Chapter 1

Federation's Cardassia relief effort makes progress

Jake Sisko
Federation Press Service

CARDASSIA CITY, CARDASSIA PRIME – Already on Cardassia Prime a week, the relief team, sent by the Federation and headed by Starfleet officers, is making tremendous progress.

“We’ve got a good start in the capitol city,” said relief team coordinator Dr. Julian Bashir. “Similar efforts in other cities across the globe are meeting with success as well."

Coranum Sector, once a high-class residential area, is now the site of numerous refugee camps. Survey teams are assessing the needs of the Cardassians, victims of the Dominion occupation, and attempting to attend to them as rapidly as possible.

“Our priorities right now are to get the power grid and central computers up and running,” Bashir said. “From there we can rely less on generators to keep replicator facilities and the clinic going.”

*****

It was late. At this time of night, most of the activity in Cardassia City's relief clinic had died down. To conserve energy, any lights that weren't needed had been shut off; the halls of the old courthouse were yawning, dark passageways.

It made one appreciate camera equipment that was complete with night vision sensors, that was for sure.

As he headed for the main ward, Jake Sisko touched a control on his arm console. The three hovering camera spheres responded accordingly, moving in a steady triangle formation with him at its center. In this arrangement, with the contact lenses activated, Jake could focus on the spheres' images and have an almost eye-level perspective, not much different than looking through goggles. The sensors kicked in, and the hallway was now clearly illuminated to him in glowing green. He quickened his pace. If he wanted to catch the end of the evening shift, he'd have to hurry.

As he reached the central room, Jake swept it with a quick glance, then sent his camera globes zooming into the side rooms, looking for his quarry. The ward was empty, save for the patients – there were plenty of them. There was only a nurse in the small office off the main chamber. Jake focused on the third sphere, sending it to the supply room. From the sphere's sweeping perspective – CurveballVision, Jake liked to call it – he saw the storage room speeding by, shelves and equipment blurring along the edges. And finally, he spotted him. Shane Tejral, the leader of the assessment team left here at the end of the war, was digging through crates on a lower shelf. From what Jake could see through the camera, he was looking for something and wasn't having much luck.

“Ah-hah!” Jake murmured. He made a quick dash through the ward, dodging around several occupied beds. The two other spheres zipped after him with enthusiasm. This was his chance.

He'd read up on Shane Tejral's background, as any good journalist would. The man was a veritable jack-of-all-trades, in some ways. Basic medical training in multi-species areas, an assortment of technical qualifications, environmental restoration experience, administrative background, and a variety of other credentials. Just about everything he might need as an emergency services director, though he'd never been in charge of such a mission before. Tejral's most recent assignment had been as part of the relief team overseeing the restoration of the southern continent of Betazed, after the Dominion had been pushed out. That was enough to test the mettle of anyone.

“Mr. Tejral!" Jake couldn’t help coughing after the short run. The air here never seemed free of dust, no matter how much they tried to keep the hospital sterile and filtered. “I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me."

Tejral glanced at him, and at the cameras hovering around them both, and seemed to restrain a sigh. He leaned his hands against his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “I don't exactly have time to chat, Mr. Sisko. What I have is a ward full of sick people and a general shortage of supplies and personnel. And at the moment, I’ve got to find a crate of Ritoxian that’s obviously been mislabeled or misplaced — or misappropriated. Under the circumstances that’s equally likely.”

“Well, that’s part of why I wanted to interview you,” Jake returned. He put himself strategically between Tejral and the door, so that Tejral would have to push past him to leave the room. “To let the Federation citizens back home see what you’re up against here. Why this is important, what the needs are, what your mission is trying to accomplish.”

Tejral made a noise that could have been a snort or a cough. He edged his way between Jake's shoulder and the row of shelves. "Excuse me, please."

Jake held his ground. "This won't take long. I just want to get some input from the leaders of the mission."

"So why are you asking me? This stopped being 'my mission' a while back.” Somehow, Tejral got by Jake without touching him and walked briskly for the door.

Jake followed determinedly. "You've been heading up the relief effort since the end of the war, Mr. Tejral. Doesn't that qualify you?"

"You'd think so." The older man frowned at him without slowing, impatience evident in his round face. "Dr. Bashir's the big feature story, isn't he? Why don't you go follow him around for a while?"

Sorry. Did that already. “Mr. Tejral, do you feel Dr. Bashir is going to get credit for what you’ve done here?” Jake trailed him through the main ward, refocusing the camera spheres.

“Mr. Sisko," Tejral replied evenly, "don't you find it somewhat more than coincidental that Starfleet Command decided to send a journalist from Deep Space Nine along with Bashir on this mission of good will?”

The abrupt switch in topic was startling, but Jake didn't let it throw him off balance. “Starfleet didn't send me, first of all."

“That so."

“I joined the mission with about two hours’ notice – and I had to pester Dr. Bashir to get him to bring me along.”

If that made any impact on Tejral's conclusions, it didn't seem to show. He shrugged. “All the same. I’m sure somebody’s already figured out how to make good use of that bit of serendipity.”

He took a sharp turn as he spoke, and his voice echoed. Jake found himself in one of the lift shafts, stretching three stories up. The lift car was stopped at the mainly-unused third floor, inactive for now. With power as limited as it was, the lifts were only used for carrying heavy equipment and critical patients between levels. Tejral made his way to the ladder and hefted himself onto the rungs.

“Any individuals in particular?”

“Just people in high places," he said, glancing up the shaft as if said people were floating above their heads. "The kind of people who spend a good part of their careers figuring out how to manipulate the actions of individuals like you and me for their own benefit.”

That stung – but Jake was determined to follow through and keep the interview professional. “You seem to feel there’s a lot of behind-the-scenes maneuvering involved in the mission.”

“I’m quite sure of it, actually.”

“Why’s that?” Jake began climbing after Tejral, the ever-present cameras circling the shaft above him.

Tejral ignored the cameras, focusing his attention to the climb, hand-over-hand. “You seem to be pretty clever. Work it out. My staff and I spend three months here, trying to save lives and help these people rebuild. We don't have the supplies we need. We watch people die and all we get from the bureaucrats and politicians back home are yawns and impatient so-whats and brush-offs. Nobody cares.” Tejral paused just below the second floor landing and glanced down. “Then suddenly your Doctor Bashir shows up with ships full of supplies, and personnel, and plenty of support from back home – and wouldn't you know. A full-length feature in the Federation Press Service.”

With that, he pulled himself out of the shaft and vanished from sight. Jake scurried the rest of the way up and went after him. “You find that significant beyond the fact that somebody finally started to pay attention?”

“Yes, I do,” Tejral replied curtly. He entered one of the upper-level supply rooms and headed for a cabinet in the back. Opening it, he began systematically checking the labels of each container.

“In what way?"

“I find it highly suggestive that Bashir has friends up there in the ranks who can get things done for him. Twenty-five years in the service, and I've never gotten that kind of response from our superiors back home." Tejral smirked slightly. "But then, I’m not some genetically enhanced golden boy Carrington nominee by thirty, with ambassador friends and one eye on the prestige of having publicly saved a planet.”

Jake didn’t want to follow that up. Bashir’s enhancements were now part of Starfleet record, but he wasn’t sure Julian would be pleased to hear a broadcast interview discussing that background and speculating on how it might impact on his medical decisions and actions, or who might be supporting his career behind the scenes. Ambition and arrogance were two of the major sins of the enhanced, as many people saw it; it sounded like Tejral believed that too.

So how could he turn this interview away from Tejral’s obvious anger with Dr. Bashir and back to something that he actually use?

Abruptly, Tejral slapped his palm against the cabinet door in frustration. "Damn it. Where the hell did it go?!"

“If you could elaborate –”

He looked up, and by all indications the last of his patience was gone. “I don't have time for this. Get to the point and then get out of my way. You've got 10 seconds."

Jake fought to keep his thoughts clear. “All right, I’ll be quick. This mission is important; you know that, you started it, you’ve shepherded it this far. But you obviously have doubts about the motivation behind the current Federation efforts here on Cardassia–”

Tejral groaned, then suddenly reached out and grabbed one of the camera spheres. It vibrated in his fingers until he depressed a control, and the vid went dark. “Mr. Sisko,” he said precisely, “we’re going to take this off the record for a moment. Doubts? I’ve got a lot of doubts – and they’re based on experience. Politics are always part of the game. I never was willing to play that game; that’s why I’m not in charge anymore. Bashir is willing to play the game, and I’m sure he's very good at it. He’d have to be, to have kept his career when his little secret got out.”

He was squeezing the sphere. Jake opened his mouth to tell him not to break the camera, but decided against it. Tejral was holding nothing back.

“Now," he continued, “as to whether Bashir can handle the job here, I’ve got doubts about that, too. Oh, I’m sure he can manage, for a while. But I’ve read a lot about what happens when the genetically enhanced are under pressure. Their cracks show. Sooner or later. Sometimes in the most unexpected places. And I doubt Dr. Bashir is any different.”

He studied the camera for a second, then glanced back at Jake. “And now this discussion, like this interview, is over.”

Tejral depressed the control; the video came back. Then, as the sphere's antigravs kicked in, he flung it down the aisle between the shelves, swatted one of the others out of the way, and strode out of the supply room.

Jake had been trying to keep the globes focused on Tejral's face. The sudden spinning as two of them were knocked out of his control made his own head spin for a second.

By the time he reined in the spheres and reached the corridor, Tejral was gone.

*****

To think I came all the way out here hoping to avoid late nights doing paperwork.

The thought made Julian Bashir roll his eyes. The room he was working in was small and poorly lit. His back ached from leaning over a console for hours on end, and his eyes burned with lost sleep.

Incoming files and data blinked and streamed across the screen in a collage of insets. For the U.S.S. Powell, one of four Starfleet relief vessels positioned around the globe, morning was well underway and the first daily status reports of several major cities were coming in. The U.S.S. Hippocrates had sent in its status reports hours ago, and now it was sending lists of supplies they'd have to replicate – medicine, generators, the usual deficiencies. And the U.S.S. Barton, in an earlier hour of night, reported its own concerns demanding attention. Namely, an outbreak of a particularly deadly bacteria near the ruins of Lakarian City. They all needed supplies, they all claimed priority.

And that didn't even include the myriad problems here in Cardassia City.

It was Bashir's job to compile the data and report it back to Starfleet, review the recommendations from various Federation and Cardassian experts, and determine which group would get what supplies and in what order. He had a network of sources around the globe helping him, thank God for that, but it was still easy to picture himself struggling to hold the whole thing together. It was certainly a lot more bureaucracy than he was used to. At this point, Bashir had developed a good deal of respect for Colonel Kira's competence in these matters.

He sat back in the uncomfortable Cardassian chair and rubbed his neck. As he did, the computer froze, and Bashir held his breath. In a moment, it came back to life with a rapid sequence of clicks. He relaxed. It had already crashed twice this evening, making system navigation feel like walking on eggshells. Until they could rebuild power lines and computer networks within the city, they had to rely on portable consoles and stand-alone generators. And that meant that all information sent to Cardassia City for Bashir's consideration had to be funneled through the computers of the U.S.S. Nightingale and relayed to the self-powered units on the surface. Without a doubt, Bashir had a counterpart on board the Nightingale, just as tired and frustrated as he was, scrambling to keep the flood of data in motion without disrupting the ship's functions.

The figures on the screen were starting to swim in front of him. Bashir closed his eyes and shook his head clear. Then he stood up. The reports would be there waiting when he got back. Right now, if he didn't get away from the console and out of this room, he'd start verbally abusing the machinery and go completely over the edge.

Yawning, he walked out into the corridor and headed toward the main chamber. The courthouse seemed completely deserted. Only the people in the graveyard shifts were up now. Bashir decided to head to the kitchen for replicated coffee. Maybe there'd be someone else taking a break there. Someone with a face and a nice, sentient voice.

"You damn piece of Cardassian...."

Bashir froze in his tracks. Maybe it was a sense of caution that made him pause and take a slow breath before walking back to the door he'd just passed, or maybe he was just too tired to leap into action. In any case, the hesitation ended up being prudent. Instead of the angry confrontation he'd expected to see when he stepped through the door, all Bashir found was an empty room.

Then there was a muffled thump, and Lt. Commander Hart pulled herself out from under a computer terminal with another muttered curse.

Bashir breathed a small sigh of relief. Racism in regards to computer technology was forgivable.

Hart got to her feet. Her expression was sour as she slapped at her pant legs, wiping the delicate layer of grime from her hands. "Six hours," she muttered, still addressing the Cardassian equipment. "Six hours of this nonsense. How about I whap you with a prybar a few times and then we'll see if you want to give me any more 'C0952: datastream violation' errors, you...."

Her mouth snapped shut when she saw Bashir. He turned slightly and gestured toward the door. "Am I interrupting? I can come back later," he said.

She looked a bit embarrassed, but her sarcasm didn't slip a notch. "Oh, you can stay if you want. You'll come in handy if I pull a muscle."

Bashir snorted a dry laugh, and for a moment it was as if they were relating to each other. Then Hart straightened and crossed her arms, her face bland. "Something I can do for you, Doctor?"

"Not really, sir," he said. "Problems with the computer?"

The commander shrugged and turned back to the metal counter where her toolkit lay scattered about. "A few, but nothing I can't handle. Don't worry, I'll get the systems running well within your allotted time frame. Heaven forbid we get behind schedule."

The acid tone of that last remark was hard to ignore. Bashir managed as best he could. "Let me guess," he said lightly. "Problems interfacing Starfleet equipment to Cardassian processing cores?"

She flicked a glance in his direction, then walked over to the terminal and started jabbing at the input controls. The tense set of her shoulders told him that she'd been entering that particular data set many times that night. "More or less," she finally replied. "The EPS lines are connecting properly, but I can't get the processors to communicate. It'll be a few more hours."

A few more hours and it would be morning. Bashir took a small step closer. "If there's any way I can help...."

Hart didn't answer. She turned her back and leaned over the terminal, brow furrowed. In a moment, there was a fretful chirp, and she sighed. Another failed attempt.

Bashir considered leaving. She certainly didn't want him here, and he knew she was more than capable of fixing the problem eventually. But his stubborn side urged him across the room before the rest of him could make a decision. Stepping over random cases of tools and Starfleet equipment, he walked up to the terminal and stood at her elbow.

"Here, let me see," he said. Hart frowned at him for a moment, but eventually stepped aside to give him room. Bashir studied the screen, as much to avoid her cool stare as to determine the error.

"Datastream violation," he read aloud. The term sounded familiar. "Is the program accessing the coprocessor and peripherals group before it crashes?"

That surprised her. She placed her hands on her hips and gave him a quizzical look. "Excuse me?"

"The CPG. Does the access function work, or is the failure prior to that?"

Hart looked rather puzzled for several long moments. Then she shook her head resignedly. "All right, Doctor, I'll play. No, it does not access the CPG. Now how did you know, and what in God's name do you know about coprocessors in the first place?"

Bashir grinned. For the moment, at least, he'd caught her attention and gained the upper hand. "Actually, I don't know more than the basics. But Chief O'Brien knew them like the back of his hand for a while early on. And he complained about them frequently. In detail."

"Ah," Commander Hart said, nodding as if with great revelation. "And you, of course, remember every nuance with precise accuracy."

He kept his reply flippant. "It comes in handy sometimes. In any case, maybe I can help. Getting Starfleet and Cardassian systems to interface was a common problem on DS9."

"Well, they weren't exactly made to work together," she shot back, and briefly, Bashir allowed himself to brood on the symbolism of that comment. "I've already thought of Miles' work on the subject, Doctor. His old reports are the only reason the program is compiling right now. But there's still a glitch in the data flow that he didn't account for. There might be some damaged memory in the Cardassian subroutines, and I doubt you have any borrowed expertise in that area." She shrugged, drumming her fingers on the console. "And if that's the case, you're wasting your time. Maybe you should let me handle this."

Bashir's jaw tightened. It was far too late at night for arguments, especially with everything else going on. All at once, he was determined to ignore her hints until daybreak if he had to. "Miles once mentioned a jury-rig he had to set up," he said patiently. "Something having to do with subwarp Cardassian elements interacting with Starfleet equipment running at faster-than-light speeds."

Hart stopped short of rolling her eyes, and settled on another shrug instead. "The FTL datastream has to be funneled through a revised Cardassian subroutine before the two systems can translate assembly code. I already checked that. The subroutine checks out fine – the problem must be more deeply embedded."

"Maybe not," Bashir countered. "I remember there were problems when the subroutine was overloaded – problems that resulted in errors like this one. Miles was constantly adjusting the Cardassian equipment to deal with larger data flow."

"The amount of data isn't the issue," she said. The frustration in her voice was genuine now, focused on the problem eluding her. "I'm running routines far more basic than Deep Space Nine's usual work load, and it still won't work." She scowled at the Starfleet console. "Typical. Starfleet gets hell-bent on upgrading their coprocessors, and they sacrifice versatility to do it. I'll have to configure the system from square one if this keeps up...."

And without warning, there it was. A snatch of memory, as vivid as if he was reliving it, leaped to the front of his brain. He saw himself sitting in Quark's Bar on a Monday evening four years ago; he half-felt the remembered amusement and boredom as Miles O'Brien ranted on, annoyance thick in his tone. "Bloody Cardie system – it's so damn sensitive," the chief had grumbled. "Anything faster than 3600 millicochranes and the whole thing goes crashing down. 'Versatility of Cardassian processing cores,' my...."

"What kind of upgrades?" The question all but burst out of Bashir, stopping both O'Brien and Hart in mid-sentence. "Have they increased the rate of data flow in recent years?"

She hesitated, her gaze shifting to one side. "Yes," she finally said. It sounded like she was starting to guess his train of thought. "Minimum levels are up to 4325 – "

"Millicochranes," he finished triumphantly. "That might be the problem, Commander."

"It just might," Hart said. She frowned, weighing her options. After a moment, she grabbed a decoupler from her kit and knelt beside the terminal. "I can only lower the minimum level for testing purposes – we'd have to replicate older coprocessor models if this is the case."

She was speaking more to herself by this time. Bashir stood back and let her work. After a long stretch of busy silence, she pushed herself to her feet and entered the test procedure again. The computer paused, blipping thoughtfully as the program ran its course. Hart tapped the decoupler against the edge of the console and waited.

Ten seconds later, the computer released a cheerful fanfare of chimes, announcing the success of the procedure.

Hart smiled wryly. "Well, what do you know."

It was a relief – a small one, yes, but still worth something. Bashir allowed himself a slow exhale.

It didn't last long. The commander turned from the computer and crossed her arms in front of her. "So now what, Doctor? You're going to offer me a cup of coffee? Start a cozy little chat, try to get to know me better?"

That was almost funny. "It ... would have been a nice idea."

Hart sighed and shook her head. She turned away slightly to place the decoupler on the counter. When she faced him again, he could see just how tired she was. "We're not friends – you know that, or at least I hope you do. I don't want to be here. I have a job to do, and the faster I get it finished, the faster I can go back home or to prison or wherever Starfleet decides to send me." Her expression darkened. "I'm not interested in smoothing things over, and I never asked for your help. None of us did."

"I see." Bashir looked at the glowing panel of the console. How do I end a conversation like this? "Well, have a good night, Commander"?

She solved the problem for him. "I can't do anything else for the computer until I can replicate another CPG. If it's all the same to you, I'll let that wait until morning. Excuse me...." With that, she turned her back and knelt to deactivate the computer. The lights of the panel flickered with the shut-down sequence, then dimmed and went out.

Chapter Two

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