poised to make the most of our diplomatic failure. If this goes as badly as I fear, we could lose more than half the Commonwealth’s fleet—as well as Bajor.”

The notion of seeing another Bajor fall beneath the jackboot of an alien occupation made Bashir sick. “This has gotten out of hand.”

“I quite agree,” Picard said. “It feels as if the vultures are circling.” He had the demeanor of a man defeated. “This was to be a peace summit. A negotiation for trade and exploration.” He looked away, out a view port, at the stars. “All lost because neither side wants to compromise its principles. Theirs are too old, too entrenched. Ours are too new, too fragile.”

Sarina turned her pleading gaze toward the captain. “What if we found a way back to our universe? If we go away, the problem goes away, right?”

Picard shook his head. “It’s not so simple. At this point, there is almost no way you can return to your universe without our help. In which case, I, my crew, and the Commonwealth as a whole would be complicit in aiding your flight from the Dominion. Your disappearance now would provide just as much of a pretext for war as the crisis we already have.”

“He’s right,” Bashir said to Sarina. “Running away won’t solve this. If anything, it’ll make it worse.” He looked at Picard. “I think there’s only one solution to this problem.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Doctor.”

“No one has to ask. I should never have put you, or your crew, or your people in this predicament at all. I caused this. It’s my duty to resolve it.”

Sarina grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “Julian! You can’t be serious.”

Bashir let go of Sarina’s hand. “I can’t let two civilizations go to war when I have the power to prevent it. I won’t let billions die just to preserve the chance that I might be spared.” He stood and shook Picard’s hand. “Thank you, Captain, for everything you and your crew have done. I’m in your debt. But effective immediately, I formally withdraw my request for asylum, and I ask that you convey the following message to the Founder.” He swallowed hard and mustered his courage to say what needed to be said.

“Please tell her . . . I surrender.”

Twenty-six

The waiting was the worst part. Bashir knew it would take time for his message to wend its way through the appropriate channels, but as the minutes dragged past he was living in slow time.

One immediate consequence of his surrender was that he had been separated from Sarina, escorted out of the guest quarters by armed security personnel and locked in the Enterprise’s brig. Captain Picard had assured him the change was only a formality, a matter of protocol and not a judgment on the merits of the Dominion’s accusations. Bashir wanted to believe him, but it was difficult to hang on to hope in the gray isolation of solitary confinement.

The door to his private section of the brig slid open. He expected to see a phalanx of armed Jem’Hadar, and perhaps a Vorta, come to haul him away to a sham tribunal.

A single person entered and stood on the other side of his cell’s force field. Bashir stood and faced her. “Director Saavik, I presume?”

The old Vulcan confirmed his guess with a bow of her head. She eyed him like a biologist studying a lab specimen. “Captain Picard says you wish to surrender to the Dominion.”

Bashir nodded. “That’s right.”

“A noble decision, Doctor, but an unnecessary one.”

He was taken aback by her coldness. “I disagree. Countless lives are at stake.”

“Including your own. You will be safer with our protection than without it.”

“But at what cost? Never mind the price in lives. As a matter of principle—”

“You’re acting illogically, Doctor.” Her eyes followed him as he began to pace the short length of his cell. “As formidable as the Jem’Hadar fleet is, Memory Omega has the power to obliterate them—and the Dominion they serve. I won’t deny that the Commonwealth will suffer casualties, but our losses will be negligible compared with the Dominion’s. So why give yourself up to them when our strength supports your asylum?”

He stopped pacing and faced her. “Because this isn’t about strength. Justice isn’t decided by power. It isn’t born through the force of arms. It comes from people of conscience taking responsibility for their own lives—and accepting the consequences of their actions.” He saw in Saavik’s empty stare that she didn’t understand his point. “I don’t care who prevails in your fight with the Dominion, or with the Taurus Pact. I don’t care who suffers the most casualties. What I care about is the fact that anyone is being asked to suffer or die because of me.”

Saavik pondered his argument in silence for a few seconds. “We could facilitate your return to your universe and tell the Dominion you escaped.”

Bashir let slip a derisive huff. “You really think they’d believe that? I know I wouldn’t. But even if you could persuade them that I’d eluded you, they might still hold you accountable. The same carnage would unfold, regardless of my absence.” An unpleasant truth nagged at him. “I think we also need to consider that the Dominion might be in the right on this.”

A confused look. “How so?”

“Weyoun and the Founder have a sound basis for legal jurisdiction.”

“Then why did you request asylum?”

He found it hard to meet Saavik’s stern gaze, so he looked at his feet instead. “Because I was afraid. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s the truth.” With effort, he looked her in the eye. “Captain Picard encouraged me to ask for asylum, and I reacted out of fear.”

“Fear of what, precisely?”

“That I won’t receive a fair trial at the hands of the Dominion. That I’ll be standing accused in a culture that still employs the death penalty. That they might not consider my plea of self-preservation a legitimate defense.”

She frowned. “Given the circumstances, those are reasonable concerns.”

“Maybe. But they’re not enough to justify letting millions, or possibly billions, of sentient beings die just so I can walk away.” He sighed and shook his head. “I’d rather stand alone before a court of harsh justice than live with knowing I’d allowed so many to suffer and perish because I lacked the courage to account for my own actions.”

Saavik nodded slowly. “Thank you for your honesty, Doctor. It seems to be an increasingly rare commodity in these dark times.”

“You’re wel—” His answer caught in his throat as he watched Saavik shimmer and liquefy. The craggy lines and weathered details of her face melted away, and her dark gray robes fused with her body, until she was a radiant form of golden fluid. It was a phenomenon Bashir had witnessed many times before: the transmogrification of a Changeling. When the transmutation was complete, he found himself facing the Founder.

She turned toward a small panel mounted on the bulkhead beside her. “Come in, please.”

The door behind her opened. Captain Picard entered, followed by the real Saavik, Weyoun, and Taran’atar. It gave Bashir a jolt of déjà vu to see the Jem’Hadar again after all these years and to realize this was not the being he had known on Deep Space 9 but an even older and more experienced creature, one tempered by a very different life in this universe.

The Founder looked at Saavik and Picard. “I am satisfied with the sincerity of Doctor Bashir’s answers. Are you satisfied, as well?”

Picard and Saavik gave nods of concurrence. The captain regarded Bashir with a bittersweet countenance. “I have no doubt of Doctor Bashir’s honorable intentions.”

“Nor do I,” Saavik added.

The Founder looked at Bashir. “Doctor, do you still wish to surrender to our custody?”

“I do.”

Picard turned off the force field. Taran’atar handed Weyoun a pair of magnetic manacles. Bashir stepped forward and offered his outstretched hands. The Vorta clamped the manacles around Bashir’s wrists. The metal rings closed with a low clack. They were cold against his flesh. “Doctor Bashir,” Weyoun said, “I arrest you for the killing of the Founder known as Odo.” He faced Taran’atar. “Escort Doctor Bashir back to our command ship.”

Taran’atar seized Bashir by his shoulder. The Jem’Hadar’s grip was tight enough that Bashir knew it would leave a bruise.

As Bashir was led out of the brig, Picard whispered to him in passing, “Bon chance.”

In the corridor, a trio of Jem’Hadar soldiers fell into step around Bashir, grim escorts for what he expected to be the last journey of his life. Following them to his fate, he felt his fear fall away, along with his hope. All that remained was the cold comfort of knowing he had done what he knew to be right. If this sacrifice was to be his last measure of devotion to the Hippocratic Oath, it was a burden he was proud to accept.

I’ve made my mistakes. Committed my sins of action and omission. But whatever else history might tell of me . . . at least now it can say I deserved to be called a doctor.

*  *  *

There was barely time for Bashir to glimpse the stark, empty passageway on the other side of the doorway as the Jem’Hadar soldiers pushed him into it. As soon as he had cleared its threshold, the door behind him snapped shut with a hiss and bang, plunging the narrow passage into darkness. The only light was a crimson glow cast upon the door at the far end. His instructions from Taran’atar had been simple and clear: “Walk to the far door and, when it opens, step through it to the other side.”

His footsteps echoed in the pitch-black confines. He reached the far door and stood before it, wondering how long it would take to open. No one had told him what to expect on the other side. He didn’t dare to imagine it for himself.

The door opened.

A narrow walkway stretched away in front of Bashir and led to a small disk-shaped platform suspended in a starless sea of black. The edges of the path were demarcated by pale yellow lines that shone with the soft glow of fluorescent chemicals. The Founder’s voice resounded in the yawning emptiness that surrounded the widow’s walk. “Enter, Julian Bashir.”

He crossed the narrow bridge to the circular platform. When he turned to look back, he no longer saw the door through which he had entered—nor any sign of the walkway. He was alone on a tiny island of firmament in the void.

Again, the Founder’s voice filled the formless darkness. “State your full name.”

“Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir.”

“Do you know the crimes of which you stand accused before this tribunal?”

He had come willingly, but that didn’t mean he had to make this easy for them. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“You are accused of causing the wrongful death of the Founder known as Odo. Before we review the evidence, do you wish to confess to your crimes?”

“No, I do not.”

“Very well. Weyoun, please present the prosecution’s opening statement.”

A dim light came to life somewhere high above Bashir, on his right. The Vorta sycophant Weyoun stood upon a small, low-walled balcony. He was lit from below, giving his features a sinister cast, and his voice was amplified to the point where its sonic force hurt Bashir’s teeth.

“Fifteen years and twenty-two days ago—as measured in the standard calendar of the native culture of the accused—Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir was a guest aboard the Klingon-Cardassian ore refinery Terok—”

“Guest? I was a prisoner!”

“Silence!” bellowed the Founder. “Continue with the charges, Weyoun.”

The Vorta collected himself and picked up from midsentence. “. . . the Klingon-Cardassian ore refinery Terok Nor. During his sojourn on the station, he was employed—”

“Enslaved,” Bashir muttered.

“—as an ore processor’s assistant. During an emergency evacuation of the refinery level, Doctor Bashir stole a sidearm from one of the station’s Bajoran security personnel and used it to maliciously slay the Founder Odo.” He bowed his head. “With your permission, Founder, I shall now present evidence, in the form of firsthand witness testimony and an archived security recording of the killing.”

“Proceed.”

“My first witness is a fellow worker who was there during the evacuation.” Weyoun looked up. Bashir followed the Vorta’s eye line to a higher balcony that lit up to showcase a middle-aged Trill man. “Please state your full name, sir.”

“Vallo Lorom.”

“Mister Lorom, were you serving in the same section of the refinery as Doctor Bashir on the day and at the time the emergency evacuation occurred?”

The Trill looked around, his mien wary and fearful. “I was.”

“Did you see the accused, Doctor Julian Bashir, there at that time?”

“I did.”

“And did you witness his actions during the evacuation?”

A reluctant nod. His verbal answer was inaudible.

Weyoun snapped, “Please speak up, Mister Lorom. For the record.”

Lorom seemed to resent being barked at. “Yes. I saw him during the evacuation.”

“Did he arm himself at any point?”

“Yes. He took a disruptor from one of the guards.”

That answer brightened Weyoun’s mood. “Did you see Doctor Bashir use that disruptor during the evacuation?”

“Yes. He shot Odo.”

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that please? A bit louder?”

The witness raised his voice and stared daggers at Weyoun. “He shot Odo.”

“Thank you, Mister Lorom.”

Weyoun’s key light dimmed, and another brightened, opposite him. Bashir’s eyes adjusted to discern the fine gradations of shadow that surrounded him. He began to see that he was in a cylindrical chamber a few dozen meters in diameter and several dozen meters tall. When the light opposite Weyoun achieved full brightness, Bashir saw a female Vorta standing on a balcony. The Founder’s voice announced, “Eris shall stand in defense of the accused.”

“Thank you, Founder.” Eris looked up at the witness. “Mister Lorom, how did you come to be employed on the ore-processing level of Terok Nor?”

“I was arrested on suspicion of terrorist action against the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance.”

“Would you say your employment in the refinery was voluntary or coerced?”

Lorom seethed. “I was led to work every morning at gunpoint, and taken back to my cell each night the same way. You can call that coerced, if you like. I call it slavery.”

Weyoun cut in, “Objection! Relevance?”

“All will be revealed in time,” Eris said. “But I’m prepared to move on.” She looked back at the witness. “Mister Lorom. You say that you saw Doctor Bashir kill Overseer Odo. When the incident occurred, where were you, exactly?”

“He was in front of me on the way to the exit. An arm’s length away, if that far. If I hadn’t ducked, he might have shot me.”

“So you were facing Doctor Bashir, and you had an unobstructed view of him?”

“That’s right.”

“And at the time Doctor Bashir fired the shot that killed Odo, were you facing Odo?”

“No, he was behind me.”

“Thank you, Mister Lorom.” Eris looked up into the darkness. “Nothing further.”

The light shining up at Lorom went dark, stealing him from sight. Eris’s light dimmed, cloaking her in shadows as Weyoun’s light returned to full strength.

Weyoun pivoted toward a lower balcony and a new witness, an athletic Bajoran man. Unlike the first witness, this one had a proud and wrathful quality to his bearing. More alarming to Bashir, he knew this man’s counterpart in his own universe, but until now he hadn’t realized this was one of the souls he had encountered during his previous visit to this universe.

The Vorta smiled at the witness. “Please state your name.”

“Major Cenn Desca.”

“Major Cenn, were you present when Overseer Odo was killed?”

“I was.” Simple words, but Cenn had infused them with great anger.

“In your own words, please tell us what happened that day.”

Cenn stole a hateful look at Bashir, then directed his answer to Weyoun. “I was a junior deputy with the Bajoran security force on Terok Nor. Odo was my supervisor. On the day he was killed, I was standing guard on the ore-processing level. I saw Odo talking with one of the workers”—he pointed at Bashir—“that man, Julian Bashir. Then there was an explosion and an alarm. Odo said it was a thorium leak. He ordered us to open the security doors and evacuate the level. I was helping workers toward the exit when someone hit me—first in the gut, then on the back, just below my neck. By the time I knew what had happened, Bashir had taken my sidearm from its holster. He moved toward the exit with the other prisoners. Just before he reached the exit, he stopped, aimed, and fired at Odo. That one shot destroyed Odo. He just . . . exploded. There was nothing any of us could do to help him.”

Weyoun absorbed the testimony with a sympathetic expression. “Thank you, Major.” He shot an insincere smile at Eris. “Your witness.” His light faded as hers came up.

Eris squinted at Cenn. “Major, did you pursue Bashir as he moved toward the exit?”

“I tried, but he warned me off by waving my disruptor at me.”

“So you kept your distance?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Did you at any point turn your back on him?”

“While he was holding a deadly weapon? Of course not.”

“So at the moment when Doctor Bashir aimed and fired his weapon, your back was to Overseer Odo—wasn’t it?”

Cenn blinked as if he had been struck. He was slow to answer. “I . . . yes. It was.”

“Nothing further,” Eris said.

Her balcony light dimmed again, returning the illumination and focus to Weyoun. He folded his hands in front of him. “With your indulgence, Founder, I should like to enter into evidence a composite holographic re-creation of the death of Odo, compiled from numerous recordings made by Terok Nor’s own security system and recovered from the Central Data Archive on Bajor. The master archivist herself has vouched for the accuracy of this record.”

“You may proceed.”

Suspended in the darkness before Bashir was a scene from his memory, resurrected in three dimensions and living color. He could almost smell the acrid tang of toxic fumes, feel the heat of the smelting furnaces and the smoke that had stung his eyes, and taste the bitter metallic dust that had coated every surface inside Terok Nor’s grimy refinery level. Spectres in filthy rags slouched from one backbreaking bit of tedium to the next. The hiss of old hydraulics and the steady rumbling of heavy machinery filled his ears.

In the forefront of this shadowy tableau, Bashir’s past came to life. He saw the image of his younger self, clean-shaven but smeared with filth, sitting hunched and facedown over an ore bin. Overseer Odo kicked the bone-weary, half-conscious younger Bashir in the back, a rude awakening. The Changeling’s words were slow and heavy with contempt. “You’re not accustomed to this workload, are you, Doctor? You have much to learn. It’s a shame this is going to be your last night on the job.”

A blast lit up the smoky darkness behind Odo, who tapped his combadge. “Engineering! We have a thorium leak down here!” He pointed toward the exits. “Release the security locks!”

Workers fled toward the exit, and Bashir’s younger self seized the opportunity to retreat with them, making a run for cover and for freedom. He struck a few fast surprise blows to a Bajoran guard who blocked his path and plucked the disruptor from the man’s hip holster. Weapon in hand, the bruised and beaten-down physician backpedaled toward the exit.

Odo pivoted and saw the doctor on the verge of escape. Wide-eyed, the Changeling aimed his already drawn sidearm at Bashir, who fired off a reflexive snap shot that struck Odo in the chest—and blasted him to pieces.

The playback froze, suspending Odo’s explosively ejected viscera in midseparation.

Weyoun spread his arms, like an old-time preacher delivering a sermon. “Could it be any clearer, Founder? A cowardly sneak attack upon a guard, and a single lethal shot delivered so expertly that its victim never had the chance to respond.”

Indignation creased Eris’s fair brow. “Did we just watch the same security vid? Because if we did, Weyoun, I think you must have had your eyes closed. Reset to time reference thirty-four thirteen point two, please.” The hologram reverted to an earlier moment in the recording. Eris crossed her arms. “Pay close attention, please. Resume playback.”

Odo sneered at young Bashir. “It’s a shame this is going to be your last night on the job.”

“Freeze playback,” Eris snapped. “Here we have a clear threat by Odo. There is nothing in the record to indicate that Bashir was being considered for release from custody. The most reasonable inference from Odo’s statement is that he intended to kill Bashir imminently.” She nodded at the hologram. “Reset to time reference thirty-four forty-seven point five.”

Younger Bashir was crouched and backing toward the exit with his stolen disruptor in hand. On the other side of the refinery level, Odo pivoted and saw him—and aimed his own weapon at Bashir.

“Freeze,” Eris said. “Note the relative positions of Odo, Doctor Bashir, Mister Lorom, and Deputy Cenn. Odo has aimed his weapon at Bashir but appears to have been momentarily blinded by smoke. Lorom and Cenn are both facing Bashir and have their backs to Odo. Neither can see that Odo has already trained his deadly armament upon Doctor Bashir. Note also that the doctor’s weapon is not aimed at anyone in particular.” She shot a meaningful look at Weyoun. “Odo was the first to act with deadly intention, after having threatened Bashir’s life. I contend that Doctor Bashir acted justifiably, in self-defense.”

No one spoke for a handful of seconds that felt to Bashir like a lifetime.

Then the Founder rendered her verdict.

“The evidence supports the defense’s argument that Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir acted in self-defense. Consequently, this court finds him not guilty of criminal culpability in the death of Odo. Doctor Bashir . . . you are free to go.”

Twenty-seven

Even after hearing the verdict, Bashir found it difficult to believe. He had spent so long convincing himself that he would find no justice under the auspices of the Dominion that it struck him as nothing short of surreal now that he finally had.

The catwalk he had crossed to the circular platform reappeared, as did the door at its far end. He crossed the narrow bridge, and the door slid aside as he drew near. The cramped passageway on the other side now was brightly lit, and the door at the other end also was open. He emerged into a regular corridor inside the Dominion command ship and found Taran’atar waiting for him. The Jem’Hadar removed Bashir’s manacles. “Follow me.”

Bashir trailed him down the corridor to a nearby turbolift. As soon as they both were inside, the doors closed and the lift hurtled into motion, suggesting that their destination had been decided in advance. Half a minute later the doors opened, and Taran’atar led Bashir out of the lift, down another long corridor, and finally to a door that stood open. “In here.”

He stepped past the Jem’Hadar and through the doorway to find an empty compartment. Standing in the center of the antiseptically bare space was the Founder. A faint smile gave a small measure of humanity to her unnaturally smooth face. She looked over Bashir’s shoulder at the Jem’Hadar, her demeanor one of absolute calm. “Leave us.”

Taran’atar withdrew. The door closed, leaving Bashir and the Founder to speak in privacy. She folded her hands in front of her waist. “You seemed surprised to be acquitted. Did you doubt your own innocence?”

“Not at all. I doubted it would matter.”

His criticism amused her. “You know nothing of us, but you hold us in low esteem.”

“I’ve had a great many unpleasant dealings with your counterparts in my universe.”

“Some would have said the same about your alter ego in this one. When we first investigated Odo’s death, we mistakenly attributed your actions to this universe’s Bashir. He was despicable, simple, and violent.” She cocked her head and regarded Bashir with deep curiosity. “I’ve been pleased to learn just how little you and he have in common.”

He held up a hand. “Wait. What evidence led you to investigate him?”

“The archived security recordings.”

His mind reeled, and his temper flared. “You’d seen it before?”

“Naturally.”

“So you knew all along that I’d acted in self-defense.”

“That was our impression.”

His hands curled into fists. “Then what was the point of all this? Why make me take part in this bloody sideshow attraction if you already knew the truth?”

“To my people, the law is not some mere code. It is a way of life. Order must be preserved. So we investigate and adjudicate all offenses, even when we think the verdict will be benign, and we follow our protocols without fear or favor. No one is above the law in the Dominion, not even a Founder. Because our laws are fair, and our enforcement uniform, we are able to keep the peace among all the worlds and peoples who live beneath our banner.”

Bashir began to understand. To an outsider, the Dominion in the alternate universe might seem as severe in its customs and manners as the one he knew at home, but there was a crucial difference between the two entities. “Forgive me,” he said. “I should have known better than to judge you based on your counterpart. Your similarities are outweighed by your differences.”

“I presume the Dominion you knew lacked our reverence for the law.”

He let slip a short, mirthless chortle. “That would be an understatement. They shared your commitment to order and discipline, but their means of preserving those qualities were often tyrannical and quite brutal. What led them into conflict with my people was the fact that what they desired more than anything was control—over their own people, and over others.”

The Founder’s smooth forehead betrayed a crease of concern, and the corners of her mouth turned downward in disapproval. “They sound like a culture driven by fear.”

“Very much so. Their early interactions with ‘solids’ went badly. They were met with fear and distrust. So they retaliated in kind. And it defined them from that moment forward.”

“How tragic,” the Founder said. “My people were also met with suspicion when we first encountered solids. Some of them tried to kill us. But we never desired retribution or control. Our only interest—then and now—was justice, coupled with order and tempered with reason.”

Bashir smiled. “Actually, that sounds a lot like the Odo I know back home.”

“Is he still alive in your universe?”

“As far as I know. After the war against our Dominion, he returned to the Great Link to shape a new order based on peace and justice. As of last year, he was leading the Dominion.”

“Tell me about him. What kind of a person is he?”

“He’s the most fair-minded being I’ve ever met, and the most passionate defender of the law I’ve ever known. And he sees all sentient beings as equals.” Hearing his own words made Bashir realize how much he had missed Odo during his prolonged absence. “He’s a great man.”

The Founder’s mood took a wistful turn. “One almost has to wonder whether our universes might have traded Odos at some point.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Bashir said without irony. “Not one bit.”

Twenty-eight

No matter how many times Sakonna put on another person’s face, she never got used to seeing a stranger’s reflection looking back at her.

She walked the corridors of the jaunt ship Enterprise. In nearly every section, an interactive companel dominated one bulkhead. Between the panels’ ever-changing details, she caught fleeting glimpses of herself in their pristine black surfaces. Her disguise was impeccable. Her head and her hands were encased in full prosthetics, and Webb had programmed one of the ship’s replicators to produce a perfect duplicate of the attire the real Saavik had worn that day. Fitted to her as a second skin, her stolen visage mirrored even her most subtle microexpressions.

A few Enterprise personnel passed her. Enlisted crew and noncoms avoided eye contact with her. The one officer who strolled by, a young male Tellarite with a honey-colored mane, managed nothing more than a low utterance of “Director” before quickening his pace to get away. To an introvert like Sakonna, it was a welcome state of affairs.

Once again, proof that rank has its privileges.

By design, there was no evidence of her three companions, but she had no doubt they were close behind her. Sakonna had found it easier than she had expected to telepathically compel security officer Burton to procure the stealth suits for her friends. Now, thanks to the human woman’s unwitting assistance, Webb, Kitsom, and Cole had the advantage of being invisible while they followed Sakonna through the jaunt ship’s passageways en route to the first stop on their perilous and improbable journey: the ship’s subspace transporter.

Sakonna had found the restricted compartment while using one of the ship’s companels to find the locations of the nearest five transporters, in case she or the others were forced to alter their route for any reason. Although Saavik had beamed down to the planet and used a subspace transporter on the surface for the trip to Omega Prime, finding the same technology aboard the jaunt ship had made it possible for Sakonna and her teammates to cut one step off their itinerary.

The subspace transporter compartment was slightly farther away than the nearest regular transporter room, but Cole had assured Sakonna and the others that it would be worth it to make the most of this shortcut. Now that Sakonna was approaching the door, she saw the logic in her superior’s decision. Despite a minor increase in the risk of their absence being detected while they were still aboard the Enterprise, they now would be able to head straight to their target—and from there they could proceed home without delay.

Eager to stave off unwelcome inquiries, she put on a stern mien as the door opened ahead of her. She paused in the doorway to make sure her team had time to follow her through before the portal closed—its sensors would be unable to detect them while they were hidden in the full-body stealth suits, and she couldn’t risk them being stranded on the other side.

While she stood in the doorway, the half dozen white-jacketed technicians who worked in the vast compartment looked up at her with alarm and deference. One of them, a spry sixtyish Trill woman with silver hair and beige spots on her pale skin, stepped away from the master console to greet her. “Director. We weren’t expecting you.”

A light tap on Sakonna’s lower back told her that her team was ready to follow her inside. She stepped past the threshold and moved to her left, on a direct line toward the Trill woman. “I need to return to Omega Prime at once.”

“Omega Prime?” The Trill traded worried looks with her colleagues. “That’ll take a lot of power. The relay station on Bajor would be better suited to—”

“Time is a factor. I need to go now. Please set the coordinates.” Without waiting for the Trill to demur, Sakonna played her part as the one in charge and climbed the short steps onto the central dais. She stood proudly while the techs in their white coats raced to set the coordinates and siphon the requisite power from the ship.

One of them, an orange-haired young human, whispered something to the Bajoran woman on his right; she, in turn, leaned and whispered to the Trill woman in charge. Eyes wide, the older woman looked up at the visitor she thought was Saavik. “Director . . . can you confirm your authorization code, please?”

Sakonna had known it might not be so easy to escape the ship by impersonating such a well-known individual. Regardless, she remained calm as she asked, “Are the coordinates set?”

“Yes, but we’d like to confirm your command code, please.”

“Is there a problem?”

Furtive glances and worried frowns spread among the technicians. The Trill began to reach toward the corner of her master control console. Then she froze and her eyes opened wide.

Webb’s voice issued as if from thin air. “Everyone, step away from your consoles.” He deactivated the stealth function of his body suit and shimmered back into view—standing behind the Trill woman and holding a phaser to the back of her head. “Back away from your panels or she dies.” The technicians were slow to obey, so Webb shouted, “Now! Move it!” He put a hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “You too. Let’s back up, nice and slow.”

As she was guided away from the console, the Trill woman shot a frightened look at Sakonna. “Director . . . don’t move . . .”

Sakonna cocked her head at the Trill. “Why? Are you trying to warn me there are two persons standing on the dais with me?”

Kitsom and Cole switched off their stealth circuits and rippled back into the visible spectrum. Both men had their phasers drawn. Cole nodded at Webb. “Good work.”

Cole fired and stunned two of the technicians. Kitsom snapped off three perfect shots and felled the rest of the Trill woman’s team. Webb finished the job by knocking the Trill unconscious with a single stunning blast to her back.

“All right,” Cole said. “So far, so good. Webb, are you sure you can operate that thing?”

“No problem. It’s all set for you. Once it recharges, I’ll set it to send me home. Are you sure you guys can get back on your own?”

Cole dismissed the question with a wave. “Child’s play. See you at the debriefing.” He and Kitsom reactivated their suits and disappeared like mirages swallowed by the fall of night. Then Cole said from his vantage unseen, “Energize.”

*  *  *

Cole watched Webb initiate the subspace transport sequence. A crushing sensation took hold of him. His world turned to white energy and a bright ringing like tinnitus—and then he, Sakonna, and Kitsom materialized inside the much larger subspace transporter room of Omega Prime.

He recognized the faces looking up at Sakonna. They were the same technicians who had been on duty when he had visited here hours earlier with Saavik. He saw by their various reactions of surprise that they had expected three persons to materialize on their dais, not just the one they now saw. Because nothing good would come of prolonging their confusion or letting them interrogate Sakonna, Cole made an executive decision to resolve the problem directly.

He fired his weapon while still in stealth mode. Kitsom did the same half a second later. Phaser pulses flashed in the dim light, and the screeching of the weapons filled the cavernous space with wild echoes. When the chaos ceased, the technicians all lay stunned on the floor.

“Let’s go,” Cole said.

Sakonna led them out of the subspace transporter facility and into the industrial-style environs of Omega Prime. Cole had to trust the Vulcan woman’s memory to guide them to their target. Though Cole had not been able to gain direct access to the secure lab during his earlier visit, one of the command screens recorded by his ocular implant had revealed a handful of level plans for the Omega Prime facility—and one of those had been marked in a way that led him to believe the prize they sought was there.

While he and Kitsom focused on moving silently, Sakonna strode with pride. The slight upward tilt of her chin and the way she shifted her gaze while she walked were nearly perfect imitations of the real Saavik’s mannerisms, despite the fact that Sakonna had seen the other Vulcan woman only a couple of times in brief passing. Her evocation of the Memory Omega leader was truly uncanny. Even as she passed other denizens of the hidden redoubt, people whom Cole expected knew the real Saavik quite well, no one so much as looked askance at her. There were no double takes or curious glances. Just polite nods and curt greetings.

They filed into a turbolift. Kitsom and Cole each tapped Sakonna’s back to confirm they were inside. She instructed the computer without missing a beat, “Observation lab.”

A low hum filled the circular lift pod. It hurtled with hardly any sensation of acceleration or deceleration, and in a matter of seconds it arrived at its destination. The doors parted, and Sakonna stepped into a security checkpoint area. The walls, floors, and ceiling all were solid plates of metal, fused at their corners. Opposite the turbolift was a locked blast door. The antechamber had no visible sensors or countermeasures, but Cole knew better than to think it was just an empty space. It was a kill box. One that Cole and his team had no choice but to enter. Whether any of them ever left it alive was now up to Sakonna.

Kitsom pressed the manual control to hold the lift pod’s doors open while the Vulcan crossed the room, emulating every nuance of Saavik’s gait. No doubt, hidden biometric scanners were verifying her retinal patterns, body mass distribution, and genetic profile. All that remained to be verified were Saavik’s voiceprint and her command authorization code. The former, Sakonna had. The latter, unfortunately, had defied discovery by her and Cole.

Consequently, they had decided that a workaround was in order.

Sakonna flexed her hand back from her wrist, triggering the drop of a small spherical device that had been hidden up her sleeve. She caught it and closed her hand around it. Her thumb pressed a pad on its surface. Then she dropped the sphere ahead of her.

It rolled across the floor and struck the far door.

Cole shut his eyes a fraction of a second before the flash. The light faded, leaving perfect darkness. “Sakonna, light the flare.”

A rustling of fabric told him Sakonna was retrieving the emergency flare she had hidden inside her disguise. Next came a sharp crack as she activated it with a quick bend that broke its interior seals and mixed its binary chemicals into a fluorescent compound.

Pale chartreuse light filled the anteroom and spilled onto Kitsom and Cole. Their stealth suits had stopped working, leaving them visible. Kitsom asked Cole, “Did it work?”

“Let’s go find out.”

He and Kitsom edged out of the lift pod into the checkpoint. No alarms sounded. No antipersonnel systems activated. For once, a piece of technology from the organization’s research-and-development group had functioned exactly as had been promised. The sphere was based upon the Breen’s energy-dampening technology. Stripped of the need to penetrate the high-energy barrier of a starship’s shields, the device could cripple most unshielded systems that relied on artificial power. The drawback, of course, was that it had rendered their stealth suits useless, along with their phasers.

Fortunately, chemical reactions were unaffected by the Breen energy dampener weapon. A binary explosive compound, concealed as flat strips inside Sakonna’s disguise, was going to open the last set of doors barring Cole from the prize for which the organization had sent him across the dimensional barrier. He nodded at the Vulcan. “Set it up.”

Sakonna extricated the strips of explosive from her costume. Kitsom helped her attach them to the door, and then he armed a primitive molecular fuse. He attached it to the demolition strips. He motioned Cole and Sakonna back toward the lift pod. “Fire in the hole!”

The trio scrambled back inside the pod and pushed themselves to the sides, away from the stuck-open doorway. Several seconds later an ear-splitting blast shook the room. Smoke and dust billowed into the lift pod.

Cole swatted it away as he peeked out. The doors had buckled into the next chamber, folded aside like the petals of a flower in bloom. “It’s open. Let’s move.”

They crossed the anteroom and entered the small octagonal chamber beyond the demolished doors. There were no details, only shadows, until Sakonna edged forward and pushed past Cole with the flare held in front of her.

The room was empty.

Kitsom stumbled past Cole and pivoted full circle in the middle of the room. “What the hell? Where is it?”

Cole looked at Sakonna. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

Her voice had reverted to normal, now that the energy dampener had disabled her voiceprint synthesizer. “I’m sure this is the chamber we saw on the floor plans.”

Before Cole could speculate further as to what had gone awry, he heard the voice of the real Saavik from overhead. “This is the right chamber, Mister Cole. It’s exactly the one we’d intended you to find. I’m quite pleased you did not disappoint us.”

Kitsom, Sakonna, and Cole looked up as a viridescent glow brightened above them. The octagonal chamber had a balcony level, like an operating theater. The emerald hue of chemical lights, coupled with their odd upward angle, turned sinister all the faces that looked down upon them. More than a dozen sharpshooters of various species were crouched along the perimeter, aiming rifles at Cole and his partners. He knew at a glance they were projectile weapons that would be unaffected by the energy dampener.

Gathered above the blasted-in doors was a group that consisted of Saavik, Sarina Douglas, Julian Bashir, and Webb—who had been restrained with his hands behind his back and was escorted by a fearsome-looking pair of masculine Andorian guards. Saavik said to her doppelgänger, “You can remove your disguise now, Miss Sakonna.”

Sakonna tore the prosthetic mask from her head and threw it aside.

Flushed with anger and embarrassment, Cole cursed himself in silence. He had blundered into a trap. “This isn’t the real observation lab, is it?”

“It’s not even the real Omega Prime,” Saavik said.

The jig was up, and Cole was in no mood for games. “I guess you’ll want to know how we know about your quantum window technology.”

Saavik remained cool and detached. “We already know. Your organization—which I believe some refer to as Section Thirty-one—intercepted one of our field agents who was on a reconnaissance mission to your universe. You tortured him until he revealed our existence and told you about our ability to spy on other universes.”

“Actually, he told us you used it to steal technology from other universes. Like your precious jaunt drives, for instance. We just thought it was time you shared the wealth.”

“Then you thought wrong.” She addressed her troops: “Arrest them.”

A dozen more guards entered the room from behind Cole and his team. In less than a minute, he and Kitsom were stripped of their stealth suits. Sakonna’s costume was torn away, and all three of them were left in their undergarments and bare feet. The Memory Omega personnel finished their work by using high-tech tools to extract the transceivers from behind Cole’s ears, and they confiscated every last bit of technology from Kitsom and Sakonna.

The security officer in charge looked up at Saavik. “They’re ready.”

“Take them away.”

Another officer seized Cole by his arm, but he resisted being hauled off long enough to aim a murderous stare at Sarina Douglas. “You’re traitors, you and your boyfriend. Don’t think you’ll get away with this. I promise, the organization will find out what you did here.”

She returned his hatred with equal venom. “Probably. But not from you.”

He glared at Bashir. “You picked the wrong side, Doctor. You’re just too blind to see it.”

The physician regarded Cole with cold contempt. “Goodbye, Cole.”

Several pairs of strong hands overpowered Cole and his colleagues and hauled them away. He had no idea what fate Memory Omega had prepared for them, but if any of the reports he had read about the secret army created by the late Emperor Spock had been true, he was certain no one from his own universe would see him, Sakonna, Webb, or Kitsom ever again.

Twenty-nine

“Something’s happening.” Those two words over the comm from Crin made Thot Trom sprint from his quarters to the command deck of the Tajny. Trapped in the turbolift, he felt like a bomb on the verge of detonation. When the doors opened, he exploded through them, firing off an order to his first officer as he moved toward the center seat. “Crin, report!”

“The standoff is over.” He tapped his console and magnified the image on the forward viewscreen. Jem’Hadar vessels were breaking formation, coming about, and navigating into the open blue maw of the Bajoran wormhole. “The Dominion fleet is heading back to the Gamma Quadrant, and the Commonwealth ships are jumping away.”

It seemed too good to be true. Trom met the news with suspicion. “Jumping to where?”

“Unknown. But at least they’re gone. Apart from the two in orbit, there are five jaunt ships left, and they’re all powering up their wormhole drives.”

Trom saw a moment of opportunity taking shape. “Karn, how long until the Dominion reinforcements are clear of the wormhole?”

The tactical officer checked his console. “At their current rate of progress, nine minutes. That includes the original Dominion fleet as well. They’re all powering up for departure.”

“Nine minutes. Very well. That’s when we’ll strike.” Trom opened a channel to the engineering deck. “Command to engineering. Solt, have you made any headway on your calculations for breaching the dimensional barrier with one of the jaunt drives?”

“Some. I’m having trouble locking down a few of the variables.”

“What about the dimensional shifters? Are they ready?”

“Working prototypes are operational on platforms one through four,” Solt said. “We’ll have the rest ready in about twenty minutes.”

“You’ve got eight. Put everyone you can on getting those folded-space transporters operational, because we need to attack the moment our path to the wormhole is open. Command out.” He closed the intraship channel and resumed his conversation with Crin. “Pull everything out of the armory. Weapons, demolitions, shroud suits, all of it. I want all our people armed and ready to join the assault on the jaunt ship, including us and the rest of the command crew.”

Crin hesitated before he replied. “All of us, sir? Who’ll be left to crew the Tajny?”

“We’re committing all our resources, Crin. This ship has served us well, but we’ll need to sacrifice it if we’re to have a chance at victory.” He directed the first officer’s attention toward the viewscreen. “All the intel we acquired was from the ShiKahr, so that’s the ship we’re going to take. But I can’t let the Enterprise interfere the way it did last time. Once we’ve beamed aboard the ShiKahr, the Tajny’s role will be to cripple the Enterprise at all costs.”

“What about the Dominion command ship?”

Trom smiled behind his helmet. “It’s not their fight. They won’t interfere.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I’m sure enough. Start distributing the armory surplus. And tell the engineers to take all the tools they can carry. We might need them once we’re on the ShiKahr.”

Crin nodded. Then he asked Trom, “What of the jaunt ship’s crew? It took several minutes to subdue them last time—even before the Enterprise’s crew interfered.”

“No prisoners.” It was a ruthless policy, but Trom knew he had no choice. “Before we go aboard the ShiKahr, make sure that our people know we’ll be shooting to kill.”

Thirty

Each time Bashir thought he had known what was happening in this off-kilter twin reality of the one he knew, something had shattered his expectations. In the span of a single day he had been captured, liberated, accused, granted asylum, surrendered, put on trial, acquitted, and then invited to bear witness to the entrapment of those who had brought him here. Now, as a pair of human security officers escorted him and Sarina to a guest suite on the Enterprise, he almost dreaded to learn what awaited him on the other side of the door.

The portal slid open, and he and Sarina stepped through the doorway. Seated on a sofa in the suite’s main room was Saavik, who stood to greet her two guests. “Welcome.” With a slow sweep of her arm, she motioned them toward the sofa opposite hers. “Please. Sit down.”

“Thank you.” Bashir and Sarina crossed the room and settled onto the sofa.

As they relaxed, Saavik sat down across from them. “Can I offer you anything?”

Sarina made no effort to conceal her defensiveness. “How about the truth?”

“About what?” The Vulcan almost let slip a faint smirk. “The truth is like the multiverse. It contains endless possibilities, many of which depend entirely upon one’s point of view.”

“Let’s start with why Julian and I are still here, and the rest of our team isn’t.” It was a very direct inquiry—perhaps more confrontational than what Bashir would have chosen, but he suspected Sarina’s methods might prove better suited than his to getting results in this instance.

Saavik steepled her fingers. She kept her eyes locked on Sarina’s, as if the two women were engaged in a silent battle of wills. “I think we all know that you and Doctor Bashir were part of their team in name only. They never told you their true objective, did they?”

This time, Bashir answered for both of them. “Not as such, no.”

“Why do you think that was?”

He shrugged. “Their organization has a habit of compartmentalizing information.”

“Yes, it does.” Saavik shifted the tilt of her head from one side to the other as she studied him. “I find it curious that you would call it their organization. Not the organization. Not ours. But theirs.” Her eyes narrowed. “You still see yourself as separate from Section Thirty-one.”

She had phrased it as a declaration, but her inflection had made it sound like a question. Bashir nodded. “I always have.” As Sarina held his hand, he added, “We both do.”

“Then it should come as no surprise that they’ve seen you both the same way.”

Bashir felt his body recoil from Saavik’s revelation. “Excuse me?”

“They know all about you. That you’re both really working for Starfleet Intelligence, trying to infiltrate them as a prelude to sabotaging them from within.”

There was no point dissembling. It was obvious that Saavik knew too much to be deceived by any lie he might try to spin. Bashir exhaled the breath he belatedly realized he had been holding. “How did you know?”

“Quantum windows—the same technology Cole and his friends came here to steal.” She crossed her legs. “We began using it to collect intel from your universe after three of our agents vanished there on recon missions. In time, we learned that the group you call Section Thirty-one was responsible—and that its agents had become aware of us and our extradimensional surveillance capability. It was only a matter of time before they tried to steal it.”

The more Bashir heard, the more he felt like a pawn in a game whose players he could barely perceive, much less understand. “If they didn’t need me or Sarina to help them take the quantum window technology, why did they bring us here?”

“I think they hoped your presence would serve as a distraction, for us as well as for the Commonwealth and its military. Thirty-one has a number of agents operating in this universe, and one of them must have learned of our summit with the Dominion. When Thirty-one’s leaders cross-referenced that fact against your service record, they would have been reminded of your slaying of Odo on Terok Nor—and immediately seen an opportunity to put you in jeopardy.”

“While concocting a political and legal crisis that would command your full attention.”

“Precisely.” She lifted one eyebrow. “Had we not already been aware of their intentions, it might have been a very successful ruse. However, I think they also underestimated the ethics of the Dominion in this universe. They went to so much effort to ensure your presence would be detected that I believe they were certain you would be executed for Odo’s death.”

Bashir nodded. “Yes, I’d have to call that an ironic development.” A troubling notion occurred to him. He looked up at Saavik. “What happened to Cole and the others?”

“They’ve been dealt with.”

Sarina echoed Bashir’s tone of alarm. “How, exactly?”

Saavik seemed reluctant to answer. Then she relented. “They were exiled.”

Still not satisfied, Bashir asked, “To where?”

“Technically? To Bajor.” Saavik seemed prepared to let her answer stand until Bashir and Sarina’s reproachful glares compelled her to add a few details. “We used the subspace transporter to shift them across the dimensional barrier to a quantum reality whose frequency is known to only a few of our scientists. Cole and his accomplices will live out the rest of their lives in a universe that has everything it needs to sustain life but contains no other sapient beings—only plants, animals, and microorganisms.” She sighed. “Technically, it is neither corporal nor capital punishment. But no one in our universe or yours will ever see them again.”

What could Bashir say in reply? Thanking her seemed gauche, but condemning her felt ungrateful. From one perspective, she had done him and Sarina a favor; from another, she had put them in a difficult situation if and when they returned home: how would they explain the loss of Cole and the others to Sarina’s handler? Ultimately, all he could say was, “I see.”

Before anyone could render the moment more awkward than it had already become, they were interrupted by the whoop of the ship’s alert sirens. A woman’s rich and husky voice announced over the ship’s internal comms, “Yellow Alert. Senior staff, report to the bridge.”

Saavik stood. “Do the two of you still wish to help us neutralize the Breen threat?”

Bashir and Sarina exchanged excited glances. He looked up at Saavik. “Definitely.”

“Then come with me.”

*  *  *

Sometimes being first was a privilege; sometimes it was nothing less than a leap of faith. For Rem, being the leader of the first Spetzkar team to pass through the folded-space transporter for the strike mission against the ShiKahr was the latter.

He and two squads of his fellow commandos stood on the transporter platform, flanked by bulkheads that had been torn open for last-second modifications. Loose cables spilled like guts from the gaps in the walls, and the exposed machinery in the spaces beyond them radiated heat and hummed with wild energies.

At the control console, Solt completed his final system check. “Coordinates locked!”

“Charge rifles,” Rem said. He and his men powered up their weapons to the maximum kill setting. “Activate chameleon circuits.” He engaged his armor’s shrouding system, a technology the Breen Special Research Division had developed after studying the natural abilities of Jem’Hadar it had secretly abducted during the Dominion’s war against the Alpha Quadrant powers. In less than a second, Rem and his men vanished from sight—but to each other they appeared as frost-blue silhouettes, a useful safety feature designed to minimize friendly fire casualties during shrouded operations.

Solt keyed commands into the transporter console. “Starting dimensional shift . . . now.”

Traveling through space-time via the dimensional shifter wasn’t like being moved by a transporter. There was no sense of being seized by the annular confinement beam, no gradual dissolution of one’s surroundings, just a blinding white flash—

—and they were inside the jaunt ship’s computer core. The towering space was a huge, hollow cylinder, inside which stood another cylindrical structure, the ship’s main computer. Pale blue light blazed inside its sophisticated matrix of linked databanks and faster-than-light processing cores.

Half a dozen of the ship’s technicians halted their work and reacted in shock to the flashes of light that had erupted all around them. One of them, a male Bolian, asked, “Did anyone else just see that?”

A female Bajoran replied, “Maybe we should alert the bridge.”

Rem aimed at her and fired. His red disruptor pulse incinerated her head. A fraction of a second later, the rest of his team unleashed perfectly targeted head shots that dropped the rest of the technicians.

Before the whine of their rifles had faded, the Spetzkar heard the shrieking of the ship’s intruder alarms. Rem paid them no mind. All the warnings in the universe would make no difference now. “Kine, Yuay, disable the ship’s internal sensors and comms. Treyd, shut down their intruder countermeasures. Rowk, take their command systems off-line.”

He stood back and watched them work. They moved with the precision of surgeons and the detachment of butchers. In a matter of seconds, they had gutted the ShiKahr’s main computer core and left the entire ship defenseless. Kine faced Rem. “Adjustments complete, sir.”

The computer specialist activated his helmet’s subspace transceiver. “Rem to Tajny.”

“Go ahead,” Trom said.

“The ShiKahr’s computer is ours. Continue the attack.”

*  *  *

Bursts of light filled the bridge of the ShiKahr. Captain sh’Pherron sprang from her command chair, ready to meet this new threat—but the light was gone almost as soon as it had appeared, and nothing on the bridge seemed to have changed. It took a fraction of a second for her to remember that the Enterprise teams that had liberated her ship the day before had reported encounters with shrouded enemy personnel. She turned to warn her first officer—

The first disruptor shot burned into her back. She fell face-first to the deck.

Lying on her belly with her head twisted to the left, sh’Pherron bore mute witness to the slaughter of her bridge crew. A furious barrage from the forward end of the compartment cut down everyone in its path. Turak collapsed, robbed of his face by a lethal headshot. Riaow was thrown against the aft consoles, her fur burning, a smoldering wound blasted deep into her chest. Though sh’Pherron couldn’t turn her head, she heard the death cries of the Lagorian helmsman, Ensign Gunnd, and the human operations officer, Lieutenant Caswell.

The piercing shriek of energy weapons gave way to a deathly silence. A sparse and ragged pall of gray smoke lingered over the carnage. Humanoid shapes formed in the hazy aftermath, their outlines rippling like heat distortion for a moment before they became first translucent and then opaque. It was a squad of Breen soldiers in scaly black-and-silver armor, with gold bands atop their snout-shaped helmets, extending from front to back.

They moved among the dead, prodding the corpses with their booted feet. One of them nudged Riaow. The felled Caitian let slip a low, pathetic groan. The Breen trooper aimed his weapon and fired a coup de grâce. Then he fired again, ensuring the kill.

One of the commandos wore a helmet whose gold band was bordered by crimson stripes. He snapped orders at the others, in the machine-noise gibberish that spewed from their vocoders.

Sh’Pherron didn’t need to speak the Breen’s language to know what they were doing. She saw the updates on the master systems display. The Breen had armed the ship’s intruder countermeasures—and turned them against the ShiKahr’s crew.

She wanted to curse at the troopers, to spit her last bit of bile at them. All she could do was splutter helplessly and cough indigo blood onto the deck.

The Breen commander took note of her dying spasms and turned away from his men. He walked over and loomed above her, his intentions hidden behind his helmet.

On some level, sh’Pherron hoped there might still be some measure of mercy, however small, lurking behind that grotesque mask.

He pointed his rifle at her face and fired.

*  *  *

With a searing white flash, the dimensional shifter moved Crin and his platoon through a wrinkle in space-time to their designated strike area.

Dozens of faces looked up and around, all of them bewildered by the mysterious light show that had heralded the Breen commandos’ unseen arrival. Crin smiled. It was liberating not having to worry about taking prisoners. That meant anyone in the ShiKahr’s engineering section who wasn’t limned by the pale glow of Spetzkar chameleon armor in shroud mode was fair game. And this was the most target-rich environment Crin had seen in years.

He activated the private channel that linked him to his strike team. “Weapons free.”

A storm of fire tore through the ShiKahr’s engineering crew. High-power blasts ripped into multiple targets at once. It took only a few seconds for the wails of the panicked and the dying to drown out the screams of the Spetzkar’s disruptors.

The platoon divided into squads as it moved aft, clearing each compartment and section along the way. Crin was disappointed by how few of the jaunt ship’s personnel tried to run. So many of them cowered, as if they might be spared. But when did the universe ever show mercy to cowards? He gunned down the ship’s multispecies menagerie of fools while cursing them for robbing his victory of its sport.

By the time he reached the ladderway to the lower decks, the other platoon leaders were there, each on a different level, some looking up, others down. Crin switched over to the command channel. “Engineering deck officers, report.”

One by one, they all replied, “Clear.”

Quick and ruthless—just as Thot Trom had wanted.

“Have your grunts police up the bodies and beam them into space. Solt, do you copy?”

“Go ahead,” the chief engineer replied.

Crin checked his chrono as he double-timed back the way he had come. “Power up the jaunt drive. We have less than ninety seconds before the Tajny starts its attack run.”

*  *  *

Reports flooded in on all the encrypted channels used by the Spetzkar. The key areas of the ShiKahr were secure, and the jaunt ship’s own intruder countermeasures had eliminated those members of its crew stationed in its less consequential sections.

We’ve been lucky so far, Trom reminded himself. But luck doesn’t last.

“Yoab, have you unlocked the helm controls?”

“Almost.” The pilot checked his console. “Wait—sir, the jaunt drive is locked out.”

“Don’t worry,” Trom said. “If this works, we won’t need it.”

The doors to the aft starboard turbolift opened. Rem and Crin stepped onto the bridge. The first officer headed toward Trom, and Rem passed Karn at the tactical console on his way to the ship’s operations panel. Crin took his place at Trom’s side. “The ship is secure, sir.”

“Well done. The Tajny starts her run in twenty seconds. Stand by to receive the Enterprise’s request for assistance. Tell them what they want to hear.”

“Yes, sir.” Crin moved away to the communications console.

“Karn, stand by to raise shields. Yoab, plot a course for the wormhole at warp four, then hold for my order. Everyone else, get rid of these bodies before they start to stink.”

As the corpses littering the deck were hauled away and stowed in the commander’s ready room, Trom kept his attention on the viewscreen. His plan was moments away from its next crucial step. He was about to learn whether he had underestimated the tactical capabilities of the jaunt ships. If he had, then he and his men were going to suffer badly for his mistake.

But if he had guessed right, they would soon be welcomed home as heroes.

*  *  *

“Continue tracking that ship,” Picard snapped. “It’s come out of hiding for a reason. I want to know why—and I want it found.” He turned at the swish of a turbolift door opening. Director Saavik strode onto his bridge, followed by Bashir and Douglas, the two interlopers from the other universe whom Saavik hadn’t condemned to extradimensional exile.

He turned away to conceal his annoyance. His ship was potentially mere seconds away from a combat situation. The last thing he needed now was a distraction.

Saavik stood beside him in the middle of the bridge. “What do we know, Captain?”

“The Breen are back.” He stared at the starscape on the viewscreen. “And they’re close.”

K’Ehleyr moved to stand on the other side of Picard from Saavik. “We picked up a sudden local increase in tetryon particles. Then we noticed it was moving at full impulse.”

The Vulcan mirrored Picard’s concern. “Is it continuing its evasive maneuvers?”

“No. It’s getting closer.” Picard’s already grim mood darkened. “It’s looking for the right angle from which to launch an attack.” He decided on a course of action. “I’m not waiting for them to make the first move. Commander Troi, raise shields and arm all weapons.”

“Aye, sir.” Troi primed the Enterprise’s tactical systems with a single tap on her console.

“Number One, apprise the ShiKahr and the Dominion command ship of the situation, and recommend they raise shields as well.”

K’Ehleyr delegated the order with a nod to a Tellarite officer. She turned back toward Picard and lowered her voice. “Should we prep another boarding party?”

“That would be prudent. Make it so.”

She stepped away to relay his orders discreetly to Troi, leaving him in the unsettling company of Saavik. “Director, it might be safer if you and your guests returned to—”

The keening whoop of the Red Alert siren cut him off.

Troi pointed at the viewscreen. “They’re uncloaking!”

Picard saw the menacing bulk of the Breen cruiser bearing down on the Enterprise. Its nose was lowered a few degrees, a classic attack profile. “Target that—”

Emerald beams from the Breen ship slashed through the darkness and filled the viewscreen. Bone-jarring impacts rocked the Enterprise. A momentary overload of the inertial dampeners and a hiccup in the power supply to the artificial gravity generators combined to send Picard, Saavik, and her two guests tumbling to starboard.

“They’re firing all they’ve got,” Troi shouted over the painfully loud clamor of disruptor blasts hammering the Enterprise’s shields.

K’Ehleyr snapped, “Fire back!”

Troi triggered a retaliatory strike. Orange streaks of phaser energy lashed out and pummeled the oncoming Breen ship, and a volley of four quantum torpedoes slammed into it head-on. The first two collapsed its shields. The second two ripped through the cruiser’s hull and eviscerated long swaths of its infrastructure before erupting from the ship’s underside.

It was a brutal and decisive blow, one that Picard was sure would put an end to the Breen’s mad assault. “Target their engines as they break away. Shoot to disable.”

He waited to see the Breen ship veer off so that Troi could take out their impulse coil and warp nacelles. Once the ship was immobilized, he would—

What are they doing?

Troi’s eyes widened. “They’re not breaking off, Captain.”

K’Ehleyr was the first to see the obvious. “They’re on a collision course!” She sprang to Troi’s side at the tactical console. “Lock all phasers! Fire!”

Vermilion beams scissored through the Breen cruiser. It charged ahead, into the cruel barrage, accelerating all the way. Then it dived and rolled, burning like a Catherine wheel.

Picard threw himself into his command chair as he shouted, “Evasive maneuvers!”

It was too late. The fiery wreck of the Breen ship rammed into the Enterprise’s shields.

The viewscreen filled with gray static for half a second, and then it went dark, along with all the other bridge consoles and the overhead lights.

A deafening crash left Picard clutching his chair’s armrests white-knuckle tight and gritting his teeth against a sonic assault that threatened to shake them loose from his jaw.

When the cacophony subsided, Picard felt as if he had been pummeled by a prizefighter. He looked around, half in shock, as dim emergency lights faded up. His first priority was to make sure his officers were alive. They all were at least in the vicinity of their posts, and neither Saavik nor her guests appeared to have been injured. He twisted and looked over his shoulder toward K’Ehleyr. “Number One. Damage and casualty reports.”

“Internal comms are down. Switching to backup channels.”

He turned a hopeful look at Troi. “The Breen cruiser?”

“Destroyed.” She struggled with her flickering console. “But we’re not much better.”

The overhead lights slowly climbed back to full brightness. Several of the major duty stations’ consoles ceased stuttering and reset their interfaces. The main viewscreen hashed with interference for a second, and then its image resolved to show a vista of fiery destruction. The Enterprise was enveloped in a cloud of smoldering debris from the Breen cruiser.

K’Ehleyr sat in her chair, beside Picard’s. She turned her command screen so they both could see it. “Multiple injuries, no fatalities. Medical teams are responding.”

“And the ship?”

“Heavy damage to the shields. Overloads all through the tactical grid. Subspace comms are down. Hull breaches on Decks Eleven through Sixteen. And the jaunt drive is off-line.”

It was a far from ideal outcome, but his ship and his crew were still here, albeit a touch worse for wear. At least we’ve fared better than our attackers. “Commander Troi, hail the ShiKahr on short-range comms. Tell Captain sh’Pherron we need her to return yesterday’s favor. Any engineering and medical personnel they can spare, as well as spare parts and—”

“Captain,” Troi interrupted. “The ShiKahr is breaking orbit.”

He stared at her. “What?”

“They’ve changed course—toward the wormhole.”

She changed the viewscreen’s vantage to obtain a clearer angle of the ShiKahr—which promptly streaked away in a spectral blur of light as the ship jumped to warp speed.

K’Ehleyr spoke in a horrified whisper. “The cruiser must have been a decoy. I don’t know how they did it, but the Breen are back on the ShiKahr. And they’re getting away.”

Picard stood. “Like hell they are. Helm, set a pursuit course, best possible speed.”

Lieutenant Tolaris delivered bad news with dry detachment. “The ship is limited to full impulse until Mister Barclay gets main power back online.”

Picard lifted his voice. “Bridge to engineering.”

Barclay sounded out of breath. “Go ahead, sir.”

“How long to restore main power?”

“At least ten minutes.”

Picard looked at Troi. “How long until the ShiKahr reaches the wormhole?”

The security chief grimaced. “Four minutes. Unless they jaunt to it.”

Saavik put herself in Picard’s eye line. “They can’t. The ShiKahr’s jaunt drive is still locked down. But without warp power, we can’t reach them in time. Which means we need to ask for help from the only ship that can.”

He knew what Saavik was suggesting. It was a conversation he did not want to have.

“Merde.”

*  *  *

It was not Taran’atar’s habit to offer unsolicited opinions on the affairs of his superiors, so he swallowed his contempt for the softness and ineptitude of the Commonwealth jaunt ship’s crew. Their captain’s face filled the forward holoframe as he petitioned the Founder. “Madam Founder, I would not ask this of you if there were any other way.”

The Founder’s face was inscrutable. “We have no wish to involve ourselves in your affairs. The hijacking of your vessel is not our concern.”

“I disagree,” Picard replied. “The ShiKahr is heading toward the wormhole, which will take it to the Gamma Quadrant. If the Breen escape with that ship and learn how to build a jaunt drive, they’ll be able to use it against your people and ours. The entire galaxy will be in peril.”

“Why would that risk be any graver than allowing your Commonwealth to retain its monopoly on wormhole propulsion?”

Her question seemed to exasperate Picard. “I can guarantee you, the Breen Confederacy will not wield this power with the same restraint we’ve shown. We’ve had this power for eight years now. If we had wanted to abuse it, we could have. But we didn’t. So I’m asking you to accept our pledge of good faith—and return the favor. While there’s still time.”

After a moment of consideration, the Founder turned toward Eris. “Can this vessel reach the wormhole ahead of the ShiKahr?”

“Barely,” the female Vorta said. “And only if we go now, at maximum warp.”

“Lay in the course and execute immediately.” The Founder faced Picard’s larger-than-life visage on the screen. “We will do our best to waylay your stolen vessel, Captain. But if its hijackers turn its weapons against us, we will defend ourselves.”

“Understood. We’d rather see it destroyed than stolen.”

The transmission ended, and the Founder looked at Taran’atar. “Prepare for battle.”

*  *  *

Warp-streaked stars retracted to cold points of light as the ShiKahr dropped back to full impulse. Thot Trom leaned forward in the command chair. “Time to the wormhole?”

“Thirty seconds,” Yoab said from the helm.

Good fortune was a rare commodity in wartime, and Trom meant to make the most of it. His team’s backup plan for returning to their own universe involved using a known and proven method for triggering a dimensional jump inside the Bajoran wormhole. Though it was commendable of Solt to have theorized a means of making the same jump using the jaunt ship’s artificially generated wormholes, Trom was grateful not to have to put that notion to the test.

Ahead of the ShiKahr, the wormhole unfolded as if from nothing, a midnight-blue flower blossoming in the cold night of space. Light poured majestically from its dilated mouth, and a faint tremor of gravimetric distortion shook the jaunt ship as it approached its destination.

“Take us in, Yoab. Crin, alert all decks to brace for turbulence. Rem, stand by to—”

A coruscating burst of light washed out the details on the viewscreen. When the blinding glare abated, the Dominion command ship filled the screen. It was a gunmetal leviathan that completely obstructed the ShiKahr’s flight path to the wormhole.

Karn looked up from tactical. “Their shields are up, all weapons have been armed. They’re locking onto us and”—he paused to silence a new alert tone—“they’re hailing us.”

“Put them on-screen.”

A Jem’Hadar’s terrifying visage glowered back at Trom. “Attention, Commander, ShiKahr. I am First Taran’atar. Drop your shields and surrender your vessel.”

Trom stood and stepped forward. “Let us pass, First. Our battle is not with you.”

“You are mistaken. Yield in ten seconds or be destroyed.”

So much for the Dominion staying out of this.

Trom signaled Crin with a subtle gesture to mute the channel. “Karn, target the known vulnerabilities of the command ship.”

“I’ve already tried,” Karn replied. “Their ship isn’t the same as the ones in our universe. I can’t find the same weak spots. It might not have any.”

Rem swiveled away from the sensor console. “The Enterprise is inbound at warp eight.”

Karn shook his head. “Even if I find a chink in the Jem’Hadar’s armor, we can’t fight them and another jaunt ship at the same time.”

Their ten seconds of grace from the Jem’Hadar were about to expire. Trom let go of his delusions of good fortune and chose to face the bitter truth. “Close the channel. Helm, full evasive. Get us away from the command ship and take us back to maximum warp.”

With one hand, Yoab accelerated the ShiKahr into a rolling, diving turn beneath the Jem’Hadar battleship; with the other, he started plotting warp-speed coordinates. “Heading?”

Trom returned to his command chair. “Anywhere but here.” He glanced at a star chart on the monitor beside his seat. “Head for Klingon space—maybe they won’t follow us.”

“Laying in the course and jumping to warp . . . now.”

On the viewscreen, the starfield stretched into blurred streaks.

Crin moved to Trom’s side. “The Jem’Hadar are still at the wormhole, but the Enterprise is right behind us. If they call in reinforcements before we get the jaunt drive online—”

“I know. Get down to engineering. Tell Solt he has to break the lockout right now. Then he has to rig the drive to get us home. Otherwise, this entire mission’s been for nothing.”

*  *  *

Impatience was a fault to which Picard rarely succumbed, but watching the stolen jaunt ship hurtle away by an ever-growing margin had him at wit’s end. “Helm! Time to intercept?”

“Intercept?” Looking back, Tolaris protested, “Sir, we can barely keep pace.”

Picard shot a look at K’Ehleyr, who knew what his pointed glare was asking. “Barclay’s doing all he can. He says he can get us up to warp eight point eight in a few minutes.”

“Not good enough, damn it! Not good enough! They could be gone by then!” Picard got up and stalked over to Troi’s console. “Are we close enough to use quantum torpedoes?”

She shared his disappointment and frustration. “They’re just out of range.”

He breathed an angry sigh and paced along the aft duty stations. As he passed Saavik and her guests, Bashir spoke up. “Captain? Your ship has subspace transporters. Perhaps you could beam a strike team aboard the ShiKahr.”

It was so preposterous an idea that it made Picard angry. “Are you mad? Subspace beaming between two points moving at different warp factors?”

The Enterprise’s senior science officer, Lieutenant Kell Perim, joined in the mocking of Bashir. “We might as well just cremate you and eject your ashes from the shuttlebay.” The Trill turned back to her console as she added, “We’d use less energy and get the same result.”

Picard looked over Perim’s shoulder. “Any luck restoring subspace comms?”

“Almost there, sir. Just a few more minutes.”

“Tell me the moment they’re back online.”

He left her to her work and returned to his chair. He couldn’t catch his foes, attack them, or summon reinforcements. All he could do was watch the ShiKahr slowly widen the gap between itself and the Enterprise. He promised himself the Breen would pay for this—and that he would be the one to collect the debt.

Thirty-one

If there was any rhyme or reason to the design of the jaunt drive, it eluded Solt. The Spetzkar engineer stood surrounded by the mind-boggling amalgam of technologies that had been united to create the Commonwealth’s marvel of propulsion. Some of its components looked as if they were of Romulan design; others evinced classically Cardassian aesthetics. A few discrete elements showed evidence of Tzenkethi origin. More than a dozen were so bizarre that Solt had no idea where they had come from, or how they had been compelled to work in concert.

This engine is the work of a madman.

Ominous rumblings underscored a jolt of impact that rocked the ShiKahr. Solt grabbed hold of a load-bearing strut and braced himself.

A few of his engineers were slower to react and ended up in a tangled pile on the deck at his feet. One of them did a double take as another blast shook the jaunt ship and made its hull ring with violent percussion. “What was that?”

“We’re being torpedoed,” Solt told his men. “Get up, all of you. We need to find a way to override the lockout and bring this drive online.”

He opened an access panel and was dismayed by the high-tech puzzle it contained. There had to be a logic to it. It was all geared toward a single shared function—the generation and maintenance of a stable artificial wormhole. He knew that a team of dedicated engineers could reverse-engineer this perplexing jumble of hybridized parts. All it would take was time.

More blasts hammered the jaunt ship’s shields.

Time, Solt fumed. The one thing we’re fast running out of.

“Does anybody see anything? Talk to me!”

Lar, a mechanic’s mate, waved his free hand. “Over here!”

Solt pushed past the other engineers between them. “Report.”

“I think this might be the core command relay.” Lar reached in and laid his gloved hand on a dodecahedronal module. The head-sized device had one unobstructed facet, which served as its interface panel. The other nineteen facets were festooned with cables and hard connections. At a glance, Solt saw the unit was linked into nearly every other part of the jaunt drive.

“Good work, Lar. Step clear.” He reached in to activate the interface. Another salvo of enemy fire quaked the ship and knocked Solt off balance. Lar and another engineer caught him and set him back on his feet. He promised himself he would thank them later; for now they had more pressing concerns. A few quick taps activated the node’s command interface. All its options were dimmed, and a red overlay contained flashing alphanumeric symbols in some alien language. Half a second later, the translator circuit in his helmet’s holovisor parsed the warning: COMMAND OVERRIDE—LOCKDOWN IN EFFECT.

The junior engineers pressed closer, crowding Solt. Lar peeked over his shoulder and asked, “Can you break the lockout?”

“With finesse? Not a chance.”

Solt pulled loose a power cable from an adjacent noncritical system. Using his free hand, he drew his knife and pried open the interface facet of the command node. Nothing inside the unit looked familiar, so he made an educated guess as to which component was its main bus capacitor. Then he jabbed the exposed end of the power cable against it.

Sparks blasted upward, and a burst of light shorted out the holovisor in his mask for a split second. Then his holovisor reset—and so did the interface screen of the command node.

The message made Solt smile: SYSTEM REBOOT IN PROGRESS.

“We’re in business. Set up the mods, just like we practiced! And be quick about it!” His technicians and mechanics scrambled away, rushing in all directions to modify key subsystems of the jaunt drive. The chief engineer activated his helmet comm. “Solt to Trom.”

“Go ahead.”

“Lockout defeated. We’re modifying the drive now.”

“How long to breach the dimensional barrier?”

It was time to deliver the bad news. “Not sure. Still working on the equations.”

“Work faster. Our shields won’t last much longer, and if the Enterprise calls in reinforcements, we’re as good as dead.”

“Understood. Solt out.”

He closed the channel, tuned out the roar of ever louder torpedo blasts, and struggled to program the jaunt drive to create an artificial wormhole with interdimensional topology.

I guess this would be a bad time to tell Trom I only got an average rating in subspatial calculus. His hands trembled as he worked. Yeah, I’ll save that story for the medal ceremony.

*  *  *

There was little for Bashir to do on the bridge of the Enterprise but stand with Sarina and Saavik near the aft port-side turbolift and try to stay out of the crew’s way.

Most of the bridge officers were hunched over their consoles, but K’Ehleyr moved from one to the next, offering suggestions and collecting updates as she went. At the end of her circuit she returned to Picard’s side. “This is our best possible speed, for now.”

Her news vexed him. “We just need another tenth of a warp factor.”

“We can fix only so much of the warp drive while we’re using it.” She threw an anxious look at the image of the fleeing ShiKahr on the viewscreen. “The good news is, they’re working with most of the same restrictions we are.”

The captain looked at Troi, clearly hoping for better news. “Any luck accessing their command override system?”

“None. We can’t establish contact. They’ve disabled their ULF subspace antenna.” She tapped a launch trigger on her console and fired another round of torpedoes at the ShiKahr. The five-missile salvo sped away in brilliant golden streaks; seconds later, they flashed against the other jaunt ship’s shields. “Our torpedoes are having only minimal effect.”

“Continue firing. Their shields won’t last forever.”

“Neither will our supply of torpedoes,” K’Ehleyr said. “And if we use them up on these long-range pokes at the ShiKahr’s aft shields, we could end up in real trouble if they turn around and decide to start shooting back.”

It was sound advice, but Picard received it with a dark glare. “Very well. Cease fire.”

Bashir leaned toward Sarina and whispered, “Should we tell them now?”

“I don’t think they’re in the mood to hear it.”

“I’m not sure we can wait.”

Sarina held Bashir’s hand, perhaps to lift her own spirits as much as to buoy his. “Okay.”

Together, they stepped forward. Then they halted in midstep as Lieutenant Perim sprang from her post and crowed to her shipmates, “All comms are back up!”

In an instant, Picard’s bad mood evaporated. “Send a quantum signal to fleet command! Tell them the ShiKahr’s been hijacked and request assistance from all available vessels.” He stepped toward the viewscreen with clenched fists. “Let’s keep them busy till help arrives. Arm another volley of torpedoes and fire!”

“Torpedoes away,” Troi confirmed as she tapped the launch trigger.

K’Ehleyr noted that Bashir and Sarina had moved toward the center of the bridge. “Do you two want to contribute something?”

A nod from Sarina encouraged Bashir to speak for both of them. “We need to warn you not to underestimate the Breen. These aren’t the usual privateers or mercenaries that operate outside their borders. The ShiKahr’s been taken by Spetzkar—elite commandos.”

“We’re aware of that,” K’Ehleyr said. “What’s your point?”

“They’re more than capable of breaking the lockout on the jaunt drive. And if they do, we think there’s a real risk they might use it to take that ship back to our universe.”

His admonition was met with grave concern by Picard. “Is that even possible?”

“It’s happened before,” Sarina said. “That’s why the Breen came here, remember? One of your jaunt ships crashed in our universe a couple of years ago. The Breen found the wreckage in Federation space and tried to salvage it. That failed, so they’ve come here to steal one directly.”

The discussion drew Perim away from her station. “Hang on. You think the Breen might try to break through the dimensional barrier with a jaunt drive?” Nods of confirmation turned her slack-jawed surprise to wide-eyed horror. She turned toward K’Ehleyr and Picard. “Sirs, we can’t let that happen!”

Picard adopted a calming manner. “We know the risks if they succeed.”

“Never mind if they succeed,” Perim said. “I’m worried about what happens if they fail. They could unravel space-time as we know it—not just here, but across the galaxy. They might even cause a chain reaction that can unravel reality as we know it in this universe and theirs.”

K’Ehleyr shifted her sidelong stare from Perim to Picard. “I won’t pretend I understand what most of that means, but I have to say, sir—it sounds pretty bad.”

“I’m forced to agree.” Picard took a deep breath and looked at Bashir and Sarina. “But I still think we should wait for the rest of the fleet.”

Bashir shook his head. “That might be too late, even the way your ships move. If the Breen are modifying that engine, we need to stop them now.”

Picard’s temper frayed. “And how do you propose we do that, Doctor?”

Sarina stepped between them. “With all respect to you and your science officer, you’re wrong about the limitations of the subspace transporter. It is possible to compensate for the effects of differential warp velocities. I’ve seen the equations. I can give them to you.”

Everyone turned to face Saavik, who had come forward to join the debate. “What you propose is extremely dangerous, even if your calculations are correct. Anyone sent in this manner would run a high risk of dying in transit. Why should we risk it?”

“We’re not asking you to,” Bashir said. “Send the two of us.”

Dubious looks passed among the Enterprise officers. Before any of them could object, Sarina interjected, “These Spetzkar came from our universe, and we were sent here to stop them. This mission is our responsibility, so the risk should be ours alone.”

Saavik betrayed neither hope nor skepticism. “What would you need from us?”

“Two stealth suits,” Bashir said. “Weapons. A briefing on the jaunt ship’s weak spots.”

“And an exit strategy,” Sarina added. “Just in case we live through this.”

The old Vulcan looked at Picard. “The decision is yours, Captain.”

“Number One, have Mister Barclay meet Doctor Bashir and Miss Douglas with their equipment in Transporter Room Three. Make sure he’s ready to brief them on their targets.” He turned toward Bashir and Sarina, and a small, grudging smile broke through his dour mood. “Let’s hope you don’t come to regret this sudden bout of heroism.”

Thirty-two

Time was the enemy now. Trom knew it. He felt it in his bones. His pilot Yoab was pushing the ShiKahr to its ultimate limit, coaxing every last bit of speed he could from the vessel. Down in the bowels of the ship, Solt was rebuilding the jaunt drive—the very prize they had come for—into the one thing that could take them home. All they needed was time—

—but a brutal concussion of torpedo blasts made it clear the enemy had no intention of giving it to them. Trom hung on to the command chair. Consoles stuttered, and bodies fell through the strobing light in surreal slow motion.

Crin stumbled across the pitching deck as another salvo hit the ShiKahr. He fell across his own chair, to the right of Trom’s. “Long-range sensors are reading new signals, sir.”

“Klingon?”

“Jaunt ships. Dozens of them. They’re jumping in all around us.”

Trom kept his curses to himself. “The Enterprise restored its comms sooner than we expected.” He used the command interface beside his chair to open a channel to engineering. “Solt! We’re being surrounded. Are your modifications ready?”

“Almost. We’ll be ready to cross the dimensional barrier in ten minutes.”

“Keep me posted. Every second counts. Command out.” He closed the channel and looked at Crin. “We’re almost home. Divert just enough power from the aft shields to fire four rounds of torpedoes from the aft launcher. Let’s see if the Enterprise likes a bloody nose.”

“Yes, sir.” Crin slipped away to relay the order to Karn.

Trom looked forward to seeing his harassers swallow a bit of their own medicine, but behind his brave talk, he knew he had nothing but bluster. His ship was only minutes away from being trapped by a vastly superior force. Unless Solt proved to be a genius without equal in the field of starship propulsion, Trom and his men were on the verge of annihilation.

Victory was within his grasp, but already he felt it slipping like water through his fingers.

*  *  *

Suffocating force, scintillating light, and a wash of white sound all surrendered their hold on Bashir, who blinked to find himself free of the subspace transporter beam and standing beside Sarina, inside a remote compartment on the lowest engineering deck of the ShiKahr. They both had been rendered effectively invisible by their borrowed Memory Omega stealth suits, but to each other they appeared as ghostly green figures, a feature of the software built into the holovisors of their full-head masks.

Sarina drew her phaser. Because it was coated with stealth materials that reacted to the ones in her gloves, the weapon was also invisible. “Which way?”

“Forward to the main junction.” Bashir drew his own phaser and pointed down the passageway. “You cover the left, I’ll take the right.”

Together they skulked forward. It amazed Bashir how perfectly quiet his and Sarina’s footfalls were, even in the close confines of the narrow corridor. Part of the credit was due to their genetically enhanced dexterity, which made them light on their feet when they needed to be, but he knew the stealth suits were doing most of the work. The soles of their shoes were padded with layers of material that absorbed sound waves and let them move like ghosts.

The first intersection was on Sarina’s side. She signaled Bashir that she would aim high. He gestured back that he would duck in low behind her. He darted behind her as they reached the corner. They turned together, and he crouched as he pivoted on his leading foot.

All was clear. Bashir moved ahead, taking point. Sarina fell in behind him as they hugged the right wall of the corridor until the next intersection. This time, he cued her with hand signals that he would aim high. She acknowledged with a nod and ducked low, close to his back.

They turned as one. A dozen meters down the maintenance passage, a pair of Breen commandos were busy rearranging the internal components of some part of the ship’s engines.

In the holographic heads-up display provided by his mask, Bashir noted the red targeting crosshairs that indicated precisely where his phaser shot would fall. A second set of yellow crosshairs informed him that Sarina was targeting the other Spetzkar trooper. He steadied his aim. Softly exhaled a deep breath. And fired.

His single phaser pulse struck one of the Breen in his head. A fraction of a second later, Sarina’s head shot took down his partner.

There was no time to check the bodies. He and Sarina were shooting to kill now, and time was short. They advanced, trading places again to let her take point to the octagonal main intersection. She hugged the left wall, and Bashir stayed close to the opposite bulkhead. They padded into the open junction. Four sides of the octagon were open and led away at ninety-degree angles—one main passageway running forward to aft and another that crossed the deck from port to starboard. On the other four sides of the octagon were turbolifts.

“This is where we split up,” Bashir said. “Activating transceiver now.” He tapped the tiny device tucked into his left ear. Sarina did the same, switching on her own concealed transceiver. Speaking in a whisper, Bashir said, “Do you copy me?”

Her hushed voice was intimately close thanks to the implanted device. “Loud and clear.”

“All right. Promise me you’ll stick to the plan. We hit our targets and get out.”

“I promise. It’s not as if we have time to do anything else, anyway.”

She sounded calm and professional, but he knew what would happen if she let her emotions take over. All he could do was hope she stayed in control this time. He walked to his turbolift, and she walked to hers. They pressed their respective call buttons, and both sets of lift doors opened to reveal waiting pods. He stepped into one, and she entered the other.

Looking diagonally across the intersection at her, he gave her a small salute with his phaser. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

She returned the valediction with the same forced aplomb. “See you when I see you.”

The doors of their turbolifts closed, and Bashir hoped their farewells would amount to more than just wishful thinking.

*  *  *

When the doors of Sarina’s turbolift slid apart on Deck Four, she had her back against the side of the lift pod, to the right of the door. As she had expected, a Breen commando who had been posted to guard the deck from intruders leaned inside the pod to investigate.

She snaked her invisible right arm behind his back and over his shoulder. Then she seized his chin with her right hand and braced her left hand against his back as she twisted with all her enhanced strength. The commando’s neck broke with a wet crack. His body went limp in her grasp, and she struggled to lower him to the floor of the pod without making any noise. Then she pulled him the rest of the way inside, stepped over his corpse, and slipped out into the corridor.

Her hand was on the grip of her phaser, ready to draw if it turned out the dead trooper had a partner waiting in the passageway, but there was no one there. Ever cautious, she treaded lightly and kept her back to the wall as she snuck toward the entrance to the ShiKahr’s computer core. Every few steps, she threw a quick look back, to make sure her six was clear.

Avoid unnecessary confrontation. That had been Saavik’s advice to Sarina and Bashir before they had beamed over. There were more than a hundred Breen on this ship—far too many for Bashir and Sarina to face alone in combat, no matter what advantages they had received from their genetic augmentations or Memory Omega’s high-tech equipment. Evasion and diversion would be her and Bashir’s best hope of finishing this mission and living to tell about it.

Two sections shy of the computer core, a Spetzkar marched down the center of the corridor. He carried his rifle tucked against his left side, the barrel angled downward, his finger hovering beside the trigger rather than in front of it. He moved with a strong and even stride, and his gaze swiveled slowly while he walked, taking in everything around him. He glowed frost-blue in Sarina’s visor, which suggested he was concealed by his armor’s shrouding circuits.

Sarina sidestepped, pivoted, and put her back to one wall—all without making a sound. She held her breath and remained motionless as the commando stalked past her.

He stopped.

She stared at him, her breath still caught in her chest. What’s he doing?

The Breen kneeled down and ran his gloved fingertips over the deck where Sarina had just walked. He looked away, down the path from which she had come.

What if their masks see infrared? What if he can see my heat signature?

He turned back and looked directly at her.

If he saw Sarina’s invisible blade before she thrust it into his throat, he didn’t have time to stop her. She plunged the stealth-coated knife of Tholian obsidian deep through the flexible neck guard of the Spetzkar’s armor, and then she twisted the blade and forced it up into his skull. His gurgling death rattles were muffled by his mask.

Can’t just leave him here. Sarina looked over her shoulder. A bulkhead tag identified the compartment behind her as unassigned quarters. Good enough. She unlocked the door, which parted with a soft hiss. As quietly as she was able, she dragged the dead Breen inside, dumped him to the left of the entrance, and cleaned his blood off her blade by wiping it on the legs of his uniform. She sheathed the knife, then paused to verify the corridor was still empty. Satisfied, she locked the compartment behind her on her way out, to prevent an accidental discovery of the dead trooper.

Fast, light steps carried her to the entrance to the ship’s primary computer core. A pair of Breen stood guard just inside the doorway, which someone had apparently locked open. Sarina squatted low and crab-walked along the wall of the corridor opposite the entrance, using her lower vantage to see more of the towering open space on the other side of the doorway.

Five Breen technical specialists were moving around the computer core, tampering with various systems as they went. The two guards paid the techs no mind and talked to each other, as if they were bored with their assignment.

If it’s excitement they want, I’m happy to give it to them.

It was all going to be about timing.

From a small utility pocket on the belt of her stealth suit, she took a miniaturized smoke bomb. The device was as small as a marble, and according to Saavik it was designed to arm when it was thrown and to detonate a few seconds after its initial impact on any surface.

Sarina edged up next to the doorway to the computer core and lobbed the smoke charge down the corridor. It struck one bulkhead, then rolled away, around a curve in the passageway.

At the first click of contact, one Breen asked the other, “Did you hear that?”

The two guards charged down the corridor. One of them pointed in the direction that Sarina had thrown the smoke marble. “It sounds like it’s coming from—”

A low boom echoed in the tight space of the corridor. Green smoke billowed from the detonation and created an impenetrable wall. The Breen in charge moved to the far wall and kneeled down while barking orders: “Cover me! Switch to UV, it’ll cut through the haze.”

His subordinate dropped to one knee on the other side of the corridor—right in front of Sarina. She silently retrieved another Memory Omega implement from her suit’s utility belt: a stealth-coated monofilament wire with a fist-sized grip at either end. Or, as it was more commonly known in the jargon of espionage tradecraft, a garrote.

With a single pull she released an arm’s length of slack on the monofilament. Then she crept forward, looped it over the junior Breen guard’s head, lowered it in front of his neck, and violently yanked the two ends together.

She neither felt nor heard the monomolecular wire slice through the Breen’s armor and flesh. All she knew was that his head, once solidly connected to his neck, was now falling to the deck, trailed by a spray of fuchsia blood.

In the split second it took the Breen’s severed head to fall and strike the deck, Sarina let go of one side of the garrote and drew her phaser. The other guard turned at the unexpected thud of a helmeted head clattering against the deck plates—just in time to see the phaser beam that punched a scorching hole through his own visor.

No time to lose now. The sound of the phaser shot would have the techs inside the core on alert. She couldn’t risk them warning the rest of their company of her presence. She pivoted and marched through the doorway, her eyes keen to every movement.

She froze: none of the technicians were anywhere in sight.

They took cover. Smarter than they look.

There was nothing to gain by letting them set the rules of engagement or summon reinforcements, so Sarina moved deeper inside the five-level compartment. Circular platforms, all with waffle-grate deck plates, ringed the twenty-meter-tall main core, creating a vertiginous sense of open space above and below. Sarina took soft steps and utilized the sparse cover afforded by the control panels that were set at regular intervals around the center level.

She stopped at the nearest companel and logged into the core using an administrator’s override code that Saavik had shown her while she had been suiting up on the Enterprise. The panel’s interface changed from lockout crimson to full-access green.

Time to muzzle the techs. She ramped up the Cochrane distortion coil inside the core far beyond its rated maximum. The CDC’s principal purpose was to enable the core to execute computations in a holographic matrix at many multiples of the speed of light. Faster-than-light processing was an essential element in most starship computers—but it had limits. If one generated too powerful a Cochrane distortion field inside the computer core, any number of onboard systems would suffer as a result—chief among them, communications.

That ought to do the trick.

Her next task was to swap out one of the panel’s isolinear chips. To her chagrin, there was no quick way to do so without attracting the commandos’ attention and giving away her position. If she wanted the freedom to finish her sabotage, she would have to deal with them.

She locked the console back down. Then she stalked forward to the staircase, scanning above and below for any sign of her quarry. Just before she reached the stairs, she saw them. The five Breen had split up. Two had climbed up two levels and were lying prone, their rifles aimed downward. Two were backed up against the walls on the level beneath her, with their rifles aimed upward. The last one was crouched on the steps, one level above her, his head on a swivel, looking for a target.

She respected their expertise. They were ideally placed to defend one another and concentrate their response to any assault. She couldn’t attack any one of them without betraying her position to the others. Her only advantages lay in the facts that her stealth camouflage was superior to theirs and that she had cut off their communications with one another as well as with the rest of their company.

All I need to do is figure out how to neutralize all five of them at the same time. She rolled her eyes at her predicament. I hope Julian’s having better luck than I am right now.

*  *  *

Wild shots and screaming ricochets tore out of the open hatchway and kept Bashir pinned to the bulkhead, hoping that the next shot didn’t bounce back and cut him in half. He winced at another near miss. I hope Sarina’s having better luck than I am right now.

A prompt blinked in his holographic heads-up display: ENGAGE ASSISTED TARGETING? He wasn’t sure what that included, but he reasoned that any advantage was better than none in his situation. He focused on the prompt and blinked twice to assent to the suggestion, which then changed to read ASSISTED TARGETING ENGAGED.

An inset frame was superimposed over his field of vision. At first he was confused by it. The targeting function seemed to have done nothing more than magnify an area of the floor in front of him. He shifted his weight and saw that the inset frame moved oddly. It took him a moment to understand that his mask’s holovisor was giving him his phaser’s point of view.

He kept his back to the wall and eased his weapon around the corner into the open doorway. A view of the upward-curving meter-wide walkway inside the ship’s ring-shaped jaunt drive filled his HUD’s inset frame. As soon as the software detected a potential target, it painted the Breen trooper with a blinking three-point yellow cursor. Bashir adjusted his aim until the cursor turned green and stopped flashing, then he pulled the trigger.

A perfect head shot sent the trooper reeling. His comrade fired back a wild flurry of energy pulses that screamed past Bashir and filled the corridor around him with bouncing sparks and acrid smoke. He put an end to the mad barrage with another precise shot that punched straight through the Breen’s chest and dropped him dead beside his partner.

The echoes of battle faded. Bashir’s enhanced hearing detected the scuffling of movement from a few sections away. He focused his attention and heard at least three people. No, four. They were trying to sneak up on him, but the Breen’s armor had been made for invisibility and resilience, not for stealth. Regardless, that was a fight for which he had neither the time nor the advantage. He moved inside the jaunt drive’s ring structure and hurried past the two dead Breen, eager to reach his assigned target quickly.

Gravity inside the ring pulled one outward, away from the main hull of the ship. Moving along the curved walkway reminded Bashir of early space stations, which had relied on rotating ring structures to simulate gravity. It also felt like orbiting a planet, always chasing the curve of the close horizon, and knowing it would forever remain just out of reach.

His pulse raced as quickly as his thoughts. He had to keep track of his pursuers, whom he heard enter the ring far behind him; he noted the markings on the access panels on his left and stayed alert for any sign of hostile contact that might suddenly appear in front of him. Then his eyes fixed upon the panel he had been told to find. He keyed in the command override code that engineer Barclay had shown him in passing on the Enterprise, and as the panel unlocked and sprang open, he was thankful once again for his nearly flawless memory.

The clatter of booted feet closed in on him from both directions. He pushed back against his fear and made himself see nothing but the delicate array of components in front of him. This, Barclay had told him, was the key to the entire jaunt drive: the chroniton integrator. It was a system that enabled a jaunt ship to collect sensor data from several seconds into the future—an almost prescient technology that was essential to hyperaccelerated faster-than-light propulsion, as well as to the generation and targeting of stable artificial wormholes.

He entered the override code into the chroniton integrator’s main interface and unlocked its configuration panel. Don’t destroy it, the Enterprise’s chief engineer had warned him. Just . . . tweak it a little bit. Following that sage advice, Bashir nudged a couple of the device’s perfectly attuned calibrations a mere few billionths of a percent off kilter. Then he closed the configuration screen and shut the access panel, which locked automatically.

Now all I need to do is get out of here alive.

In front of him and behind him, the feet of two ghostly pairs of shrouded Breen crept into view. They had him boxed in. Even if they never saw him because of his stealth suit, within moments at least one of them was certain to collide with him on the narrow walkway.

Bashir drew his phaser. Moving with slow care, he lay down on his back and stretched his arms behind his head. He drew a deep breath, then softly exhaled to steady his aim. In the pause between heartbeats, he pressed the firing stud.

A single full-power blast struck one of the Breen behind him in the groin. The Spetzkar he’d hit doubled over and fell to the deck—and the other three opened fire, all of them aiming high as they shot blind around the bend. Crazy ricochets careened down the narrow passage and caromed off the insulated bulkhead panels. Stray shots grazed Bashir’s arms and legs, but most of them slammed into the other Breen, who presented the broadest targets.

Two seconds after it had started, the crossfire ended.

Searing pain underscored Bashir’s every movement. His stealth suit flickered for a second, and then it stuttered out, leaving him visible and exposed. So much for the advantage.

He struggled to his feet and tapped the transceiver behind his ear. “Sarina, do you copy?” No response came. “Sarina, what’s your status?” Again, his message went unanswered.

She could be in trouble. He pushed that thought away. Of course she was in danger. They both were. The dilemma he faced was what to do next. His assignment was done. The mission plan called for him to fall back to the exfiltration point—but his heart rebelled at the notion of leaving Sarina behind. If she was cut off, she might need his help.

He looked down at his damaged stealth suit. How much help can I be like this? He considered stealing a suit of armor from one of the dead Breen, but then he imagined himself being gunned down by Sarina in a case of mistaken identity, and he ruled it out.

On legs that alternated between jolts of pain and feeling half numb with shock, Bashir limped back to the hatchway through which he’d entered the jaunt drive’s ring. His limbs were stiff and burning with fresh pain as he climbed back out into the corridor.

The smart choice, he knew, would be to head aft, back to their beam-in site, which had also been set as their extraction point. Instead, he hobbled forward, toward the turbolifts.

He was going to leave this ship with Sarina at his side . . . or not at all.

*  *  *

It wasn’t a perfect plan, but Sarina didn’t have time for perfection.

She stood at the same console she had used to ramp up the core’s Cochrane distortion. It was just outside any of the commandos’ sight lines. As long as she didn’t attract their notice by making too much noise, they were unlikely to abandon their concealed positions. At least, that was Sarina’s hope. She needed them to stay still for just a few more seconds—just until the site-to-site transport sequence engaged.

The mellifluous drone of the transporter beam filled the core compartment, and on the other side of the core, above and below her position on the middle level, a golden radiance flared and then abated in tandem with the wash of white noise.

Accessing a transporter remotely had been easy. Targeting the Breen inside the core compartment through the Cochrane distortion had been hard. Making the transporter start the dematerialization sequence had entailed overriding several safety warnings.

Sarina had taken the liberty of dispersing the Breen commandos’ scrambled patterns into space. Compared to the gruesome agonies that would have awaited them on the other side of a rematerialization sequence, it had seemed to her like the merciful choice.

Time to move now. She pried open the maintenance panel on the underside of the companel. The main bus was arranged exactly as Barclay had shown her in his hurried briefing minutes earlier. Following his instructions, she found the master control chip inside the panel, pulled it out, and substituted the isolinear chip Saavik had given her.

As soon as it snapped into place, the companel’s display became a frantic hash of activity happening at the speed of faster-than-light nanoprocessors. Saavik had been deliberately vague about what the substituted chip would do. “It will safeguard our secrets and make the ShiKahr’s jaunt drive unreliable,” was all the explanation she had offered, and all that Sarina had needed.

Satisfied her work was done, she darted to the open doorway and checked the corridor. So far, so good. Choosing speed over caution, she sprinted back the way she had come.

A squall of mechanical noise, like grinding gears and static, spat from the ship’s overhead speakers and echoed through the corridors. The universal translator circuit inside Sarina’s stealth suit parsed the Breen’s vocoder gibberish: “Attention, all decks. This is Thot Trom. Prepare for dimensional breach in ninety seconds. Command out.”

Sarina reached the turbolift and pressed the call signal. She stepped against the bulkhead beside the lift’s doors, in case the pod that arrived turned out to be occupied. Phaser in hand, she tensed when she heard the faint thrumming of the magnetically propelled lift pod’s arrival. The doors parted with a low hiss. All was still.

She pivoted to enter the lift—and found herself looking into the muzzle of a phaser. She raised her own weapon in a flash, as the one pointed at her jerked away. She deactivated her stealth suit. “Julian! What the hell?”

“You didn’t answer.” He stepped back to let her inside the lift. “I thought—”

“That you might get yourself killed? Your suit’s not even working!”

He sighed. “Level Twenty-five, Section Ten. Priority transit.” The doors closed, and the pod began its swift descent into the bowels of the ship. He frowned. “You’re welcome.”

*  *  *

No one had asked for an update on the ShiKahr’s worsening tactical status, but Crin blurted one out before Trom could silence him. “Fifteen jaunt ships inbound. Ninety seconds to intercept.”

“Steady.” Trom did his best to project certainty from the command chair. His posture was straight, and his movements were minimal. The crew had their orders; there was nothing to be gained by filling the air with chatter. He had to trust that if he just let them work—

Solt’s voice filtered down from the overhead speakers. “Solt to command. Equations complete. Ready to breach the dimensional barrier.”

“Well done. Lock in your formula and stand by.” Now it was time to act. “Helm. Power up the jaunt drive and patch in Solt’s new subspatial geometry.”

“Yes, sir.” Yoab keyed in the commands, then paused to look back at Trom. “Sir, I need to remind you that we’ll have to drop out of warp to use the jaunt drive.”

The pilot’s report lifted Karn’s focus from the tactical console. “Sir, the Enterprise is right behind us. If we drop to impulse, we’ll be vulnerable.”

“No choice, Karn. Arm all weapons and route all backup power to the aft shields. It’s up to you to keep the Enterprise at bay until we’ve made it back to our universe.”

Karn accepted the burden without further complaint. “Understood.”

Yoab finished his preparations at the helm. “Jaunt parameters updated. Ready, sir.”

Trom stood. “Attention all decks. This is Thot Trom. Prepare for dimensional breach in ninety seconds. Command out.” He stepped forward. “Helm. Take us out of warp.”

“Dropping to impulse . . . now.” Yoab disengaged the warp drive, and the streaks of starlight on the main viewscreen retreated to cold points.

“Evasive maneuvers,” Trom said. “Tactical, stand by to harass the Enterprise with preemptive fire.”

“Here they come,” the tactical officer said. “Firing.” Soft feedback tones from his console heralded slashes of phaser light and the blazing streaks of torpedoes across the viewscreen. The ShiKahr’s opening salvo was swiftly answered by the thunder of the Enterprise’s counterattack.

Trom raised his voice above the rumblings of battle. “Command to Solt.”

“Go ahead, sir.”

“Power up the jaunt drive. It’s time to go home.”

*  *  *

Bashir and Sarina sprang from the turbolift. Together they sprinted aft, abandoning stealth or caution in favor of speed. Every surface of the ship resonated with the rising hum of the jaunt drive, which was on a fast buildup to activation, and the deck rocked with the devil’s drumbeat of weapons fire punishing the ShiKahr’s shields.

By necessity, their beam-in location was also their exfiltration site. Because the Enterprise crew couldn’t scan through the ShiKahr’s shields to establish a transporter lock, they had to rely on being able to target their dematerialization sequence on a very limited area inside the ship. That meant the departure point had to be set in advance, and leaving from the same point at which they had arrived would entail the fewest new calculations.

They were three-quarters of the way down the corridor to the exfiltration point when a disruptor shot screamed past Bashir’s head from behind.

He ducked by reflex, then spun about-face and threw himself against the bulkhead, narrowly evading another flurry of shots down the middle of the passageway. In the fraction of a second it took him to turn about, Sarina reactivated her stealth suit.

Through his suit’s holovisor, he saw her hit the deck and roll onto her back. Bashir filled the corridor behind him and Sarina with a wild barrage of phaser fire, and then he crouched to make himself as small a target as possible.

The pair of Breen commandos who had spotted them poked their rifles back around the corners and returned Bashir’s mad attack with one of their own. One shot drilled through Bashir’s gut and launched him backward. Another tore into his thigh as he fell.

A perfect shot by Sarina struck one of the commandos’ rifles. The weapon exploded in the trooper’s hands, and the blast obliterated him and his comrade.

Sarina kneeled above Bashir and deactivated her stealth suit. “Are you all right?”

He couldn’t answer; white-hot pain filled his body. All he could do was grit his teeth, focus on breathing, and try to hold back the primal scream that was building in his chest. She surveyed his wounds. “Can you walk?” He shook his head.

Trom’s voice echoed down the passageway. “Stand by for dimensional breach.”

Sarina holstered her weapon, grabbed Bashir by his arm, and helped him sit up. Despite her slight frame and fragile appearance, she possessed tremendous strength. She got beneath him and draped his weight across her shoulders. Then she lifted him from the deck and stumbled aft in trembling steps, plodding toward their designated exfiltration point.

Bashir winced as the jaunt drive’s rising whine became deafening. The ShiKahr’s doomed jump was imminent. He shut his eyes. We’re not going to make it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sarina said through clenched teeth. “And shut up, because we’re getting off this boat”—she collapsed onto her knees, plucked the recall beacon from her utility belt, and pressed its transmission switch—“right now.”

Seconds passed, and they were still sitting in the passageway.

Sarina looked with dismay at the recall beacon, then at Bashir. “Or not.”

*  *  *

Shouted reports overlapped strident alarms on the bridge of the Enterprise as it traded one salvo of phaser and torpedo fire after another with the ShiKahr. In all the commotion, there was one fact that Picard needed above all others, and his first officer used the power of her voice to get it from Troi. “Can you confirm the signal or not?”

“There’s too much interference from the ShiKahr’s jaunt drive!” Troi fought with the interface on her console. “I’m boosting the gain on the receiver.”

“Quickly, Commander,” Picard said, putting rare pressure on his security chief. “If they’ve triggered their recall beacon—”

She shot a pointed stare at him. “I’m working on it.”

Tolaris’s voice snapped Picard’s attention forward. “Their jaunt drive is spinning up!” On the main viewscreen, an eerie nimbus of energy formed around the ShiKahr. In seconds, the azure halo became a rippling shell of distorted space-time that enveloped the fleeing jaunt ship.

“Signal confirmed!” Troi’s hands flew across her panel. “Trying to target the subspace transporter.” Her excitement became frustration and then dismay. “Still too much interference from the ShiKahr’s jaunt drive!”

K’Ehleyr opened a channel from the console beside her chair. “Bridge to engineering!”

“Go ahead,” Barclay replied.

“Reg, we can’t lock the subspace transporter for beam-out. Can you filter out the interference from the ShiKahr?”

“Already on it. Hang on!”

Precious moments slipped away, and it felt to Picard as if time accelerated while he watched a wormhole unlike any he’d ever seen form in front of the ShiKahr. Instead of the soothing blue swirl he had come to expect, this one was the color of blood, and flashes of crimson light spilled from its seemingly bottomless maw. Whereas all the other artificial wormholes he had ever seen had evoked for him images of doorways to some mythical higher plane, this one looked like a pit to some fiery underworld—and the ShiKahr was racing into it.

Picard turned toward K’Ehleyr, his heart full of hope and dread. “Number One?”

She deflected his seeking gaze with a questioning look at Troi.

Troi kept her eyes and hands on her console, as if she were fighting to conjure a miracle.

On the viewscreen, the ShiKahr hurtled into the dark vortex, which contracted shut behind it. A blinding flash erupted as the wormhole closed.

Warnings shrilled on Tolaris’s console. The Vulcan yelled, “Brace for impact!”

Hellish thunder engulfed the Enterprise. A hard lurch sent Picard sprawling across the deck. He collided with K’Ehleyr, who was also rolling to port—and then they and the rest of the bridge crew were thrown upward as something overwhelmed the ship’s artificial gravity and its inertial dampeners. Picard’s balding pate slammed against one of the overhead lights. Then the ship righted itself, and everyone plunged back to the deck.

Picard felt the sting of the fresh cut on the top of his head, and a warm trickle of blood traced an erratic streak down his forehead. He shook off the dizziness of the blow and made himself stand up. Beside him, K’Ehleyr slowly regained her balance. He reached out and took her arm to steady her until she nodded that she was all right, and then he looked at Troi.

She hunched over her stuttering console and poked at its controls. Then she looked up at Picard and read his question in his eyes. A smile lit up her face. “Mister Barclay confirms Douglas and Bashir are safely aboard—and they’re reporting ‘mission accomplished.’ ”

Finally, some good news. “Tell Mister Barclay I said, ‘Well done.’ ” He added with a rakish smile, “Then tell him I want full damage reports and repair estimates in two hours.”

“Aye, sir.”

K’Ehleyr sidled over to Picard and dropped her voice to a confidential hush. “Barclay had to keep his tweaks to the ShiKahr’s jaunt drive subtle so the Breen wouldn’t detect the changes. Are we sure we did enough to prevent it from getting through?”

Picard thought of the spinning vortex of fire that had swallowed the ShiKahr. “All I know for certain, Number One, is that I’m glad I’m not aboard that ship right now.”

*  *  *

Flames lapped at Trom’s arms as he ducked for cover from the bridge’s cascade of exploding consoles. Sparks fell like rain from ruptured plasma conduits overhead. If not for the air filters in his mask and the haze-penetrating filters of his visor, he had no doubt he would be blind and choking on hot, bitter smoke. Staggering across the yawing deck, he stumbled over Crin’s dead body and fell hard against the back of Yoab’s chair. “What happened?”

“No idea, sir!” The pilot entered one futile set of commands after another into the helm. His vocoder was unable to conceal the panic in his voice as he shouted above the banshee wails of the ship’s engines. “The wormhole’s completely unstable!”

An explosion knocked Trom sideways with a bowel-shaking shock wave. He picked himself up off the deck and climbed the operations console to get himself back to upright. “I’ll try to patch reserve power into the—”

“It’s gone,” Yoab interrupted. “We’re on batteries, and they’re bleeding power fast.”

Trom fought to make the operations panel obey him. All he needed was one small break in his favor: another ounce of power, a working subspace comm circuit, a shield generator that hadn’t overloaded. But it was no use. The wormhole had reduced the ShiKahr to a wounded, defenseless husk that was mute and robbed of power.

We were so close, Trom lamented. We had it all—

The twisting fires of the wormhole vanished with a searing flash and a crushing thunderclap. The macabre shrieks of the jaunt drive went silent. Trom looked at the main viewscreen. Through the jittery hash of interference, he saw the comforting normalcy of deep space peppered with stars—and then the broad, shallow curve of a cinnamon-hued planet looming large directly ahead of them.

“Report,” he snapped, prompting Yoab out of his stupor and back into action.

The pilot checked his console. “Engines are still off-line. No warp, no impulse, nothing.”

A review of the operations panel yielded nothing but more bad news, which Trom kept to himself. His stolen ship, his prize beyond measure, was crippled, powerless, burning on multiple decks, and venting plasma as it dived without shields or communications toward the reddish-brown orb whose gravity had taken hold of it.

Had they at least made it home? He looked at Yoab. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere inside Federation space,” Yoab said. “Alpha Quadrant, I—” He froze.

Trom got up and loomed over Yoab’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“The chronometer,” Yoab said.

The commander looked at it, and his blood ran cold. “That can’t be right.”

“I computed the date by comparing star positions against the closest Federation temporal beacon.” He looked at Trom. “The ship’s time matched our suits’ chronometers before we left.”

No. Trom backed away from the console. It wasn’t possible. The date had been the same in both universes when Trom and his team had traveled through the rift at Ikkuna Station. But if the new chrono readings were correct, then something had gone terribly wrong. Going by the Federation’s standard calendar, they had begun their journey in January 2386.

Now the ShiKahr’s chronometer registered the date as 3 August 2383.

Why does that date sound so familiar?

He stared with growing horror at the ruddy landscape toward which the ShiKahr fell. “Yoab . . . what planet is that?”

It took Yoab a moment to coax the data from his console. “Tirana Three.”

Trom staggered back to the operations console and collapsed into the chair, the weight of his defeat too great to bear while standing. He remembered his first briefing for this mission, and the report about the strange extradimensional starship that the Special Research Division had sacrificed so much to recover, only to fail in disgrace. Then he recalled the name of the planet on which their botched salvage had taken place.

Tirana III.

The mission had come full circle. Trom’s hard-won treasure was doomed to become the bait that would lure his countrymen to wrack and ruin. The SRD’s failure was now complete and guaranteed by the immutable laws of temporal causality.

I am become the agent of my people’s destruction. I am history’s fool.

Regardless, protocol had to be preserved.

Trom drew his disruptor and shot Yoab in the head. The pilot’s corpse slumped over and fell to the deck.

Alone at last, Trom took off his own helmet and cast it aside. Wreathed in fire, he cackled like a madman until the ship struck the surface, shattering its hull and expelling him and the remains of his men with the last of its air onto the barren world that fate had made their grave.

Thirty-three

Cold wind stung Regon’s face, which was still raw from its second cosmetic surgery in as many weeks. She was glad to be herself again, but the lingering pain was an unwelcome side effect of the procedure. To think—some people bear this for the sake of vanity.

Kort stood at her side, his own Klingon visage restored to its former weathered glory. Together they gazed out across the rippled waters of the lake at the sun-splashed wreckage of Stratos. He buried his hands in his pockets and grunted. “Back where we started.”

“It was always a long shot. We knew that going in.”

He kicked a loose rock down the hillside toward the shore. “Of course we did.” He squinted against a frigid gust. “But I hate to walk away having accomplished nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say we achieved nothing.” She favored him with a crooked smile. “Word is, Zolim’s been recalled to Tzenketh. It seems the Autarch wants him to explain why he advised the Taurus Pact to send three fleets on a fool’s errand to Bajor.”

The news elicited a low rumbling laugh from Kort. “Serves the lazy old petaQ right.” He shot an approving look at Regon. “Maybe we made a difference, after all. Like old times.”

“Like old times.” She offered him her hand. “Die with honor, Kort.”

“I plan to.” He shook her hand. “But not today.”

They parted ways neither allies nor enemies; they weren’t intimate enough to be friends, but their aims had always been too closely aligned for them to be rivals.

We’re just two ghosts on the same road to an uncertain future, Regon decided.

She didn’t know if their paths would ever cross again. Secretly, she hoped they would. But if this moment turned out to be their last farewell, she could live with that, as well.

If her years of service to the Obsidian Order had taught her nothing else, it was that there were always far more terrible ways for things to end.

*  *  *

Never one for the niceties of diplomacy, Taran’atar remained alert but uninterested as the Founder concluded her treaty signing with the human leader of the Galactic Commonwealth. There were hundreds of persons in attendance, not counting the rather large contingent of Jem’Hadar that he had insisted be present throughout the Elemspur Monastery for security purposes. The civilians in the former monastery’s great hall all were riveted by the words and actions at the table on the ground floor, while the Jem’Hadar and their assorted counterparts from the Commonwealth’s military observed the crowd, ever vigilant for danger.

Chairman Eddington inscribed his signature at the end of a ponderous document that, for reasons Taran’atar failed to appreciate, had been printed on a long, continuous roll of durable paper. Then the human rotated the document toward the Founder, who sat waiting with her own stylus. She favored Eddington with a faint, polite smile, and then she, too, signed the document. As soon as she lifted her pen, she handed it to Weyoun; Eddington handed his pen to Saavik. The treaty was rolled up and whisked away by a tall, regal-looking Andorian of a feminine gender. The audience filled the hall with sustained applause.

The Founder stood, and so did Eddington. They shook hands and exchanged a few brief words, but they spoke too softly for Taran’atar to hear what was said.

Ankan’igar stepped to attention beside him. “You have news from Eris.”

Taran’atar retrieved his holographic eyepiece from his belt and fixed it into place on his head. It registered his retinal scan and then retrieved the message from his Vorta commander. Her update was brief, and its details were welcome. He turned off the eyepiece and put it away.

The roar of applause tapered off. Eddington and the Founder said good-bye and went their separate ways, each retreating into the company of his or her entourage. Taran’atar timed his stride to slip in between the Founder and Weyoun as they passed him. “Eris reports that the Taurus Pact fleets that have lingered just outside this system since the Breen’s attack on the Enterprise have set new courses—back to their points of origin.”

His news drew an enigmatic smile from the Founder. “No doubt a decision they made the moment they heard we’d signed a nonaggression pact with the Commonwealth.”

Weyoun added, with a droll touch, “There would appear to be a correlation between the timing of the two events. On the other hand, perhaps they merely had a change of heart.”

“A most charitable assessment of the situation.” The Founder touched Weyoun’s arm. “Would you excuse us a moment? I need to speak in private with Taran’atar.”

“Of course.” Half bowed, Weyoun withdrew in backward steps.

The rest of the Dominion entourage melted away as the Founder led Taran’atar down a deserted hallway of the old religious retreat. Ensconced in stony shadows, she stopped and turned to confront him. “Do you know why I want to speak to you, First?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t care to guess?”

It was an odd question. The more he thought about it, the more it felt to him like an accusation. “It would not be my place.”

Her face registered benign disappointment. “I am aware of your recent moments of initiative, Taran’atar—your willingness to anticipate my desires and prepare accordingly.”

Shame overwhelmed his thoughts. “Forgive me, Founder. I was wrong to presume I could know your mind. I sought only to serve.” He bowed his head. “I will have Second Ankan’igar take my life as punishment for my hubris.”

“You will do no such thing.” Her rebuke stunned him. “Look at me, Taran’atar.” She waited until he raised his head and met her stare. “I have long been curious to know what a being of your unique experience and potential might be capable of, in different circumstances.”

“I do not understand.”

She studied him with an almost compassionate air. “Not only were you born without a natural dependency on the white, you have lived longer than any other Jem’Hadar in history. No other member of your kind has your experience, your discipline, your unique constitution. Now the Great Link wants to know whether you have the ability to learn and adapt to a life other than the one for which you were bred. That is why you will be remaining here in the Alpha Quadrant when our ship returns home.”

“Will the Commonwealth permit my regiment to remain on their soil?”

The Founder shook her head. “Not your regiment, Taran’atar. Only you. I have decided that you’ll stay on as part of Ambassador Weyoun’s entourage.”

He thought he understood now. “As a bodyguard.”

“Not as such, no. I want you to learn about the peoples of the Alpha Quadrant—in particular, those who have banded together to form the Commonwealth. In short, the role I have in mind for you would be more that of a . . . cultural observer.”

It was difficult for him to conceal his revulsion at the prospect. Purely out of reflex, his posture stiffened, and he lifted his chin. “I was designed and born to be a soldier. I earn my life through service and battle. Without those duties, I will have no purpose.”

The Founder smiled. “Your purpose will be to learn to live as a free being.”

The very notion paralyzed him. “I have no idea how to live such a life.”

She answered as she walked away. “That’s all right, First. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

*  *  *

Despite a lifetime of being spoiled by the miracles of Federation medicine, Bashir had to admit a profound respect for the sickbay facilities of the Commonwealth’s jaunt ships. It had been less than three days since he had been narrowly plucked off the ShiKahr by the Enterprise’s subspace transporter. He had returned from the mission suffering from multiple disruptor wounds. His injuries had been excruciating as well as life-threatening. Had they been attended to in a Starfleet sickbay, he might have expected to feel lingering phantom pains for up to a week after his treatment. Instead, he had been restored to peak physical condition within a few days.

Maybe I should have taken notes.

Doctor Tropp, the Enterprise’s grouchy Denobulan chief medical officer, wasn’t keen on small talk, however, so all of Bashir’s attempts to wheedle some insights into how the man had achieved such exemplary outcomes had been rebuffed with grunts and grumbles. He switched off the display above Bashir’s biobed and pointed at the door. “You’re done. Get out.”

By the time Bashir replied, “Thank you, Doctor,” he found himself talking to Tropp’s back.

So much for professional courtesy.

The main sickbay doors opened. Captain Picard entered, followed by Saavik and Sarina. The captain beamed at Bashir. “I trust you’re feeling better, Doctor?”

“Quite. Thank you, Captain.” He added with a nod to Saavik, “Director.”

The Vulcan tilted her head toward the door. “Come. We can talk on our way.” Without waiting for him to agree, she turned and made her exit. Picard and Sarina followed her.

Bashir trailed them into the corridor. “Where are we going?”

“The subspace transporter room,” Picard said. “From there, the two of you will be heading home.”

In contrast to the deserted passageways Bashir and Sarina had seen on the ShiKahr, the corridors of the Enterprise bustled with activity. Its multispecies crew looked very much like those Bashir had come to know when he served in Starfleet. Being surrounded by such diversity working in harmony filled him with a nostalgic yearning for the career he had sacrificed in the service of his conscience and the name of duty.

He quickened his step to walk beside Picard. “Remarkable ship you have here.”

“Yes, it is.” A shadow of remorse passed over his stately features. “As was the ShiKahr. A pity she had to be destroyed—but better that than to see her fall into the wrong hands.”

Double doors parted ahead of Saavik, who ushered them into the subspace transporter room. “We owe you both a debt of gratitude. You risked your lives to prevent the Breen from finishing their mission. Thanks to you, we were spared the risk of sacrificing many ships and lives to stop them.”

“Just cleaning up our own mess,” Sarina replied. She paused at the steps to the transporter platform, then turned to face Saavik. “But y’know, this might not be the last time a problem from one of our universes bleeds into the other. If you’d like, I could suggest to my superiors at Starfleet Intelligence that they set up an intel-sharing program with you.”

Saavik shook her head. “That won’t be necessary, Miss Douglas. We’ve been sharing information and coordinating our activities with Starfleet Intelligence for a few years now. That’s how we came to know of Mister Cole and his organization.”

“I see.”

“Do you? Because I don’t think either of you appreciates the danger they pose to you. Their resources are not unlimited, but they are formidable, at least on the level of clandestine operations. Until now, you’ve underestimated them.”

“A mistake we won’t repeat,” Bashir said, “thanks to you. Now that we know they’re aware of our plans, we can adjust our strategy accordingly.”

“For your sake, I hope that’s true.” Saavik reached into a pocket of her robe and took out two small cylindrical devices. She handed one each to Bashir and Sarina. “These are quantum transceivers. If you choose to continue your mission to destroy Section Thirty-one from within, you’re going to need them. They work by sharing signals between quantum-entangled subatomic particles. Their transmissions cannot be intercepted or blocked.” She pointed at their controls. “Use the white buttons to contact each other from across any distance—even across the barrier between universes. Use the red buttons to contact me, if you need help from Memory Omega.”

Bashir and Sarina pocketed the transceivers. “Thank you,” Bashir said. “For everything.”

Saavik accepted their gratitude with a subtle bow of her head, and then she stepped over to the master control console. She keyed in a few commands, and the cavernous compartment trembled with the low vibrations of tremendous energies. “I’m going to beam you to a top secret subspace transport platform in your own universe, one located on the surface of Bajor.”

“Wait,” Bashir said. “There’s a subspace transporter on our Bajor?”

Captain Picard smiled. “As she said, we’ve been busy—and so have your comrades.”

Saavik asked Sarina, “I trust you can devise an explanation that will satisfy your Section Thirty-one handler?”

“I’ll think of something.” She took Bashir’s hand and led him up the steps to the subspace transporter platform. Looking back, she patted the transceiver in her pocket. “And just so you know—these things go both ways. If you ever need us, feel free to call.”

Saavik arched one eyebrow. “We just might do that, Miss Douglas.” She tapped a pad on her console. “Energizing.”

Now that Bashir knew what subspace transporting felt like, he knew to exhale rather than hold his breath before the coils charged to full power. When the oppressive grip of the annular confinement beam took hold of him, the pressure felt slightly more bearable on his empty lungs.

A beautiful curtain of light fell between him and the subspace transporter room inside the jaunt ship Enterprise—

*  *  *

—and then the radiance dimmed, the sound faded, and the pressure melted away. As form and color returned to the world around him, Bashir saw that he was in a subspace transporter chamber very similar to the one he had left, but with two major differences.

The first was the two banners suspended on the far wall, facing the platform: the official flags of the Third Republic of Bajor and the United Federation of Planets.

The second was the stunned-looking Bajoran behind the console that faced the platform. He wore a Starfleet uniform with lieutenant’s pips. Gaping at Bashir and Sarina, he stammered and tripped over half-formed words. “I, uh, you—but—this—”

“We know exactly how you feel,” Bashir said.

As he and Sarina stepped off the platform, the Bajoran found his voice. “Hang on! Who are you? Where did you come from?”

Sarina answered as she and Bashir walked out the door.

“Trust me, Lieutenant. You don’t want to know.”

Thirty-four

Sarina and Julian materialized in front of their villa on Andor. She felt as fatigued as she had ever been. The couple’s unexpected arrival at a top secret Starfleet Intelligence facility on Bajor several days earlier had stirred up considerable attention, and containing the news had proved to be a difficult and delicate task. Only after SI had provided them with new, ironclad identities and nondescript clothing had they been cleared to book passage home on a civilian transport.

Eight days and three ship transfers later, they had beamed down from Andor’s orbital transit hub, each of them carrying only a half-filled shoulder bag, and been delivered to within meters of their own front door. Julian plodded toward the house. “It’s good to be home.”

She trudged after him, up the slight incline. “Dibs on the bath.”

The front door unlocked as it sensed their approach. Julian opened it, took two steps inside the foyer, and stopped.

Noting his rigid posture and tense demeanor, Sarina halted in the doorway. “What’s—”

She saw what it was—or, to be more precise, who. Seated in an armchair in the living room, facing the foyer, was L’Haan, her Section 31 handler. The Vulcan woman sat with her legs crossed and her fingers steepled in front of her chest. “Welcome home.”

Sarina tossed her shoulder bag into the corner by the door and stepped forward, between Julian and L’Haan. “We’ve had a long trip. Can this wait?”

“Of course. My apologies. Please, take a few hours to unpack and shower while I sit and wait for the courtesy of your attention. After all, it’s not as if my time has any value.”

Vulcans might not have invented passive-aggressive sarcasm, Sarina mused, but they’ve clearly raised it to an art form. She looked back at Julian and nodded. He frowned at Sarina, set down his bag, and shut the front door. They walked together to the sofa opposite L’Haan and sat down. Sarina met her handler’s cold stare in kind. “Let’s get this over with.”

“I’m here for your after-action report.” L’Haan reached inside her black leather tunic and took out a small device. She pressed a button on its side. A red light on its top indicated that it was recording. She set it on the coffee table between them. “Where is the rest of your team?”

“Lost in action.” Sarina chose her words carefully. Telling the truth, even while withholding vital details, would help her avoid the facial microexpressions that betrayed lies. “We were forced to complete our assignment on our own, without their help.”

“How were they lost in action? Please be specific.”

“We were following the Breen cruiser when it came about and attacked us. They crippled our ship. Julian and I were left adrift in space until the Breen beamed us to the jaunt ship they’d captured during the battle. After that, we were their prisoners.”

L’Haan narrowed her eyes. Did she know Sarina was lying? Her hands parted, and she set them on the armrests of her chair. “Did you see the other members of your team die?”

“No,” Julian answered. “We were in a different part of the ship.”

Not bad. Until that moment, Sarina hadn’t realized what a splendid liar Julian could be.

Now that he had drawn L’Haan’s attention, she directed her next query at him. “Tell me about the end of your mission. How did you stop the Spetzkar from stealing the jaunt ship?”

“I made my way to the lowest level of the engineering section. Sarina went to the ship’s computer core. She sabotaged their comms and the software for their jaunt navigation. I tampered with the chroniton integrator, which made the jaunt drive’s artificial wormholes unstable. Then we—”

“I thought you said you were prisoners of the Breen.”

“We were,” Sarina cut in. “Some of the Commonwealth officers helped free us from the ShiKahr’s brig. They also told us what systems to hit to prevent the Breen from escaping with their vessel.”

Julian nodded. “We couldn’t have done it without their help.”

The Vulcan looked down her nose at the duo. “Continue, Doctor.”

“After we sabotaged the ship, we escaped before the Breen activated the jaunt drive. By the time they found out what we’d done, we’d been picked up by a Commonwealth starship.”

Sarina leaned forward and hoped to shift the conversation’s direction. “The Breen ship didn’t make it through, did it?”

“Not as far as we’ve been able to tell. Our latest intel from the Breen capital is that Domo Pran has scuttled the wormhole research program—due in no small part to the fact that its chief scientist, Thot Tran, defected to the Tzenkethi Coalition.”

L’Haan’s news reminded Sarina of Tran’s chivalrous defense of his female Tzenkethi research partner, Doctor Choska. A mirthful smirk slipped through her mask of disinterest. “Good for him.”

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing. Just a small salute to the power of love.”

The Vulcan wrinkled her brow in disapproval. “Nature’s most overrated aberration.” In a breath, she expunged all vestiges of emotion from her face. “Are there any other relevant details I need to know regarding your mission?”

Sarina shook her head. “No, that’s it. I’ll have a more detailed written report ready for you tomorrow.”

“Very well.” L’Haan got up, and Sarina and Julian stood to see her out. “I’ll be in touch, Agent Douglas.” She dipped her chin at Julian. “Doctor.”

They followed her to the front door. The Vulcan let herself out, and she pulled the door closed behind her.

Julian stepped past Sarina and cracked open the door to peek outside. Then he closed it and turned a baffled look at Sarina. “She’s gone.”

“And not a moment too soon.” She took his hand and tilted her head toward their bedroom suite. “C’mon. I hear a shower calling our names.”

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her with a grin toward the bedroom. “You need to get your hearing checked, my dear. Because that siren call is coming from the bed.”

Thirty-five

Tangled together beneath the sheets, Bashir and Sarina lay facing each other. Her skin was warm against his, and the air between them was rich with the scents of their coupling.

Tucked under Bashir’s pillows was a surveillance-blocking device developed by Starfleet Intelligence to shield them from Section 31’s seemingly omnipresent eavesdropping. He activated the scrambler to keep their whispers private. Then he stroked a lock of Sarina’s blond hair from her forehead and tucked it gently behind her ear. “Do you think she believed us?”

“No idea.” She pressed her forehead against his. “But I don’t think it matters. If they’re on to us, they’ll think we killed Cole and the others, even if we show them proof we didn’t.”

He sighed. “You may be right.”

“So? What now? If our cover’s blown, we should walk away from this.”

“It’s too late for that.” He felt the truth like a weight on his chest. “We’re in too deep. We’ve seen too much, and they know it. Thirty-one can’t let us walk away. If we try to scrap the mission, they’ll have no choice but to kill us.”

Disbelief put an edge on her voice. “It’s too dangerous. They know our true objective. How are we supposed to finish our mission if they’ve already seen us coming?”

“It’s a double bluff,” Bashir said. “They know why we’re working for them—but they don’t know we’ve been warned our cover’s blown. But if we run—”

“—they’ll know,” Sarina said, seeing his point, “and they’ll kill us. But if we go forward, we’ll be able to see the traps they set for us. We’ll be expecting them.”

“Exactly.”

There was fear behind her words. “But what’s our plan, Julian?”

It was a question he had dreaded answering. He knew what had to be done, though he still had no idea how to do it. But the only way to set the future in motion was to say the words.

“We no longer have time to go slowly. We have to jump ahead to the endgame as soon as we can.”

She looked into his eyes, perhaps in search of some reassurance that he wasn’t out of his mind. “Meaning what?”

“We have to turn the organization’s agents against one another. We need to make Section Thirty-one destroy itself from within.”

Sarina shook her head. “No, that’s insane. It’s too soon. We don’t have the time or the resources. It takes years to pull off an op like that.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” He hugged her close and whispered into her ear. “Because it’s the only move we have left.”

*  *  *

Enlarged holographic images of the other senior coordinators’ heads surrounded L’Haan inside the audience chamber. They were being transmitted over secure subspace channels so that they all could remain in seclusion as much as possible—a precaution made necessary by the increased attention the organization had received from Starfleet Intelligence in recent years.

Every whisker in Vasily Zeitsev’s snowy beard looked as thick as rope, and the wrinkles in his old and weathered face had been rendered as if they were tiny canyons in a sun-bleached desert. He asked in his heavy Russian accent, “Do we believe them?”

L’Haan considered his question. “I see no reason we should.”

“Then why not put an end to this charade?”

“Because we can’t be certain of what happened to Cole,” L’Haan said.

“And because Douglas and Bashir might still be useful,” said Caliq Azura. The Betazoid woman’s black irises were overpowered by her broad streaks of lavender eye shadow. Despite her youth, there was a shrewdness in her gaze. She had a knack for exposing others’ secrets—and for making everyone she met see her as whatever they hoped she might be. “It never hurts to have willing pawns.”

Her argument failed to sway Kestellenar th’Teshinaal, the organization’s eternal pessimist. “Pawns that turn against their own hardly seem worth keeping.”

Zeitsev scowled at the Andorian’s remark. “We were never their own, Tesh.”

“All the more reason to be rid of them,” said Jhun Kulkarno. The Zakdorn was a veteran of the organization, one whose decades of service were exceeded only by those of Zeitsev and L’Haan. “We know they want to act against us. How many chances should we give them to destroy everything we’ve fought and bled for? When do we say enough and cut them loose?”

“When I say so,” replied the only disguised voice in the conversation, the one that belonged to an ominous but conspicuously undefined silhouette—that of their mutual superior, the one they all knew only as Control. “Then, and no sooner.”

Julian Bashir and Sarina Douglas will return in

SECTION 31: CONTROL

Acknowledgments

Kara, my wife: Thank you for waiting until I finished writing this novel before starting our new diet. And thank you for persuading me to go on a diet. And for not smothering me when I snore.

My esteemed editors, publisher, and licensor: I offer you my gratitude for letting me continue to play with the coolest toys in one of science fiction’s all-time greatest sandboxes.

To former Star Trek: Deep Space Nine writer-producers Ira Steven Behr, Bradley Thompson, and David Weddle: Thank you, gentlemen, for incepting Section 31. Without shadow, light has no definition, and your creative contributions to the Star Trek universe have made it a richer and far more fascinating milieu, one that my imagination loves to call home.

Lucienne, my agent: Yes, I will get to work writing a new original novel now. Thanks for being patient. I’ll do my best to make my next original manuscript not suck.

Bourbon and vodka: You complete me. At the very least, you make it possible for me to complete my manuscripts. Don’t ever change, you crazy kids.

Last, I extend my gratitude to you, gentle readers, for continuing to support my flights of fancy, my acts of linguistic mendacity, my crimes of literary deception. Without you, there would be no reason for me to continue spinning tales in this fictional setting that I’ve loved all my life. So, because your support has made it possible for me to go on contributing to a shared universe whose core message is one of hope for the future, I say to you all: Thank you.

Until next time, adieu!

About the Author

David Mack is too weird to live and too rare to die.

Find out more at his official website:

www.davidmack.pro

Or follow him on Twitter:

@DavidAlanMack

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Pocket Books

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Cover art by Tim Bradstreet

Cover design by Alan Dingman

ISBN 978-1-4767-5308-9

ISBN 978-1-4767-5313-3 (ebook)

Contents

Historian’s Note

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Tirty-One

Chapter Tirty-Two

Chapter Tirty-Three

Chapter Tirty-Four

Chapter Tirty-Five

Acknowledgments

About the Author