Cathedral Read online

  “Progressive Neurological Degeneration,” Bashir Said.

  It felt strangely liberating to voice aloud the thought he’d tried so hard to avoid for the past two days. “At the rate I’m declining, by tomorrow I’ll probably no longer be able to function as the ship’s chief medical officer.”

  “You don’t know that,” Ezri said.

  “I can feel it, Ezri.” He decided that now wasn’t an occasion that called for a stiff upper lip. “I believe I’m…reverting. Regressing to what I was before Adigeon Prime.”

  Her eyes widened with sudden understanding. “Before you were genetically enhanced.”

  “I can’t begin to explain it,” he said, nodding. “But somehow our encounter with the alien artifact has begun…undoing my genetic resequencing.”

  She seemed to mull that over for a moment before responding. “It sounds crazy, but it fits. Nog and I are reverting, too, if you think about it. He’s become the two-legged Ferengi he used to be. I’ve been turned into the unjoined Trill I was before the Destiny brought me together with Dax. And you’re becoming…” She trailed off.

  Slow, plodding, uncoordinated, dumb Jules Bashir.

  Jules. He had repudiated that name during his childhood, after his parents had, in effect, repudiated him—when they’d had his DNA illegally rewritten when he was only six years old. Whatever Jules might eventually have accomplished left to his own devices had been rendered moot from that point on, forever after consigned to the shadow-world of roads not taken. Inaccessible mirror universes.

  He vividly recalled the day, three short years ago, when he had taken his parents to task over this. Facing the very real possibility of dismissal from Starfleet because of his illegal genetic alterations, he had wished that Richard and Amsha Bashir had never taken him to Adigeon Prime, that they’d instead simply allowed nature to take its course with young Jules, for better or for worse.

  That errant wish now appeared to be coming true—and the brutal reality of it horrified him. He realized now that it meant the loss of abilities and talents which he had come to take for granted over the better part of three decades. The loss of what he sometimes feared were the only things that gave him value as a human being.

  The loss of self.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2002 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-4565-1

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Cover art by Cliff Nielsen

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

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  To my wife, Jennifer Dottery, whose patience approaches the asymptotic infinite

  —M.A.M.

  For Tim Tuohy, our past editor on the

  Star Trek: Deep Space Nine comics at

  Marvel. Thanks for giving us an assignment with Starfleet!

  —A.M.

  Acknowledgments

  The authors wish to acknowledge that the poem quoted in Chapter 23 comprises the closing lines of Through the Looking-Glass And What Alice Found There by Lewis Carroll—a book much beloved by young Jules Bashir, as well as by many previous generations of youthful adventurers.

  We also owe a debt of gratitude to our editor, Marco Palmieri, whose patient efforts made this a much better book than it otherwise would have been.

  I am a part of all that I have met;

  Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough

  Gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fades

  For ever and for ever when I move…

  —ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON,

  “ULYSSES”

  CATHEDRAL

  1

  “Are we certain it was suicide?”

  Lieutenant Ro Laren turned to Sergeant Shul as they stalked down the corridor, with Dr. Simon Tarses following close behind. “I’m not certain of anything yet, Shul,” Ro replied. “At this point, what I know is that Councillor zh’Thane says that Thriss committed suicide in Shar’s quarters.”

  Tarses spoke up, his brow furrowed. “Thriss seemed to be beyond the worst of her depression when she was working her last shift at the infirmary. And Counselor Matthias was optimistic about her improvement. I find it hard to believe that Thriss would have taken her own life.”

  “If she didn’t, then we’re looking at a murder investigation, Doctor,” Shul said. “And I don’t mean to be crass, but with everything else happening on this station, we don’t need that to contend with, as well.”

  Ro grunted in agreement, then, before they got much farther down the hall, spoke in a low voice. After all, Andorian antennae were very sensitive, and she had no clue who might be listening two junctions down the corridor. “Whatever the situation, please remember that Andorian customs are different from ours. I haven’t been able to brief you before now on certain…aspects of their relationships, but I suspect you may have already picked up clues along the way. This will be very delicate, especially with Councillor zh’Thane involved.”

  Both men nodded, and they continued toward Shar’s quarters. No one was there to meet them outside the door, so Ro touched the wall panel that activated the door chime. “Councillor, it’s Lieutenant Ro. I have Doctor Tarses with me.”

  The door slid open, and it took Ro’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light within the room. Just inside the door was zh’Thane, her usually immaculate hair slightly disheveled. From her garments, Ro guessed that she had been asleep when she had gotten the call about the tragedy.

  As Ro moved to enter the room, zh’Thane held up a pale blue hand as if to stop her. “Who is this other man?”

  “This is Sergeant Shul Torem,” said Ro, gesturing toward her deputy. “He’s well versed in Starfleet protocol pertaining to forensic investigations. And he can be trusted to be discreet.”

  Tarses spoke up. “Councillor, there may be a chance to save Thriss’s life if you’ll allow me to attend to her.”

  Zh’Thane swept her arm toward the interior of the room, where two figures crouched in the darkness, their arms around their legs and their heads bowed. The body of Thriss lay on the bed, perfectly still. “She seems quite beyond help, Doctor. If you can do something, please do, but do not violate the integrity of the body. The skin must not be broken.”

  Tarses nodded, then moved into the room with his tricorder in one hand and his medkit slung over a shoulder. As zh’Thane moved back a step, Ro and Shul stepped into the room, though they did not spread out.

  “Can you tell me what happened, Councillor?” Ro asked.

  “Dizhei came to Shar’s quarters, concerned that Thriss’s depression might be more consuming than she had revealed to us. She found her on the bed, already dead. She called Anichent and me to the room, and I, in turn, called you.”

  Shul spoke up, his voice cool and low. “Was there any sign of struggle?”

  “No, Deputy,” zh’Thane said. “Dizhei had tried to move her, to get her to respond.
But there did not appear to be any struggle, and certainly nothing dangerous was found. Other than this.” She produced a small hypospray from the folds of her robe. “She was clutching this in her hand.”

  His hands gloved, Shul gingerly took the device from zh’Thane and placed it into a small plastic bag he had pulled from a belt pouch. “Has anyone else touched this?” he asked as he handed the bag to Dr. Tarses, who had already opened his tricorder.

  “Not to my knowledge. I pulled it from Thriss’s grasp myself.”

  Ro looked the councillor directly in the eyes, steeling herself. Zh’Thane was already intimidating enough, and the situation was fraught with potential for giving offense. “Councillor, you have made it very clear to me that Andorian customs are not something to be shared with outside parties. However, I am unsure what the correct customs are in this situation. Because this happened aboard Deep Space 9, I am…obliged to investigate further. But I don’t wish to make the situation any more painful, either for you or for Thriss’s bondmates.”

  “I appreciate your discretion, Lieutenant,” zh’Thane replied. “This is indeed a very private matter, and while I am cognizant of your need for answers, I must insist that this room—and the body of my son’s bondmate—be considered off-limits to any Starfleet or station staff for the foreseeable future.”

  Shul began to object, but zh’Thane cut him off. “I will grant you a few minutes to gather whatever information you require, but I can assure you that this unfortunate situation is a—” Her voice caught in her throat for a moment, and she looked to the ceiling before continuing. “Faced with what she felt was an untenable situation, Thriss took her own life. There is no mystery to be solved. Nor has a crime been committed, other than the crime of selfishness on the part of my son, who tore apart his bond. And on the part of Thriss, who made certain that none of her bondmates could have a future together.”

  Zh’Thane gestured for Ro and Shul to search the room, then told the computer to raise the light level. As Shul began inspecting the area, Ro looked at the kneeling forms of Dizhei and Anichent, both of whom appeared to be quietly meditating. Their antennae curled limply before them, like wilted flowers. Their faces downcast, they held themselves as still as statues. Indigo-tinged blood was still wet from gashes furrowed into their uncovered arms, and Ro could see the same blood crusted on their fingertips.

  Ro moved to the bedside where Tarses was still scanning Thriss. In a low voice, he said, “I don’t think there’s any hope here, Ro. Whatever killed her stopped everything cold. There’s not even any residual neuro-electrical activity or muscular contractions.”

  “We have the hypospray that zh’Thane found in her hand. Maybe that will tell us what killed her,” Ro said, sparing a glance in Tarses’ direction. The doctor was preoccupied with his tricorder’s display, apparently fine-tuning his scan for some particular substance.

  Ro looked around the bed for any clues. There were not, as the councillor had said, any signs of struggle, other than those probably caused by the Andorians trying to rouse their partner. None of the vases and sculptures near the bed or on its headboard were broken or toppled. She lifted Thriss’s hands, checking under her nails. She didn’t see any dried blood; it hadn’t been Thriss who clawed at her bondmates. They must have injured themselves—or perhaps each other—in their grief.

  A few moments later, Dr. Tarses cleared his throat, prompting both Ro and zh’Thane to look in his direction. “It certainly appears that the substance in the hypospray was the cause of death,” he said quietly. “Arithrazine.”

  Ro frowned. “I thought arithrazine was for treating theta-radiation exposure. Like the Europani refugees.”

  “It is,” the doctor nodded. “But it’s designed to work in concert with the radiation in the patient’s system. By itself—and in large enough doses—arithrazine can cause rapid neural depolarization. And it explains the arithrazine ampules I discovered missing from the infirmary about an hour ago.”

  Ro was startled by a sudden motion from the kneeling mourners. She felt her body tense involuntarily, reminded of Thriss’s earlier outburst of violence at Quark’s bar. But neither Anichent nor Dizhei appeared to pose an imminent threat. They both appeared crushed, defeated.

  “Then I trust that all your immediate questions have been answered, Lieutenant,” zh’Thane said, facing Ro. Ro noticed then that zh’Thane’s own hands were clasped behind her back, perhaps to conceal the visible trail her own grief had left upon her body.

  Ro nodded to Shul and Tarses, and they began to gather themselves to depart. “Certainly, Councillor. I believe we have enough information for now. Is there anything I can do to help…to provide for funeral or memorial arrangements?”

  “No. Again, these quarters are to be considered off-limits to all station personnel.” Zh’Thane gave Ro a sharp look, as if to warn her. “If I need to, I’ll discuss the matter with Colonel Kira to make certain this requirement is honored. I will contact you regarding other arrangements as we need them.”

  Ro was uncomfortable with the councillor’s near-threatening tone, but knew that now was not the time to debate it. “I’ll make certain to discuss the matter with Colonel Kira myself, and advise my personnel of your…restrictions.”

  “We will need a stasis chamber for Thriss’s body,” zh’Thane said, seeming not to notice that Ro had spoken. “Please have it delivered as soon as possible. Discreetly.”

  “Certainly.” Ro eyed Tarses, who nodded almost imperceptibly as he moved toward the door with Shul.

  As zh’Thane turned away from her, Ro began to make her way to the door as well. She stooped near Anichent and Dizhei, but carefully avoided coming into contact with them. They maintained their crouched positions, both of them seeming to be entirely inward-directed.

  In a low voice, Ro said, “My sincere condolences on the loss of your bondm—”

  Anichent lunged at her like a mad targ, his eyes wild, spittle flying from his mouth. The strangled growl he let out was unlike anything Ro had ever heard before, and she toppled backward, kicking out to try to get into a defensive posture.

  Shul drew his phaser and leveled it at Anichent, but there was no need. Anichent froze where he stood, though his chest heaved and drool still came from his mouth. Ro backed away and stood, holding one hand up to calm Shul, and the other in front of her, palm outward, to placate Anichent.

  “Please leave,” zh’Thane said, her back still toward them. “As you can surely see by now, Shar’s choice not to conform to his predestined bonding has destroyed not just Thriss’s life. My son has also ravaged the lives of Anichent and Dizhei.”

  Ro and the others backed out of the room in silence. None of them spoke until they were back at the Promenade, where the bustle of life replaced the pall of death.

  2

  A gout of blue flame ripped through the long ship’s irregular hull as it sped through space, maneuvering from side to side in an effort to dodge further blasts from its pursuers. The disruptor weapons on the larger craft were mounted on gimbals, allowing them to track its smaller prey’s movements closely.

  The smaller ship accelerated, the lambent internal fires of its propulsion system becoming preternaturally bright. Another salvo struck her laterally, slicing deep into the hull plating amidships. Undeterred, the small craft’s pilot continued to spin and weave, evading the next burst of energy. Moments later, another blast struck a glancing blow, shearing off an extrusive wing element. But the wounded vessel soldiered on, headed toward a somewhat less empty region of space, where fragments of cometary ice shimmered as they made their centuries-long procession around this system’s distant primary star.

  And then, in front of the fleeing craft, yet another ship loomed. Exiting the system’s Oort cloud was a large, gray, nearly flat vessel flanked by blue-illuminated engine nacelles integrated into its hull. Across its nacelles and protruding dorsal surface the designation NX-74205 was visible, thanks to several running lights.

  The damag
ed ship swooped to give the newcomer a wide berth, only to catch yet another disruptor blast on its port side. Molecular fires danced across the hull of the now all but wrecked vessel, and crystallizing atmospheric gases rushed out as she careened forward—now on a collision course with the newly arrived ship.

  A short time earlier

  Ensign Thirishar ch’Thane sat alone on the floor of the darkened quarters he shared with Nog. He listened intently to the quiet, taking solace in this solitary, lightless space. Since Nog was currently on a survey mission with Lieutenant Dax and Dr. Bashir, he would probably have the room to himself for the next several hours. At least until his next duty shift began.

  The only light in the room came from the holo of a laughing Thriss, which blazed down at him from the room’s small desk. The image captured a few crystalline moments, endlessly replaying her soundless laugh, the carefree toss of her platinum hair. Looking at the image was sheer torture.

  But he owed her a penance. Owed it to Dizhei and Anichent as well. Owed it to every Andorian who had ever dared hope for a better future.

  He couldn’t bring himself to look away.

  So far, Shar had shared the news of Thriss’s suicide only with Ezri, whom he knew he could trust not to tell anyone else. But how long would it be before Nog or others among this crew of forty began guessing at what was troubling him? Shar was already certain that his decision to sit out the shuttlecraft Sagan’ s current survey mission had already given Nog cause to suspect that all was not right with him.

  A yellow alert klaxon sounded, and a light began flashing rhythmically above the doorway.

  Shar regarded the intrusive illumination contemplatively. After ordering the computer to extinguish its light and noise, he was only mildly surprised to note how little it concerned him.

  And he wondered if he had finally begun to drink from the same cup of despair that had killed both Thriss and his future.