Star Trek: From Risa With Love--An Adventure Of Dr. Julian Bashir

Thank you all for reading!

Thanks. Frankly, I somehow just knew that there was more to Risa than just Sex, Sexyness, and Sexuality--particularly considering how, when Jadzia proclaimed the glories of room service in "Change Of Heart", Worf's thoughts immediately went to Risa.

Also, you're really on to something with it being Bashir's reflections. In Flemming's tales, the descriptive passages are often revealed to be Bond's own reflections of the location.

Absolutely. Far too often, it was used only as something of a gag--"seven-point-three-five minutes", etc. As it were, I'd imagine that was why Mr. Siddig didn't exactly care for the "enhancements" arc; he may have felt it could never really be taken seriously.

Quite correct, Badger. You could say it was a most--shall we say--elementary combination.

Thank you, my friend. And you're quite correct, Badger--it was a nod to the established backstory of James Bond. While Cynthia isn't quite a full-fledged "female Bond"...she is a very promising young agent, and I thought it'd be a nice touch.

Again--thanks for your reading, and your reviews!

 

Okay. Now, time to really kick things off.

A couple notes: Continuity hawks should recognize Code 47 as Starfleet's most secure channel from "Conspiracy" (TNG).

The look of the Palais de Mystère was partly inspired by the look of the Museam Of Science and Industry (MOSI) of Tampa, Florida--and partly by the exterior of the "Living Seas" pavilion in Epcot ....


Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
"From Risa With Love"
Chapter 3


He walked her to the door of her suite, and Cynthia Holland found herself often glancing in his direction as they discussed their plan for the following day.

Finally, she stood outside the entrance. “Well…I have to report to my superiors.”

“All right. I’d better turn in, too, I suppose.”

“It was an excellent dinner, Julian. I enjoyed it.”

Bashir nodded. “As did I. Good night, Cynthia.”

She returned the nod. “Good night.”

And she entered her code into the wall, and stepped into her room, the door closing between them.

Cynthia sat down in her chair by the desk, leaning back with a sigh. She reached upward, brushing back her hair.

He’s so charming…so…caring.

She shook her head. You let him get too close. Remember your training—do not let your missions ever become personal. You should not have asked about his family—did you really think he wouldn’t find out you were an orphan?

But…I—

Enough, Cynthia. You have to report.

She sighed, and turned to her console, setting it for Code 47. She heard the deep female voice of the Starfleet computer service, giving the normal instructions. She drove her emotions away, and gave her access code.

The voice of her contact, Mr. Burns—she had never found out if he had a first name—came, “We read you.”

“Holland. He’s in.”

“Well done. Director wants schematics of Palais by tomorrow, at 2100. Keep note of all secured areas in building.”

“Already planned.”

“Noted. Anything more?”

“Negative.”

“Out.”

* * *​

The Palais de Mystère is an exercise in waves, spreading out horizontally in nearly all directions from the massive blue globe in the center. These wings, colored in streams of silver and gold, cause the entire structure to vaguely resemble a Terran octopus. They reach out as if seeking to engulf the entire region, wrapping it all in a tight embrace. Standing before it, it is easy for one to feel like a mere insect—insignificant before this massive structure.

The entrance plaza is a gap in the building’s “arms”, spreading out like a “V” to the street. In its relative center is a large circular fountain, having one ten-meter tower of water, surrounded by a circle of fifty smaller siblings, rising and falling in patterns.

The plaza leads to a giant antique-style revolving door, in a cylindrical foyer on which rests the globe. The blue sphere makes the building at least 250 meters high at the top.

“Palace of Mystery” indeed, Bashir mused, as he traversed the plaza. Cynthia walked close by his side, dressed in a dark green knee-length dress, and carrying a small black purse. She was clasping hold of his arm with both hands, her head leaning on his shoulder—certainly throwing herself into the role of a hopeless lovebird.

The irony is…she’s technically my superior in this mission. Cynthia had informed him, that morning, of their exact duty this day—to obtain complete and exact schematics of the entire structure…from the top of the globe, down to whatever lower levels there might be.

Easier said than done. But then—spy missions rarely aren’t.

Inside, the main lobby was a vast open space, with a high ceiling. The floor was of a dark green marble, or something similar—a material matching the oval counter for the black stone information desk.

Bashir turned to Cynthia, who gave a slight nod, and headed for the women’s restroom.

He walked over to the information desk, where there sat an attractive, youthful Boslic woman. She looked up at him, completely professional. “May I help you, Mister…?”

Bashir smiled. “Yes, my name is Bashir—Julian Bashir.”

The woman nodded, and returned the smile. “Ah. Well, Mister Bashir, how may I be of service to you?”

Bashir noticed she didn’t say, “How may we be of service?”

He replied, “Well, I’m looking for future accommodations, for my next leave. I’m…in the market, as it were.”

The receptionist nodded again in apparent understanding. “I see,” she said, leaning forward a bit with a smile, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Well, sir, I would be happy to provide any—information you would care to obtain from me….”

Bashir raised an eyebrow at this. So that’s her idea, is it? All right, two can play at this game… “Well, I suppose in this case…a tour will suffice.”

Her smile grew. “A tour?”

Bashir leaned forward, and returned the smirk. “An extensive tour…as detailed and extensive as possible, if you please.”

The woman nodded again, slowly. “Well,” she said, lowering her voice to a near whisper, “I believe I can arrange that…Mister Bashir….”

“Very good,” Bashir replied in the same tone, returning the nod. Now for the kill.

He straightened up, and said in a normal, slightly cheery voice, “So—if you’d be so kind as to contact management, and arrange a tour of this hotel, for myself and my associate, that would be wonderful.”

She blinked. “Your associate?”

“Yes—she should be here in a few minutes.”

He resolved to keep his chuckle internal, upon seeing the barely-suppressed look of crushed disappointment on the receptionist’s face. “Um…yes, sir. Right away.”

Bashir walked off, shaking his head with a silent chuckle as the woman carried on in her duties. I actually enjoyed that…. I wonder—was this how Jadzia felt, all those times with me?

He briefly glanced in the direction of the restrooms. A few more minutes…and Cynthia would be done. So far, so good.

* * *​

Cynthia Holland entered the woman’s restroom, and went straight to the sink. She set her purse down on the counter, and lowered her hands into one of the many bowls cut into the pink marble. There was a slight gap cut along the entire rim of the bowl, from which came a soft “waterfall” of a cleaning solution—a replicated mixture of hand cleanser and water, at precisely the right temperature for comfort—which, once “drained”, would then dissolve back into the system’s energy stores.

As she washed, she looked around her, at her surroundings. No one else was inside.

The water stopped, and a gust of hot air dried her hands in a matter of seconds. Holland reached into her purse, pulling out a small rod of pink lipstick. She squeezed the bottom, twisting it.

She felt a brief buzz, indicating that the device was activated.

Holland smiled, and turned to the mirror above the counter, applying the lipstick in a casual manner. When she was done, she was in no real hurry to close the stick—not even when she felt it buzz again, in completion.

She put it away, as if it had no significance, and pulled a compact out of the purse, opening it. She held it at different angles, as if checking her face. After a moment, there scrolled at the bottom of the small circular mirror an only just perceptible message: Area clear.

Of course…that was what she expected. It would be a most twisted and disgusting mind who would plant bugs or scanners inside a restroom—even if the owner was a member of the Syndicate.

Satisfied, she walked into one of the stalls, locking the door. She sat down, and pulled out her tricorder, scanning for a general outline of the structure of the Palais de Mystère.

* * *​

 

Regarding the final scene, as Mr. Data said, "Ohhh, shit!"

 

Oh?

 

Indeed.




Hmm, i'm thinking a sensor that recognises scanning beams from the tricorder. That in turn is connected to a valve in the toilet that increases the water pressure in the pipes. ergo, our dear spy gets blown into the sky by a massive water catapult.

And yes, its a sad fact I've actually spent time thinking about this.

 

My prediction seems correct so far that a femme fatale is allowing the good doctor to walk into an Orion Syndicate trap. On the other hand, the story is not over yet, so all might not be as it appears. Will have to read on in case Miss Holland turns out to be a triple agent.

 

Well, ares93, I'm sure Miss Holland's lipstick gadget would have found any such "sensors".

Enterprise1981...I'm a little suprised at your interperetation, there. She scans in the restroom, she reflects on whether the Syndicate would be sick enough to put bugs in a restroom...and then she does a full scan of the building--and you're wondering if she's working for the Syndicate?

If she were with them...I'd doubt she'd be so concerned with whether they knew about her actions.

(Perhaps it's my own fault, though. I worded her reflections, "...even if the owner was a member of the Syndicate." Perhaps I should have wrote "were" instead of "was"....)

 

As I say, I'll definitely have to read on. If I'm wrong, I guess I'm thinking in terms of how a certain recent Trek novel ended.

 

I'm lovin' it, Rush! Keep it up, I'm intrigued.

 

^Thanks!

Okay--here we go!

New casting note: I modeled the "owner" of the Palais, Durantel Crolin, loosely after the title character of Goldfinger. I also added in his physical description a little homage to a "tradition" of the Bond characters....


Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
"From Risa With Love"
Chapter 4



Julian Bashir looked about him, taking in the surroundings, as he walked over to a set of black couches and arm chairs. He sat down in one of the couches, which allowed him to face the direction of the restrooms.

It would be only a matter of time before someone would arrive for the “tour”. Cynthia would have to be quick in finishing her general scan—she almost certainly wouldn’t be able to finish it anywhere else in the building.

“Ah, you must be Dr. Bashir.”

Bashir turned to see a well-dressed, heavyset man walking towards him.

He rose from his seat, extending his hand. “I’m afraid you have me a disadvantage, sir.”

The man—humanoid, he wasn’t sure exactly which kind…probably Centaurian, or something similar—clasped the hand, shaking it firmly. “My name is Crolin, Doctor. Durantel Crolin. I am the owner of this edifice.”

Bashir smiled. “Indeed? I admit I wasn’t quite expecting…”

Crolin returned the smile. “Oh, we are somewhat…short on staff, Doctor Bashir. You understand—in time, I trust our services will be most…satisfactory.”

Bashir nodded his thanks. As he did so, he registered the man fully in his mind. Crolin had a somewhat round face, and a receding hairline…but with not a gray follicle on his head. He had a prominent forehead, and a large, sharp nose with a slight hook. He also had an old scar, which started on the side of his nose, and went across the side of his face, under his eye, stopping an inch or so below his ear.

This analysis all took the spans of a second, after which Bashir asked, “If I may, Mr. Crolin…does my reputation precede me that much?”

“Oh?”

He shrugged. “Well—you knew I was a doctor.”

Crolin nodded. “Ah, yes. Well…perhaps you underestimate your greatness, Dr. Bashir. You are certainly well-noted among the worlds of the Federation, if you haven’t been aware.”

“Oh…of course….”

Actually, he was all too aware—which was why he hadn’t bothered to come up with an alias for himself. Simplest is usually the best.

Bashir heard another pair of footsteps—and turned to see Cynthia coming towards him, giving him a confident, satisfied smile. She had done it. She was now wearing a pair of clip-on earrings…containing, he knew, miniature scanners to record the details of the resort.

He smiled, and said, “Ah, Gabby! This is Mr. Crolin, proprietor of the Palais de Mystère.” He turned to Crolin, spreading a hand to Cynthia. “This is Miss Gabrielle, my associate.”

Cynthia’s smile grew, as she extended a hand to the man. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Crolin returned the grin. “The pleasure is mine, mademoiselle,” he said, taking the hand and bringing it to his lips.

To Cynthia’s credit, she gave no sign of revulsion.

After releasing the girl’s hand, Crolin turned to Bashir. “Now, Dr. Bashir…how may we service you?”

Bashir shrugged. “Well, it seems that we’re looking for accommodations for a future stay here, on Risa. Consider it…”

He glanced at Cynthia. She gave him a sweet, endearing smile as she clasped his hand, giving it a squeeze.

Bashir turned to Crolin with a similar smile. “…especially significant.”

Crolin nodded. “Ah, I see! Well—it will, at best, be a month before we reach our ideal…but in the meantime, I would be glad to give you both a preview of what will come.”

Cynthia grinned. “That would be wonderful.”

Bashir tilted his head. “I trust you’re done with construction and renovations, of course?”

Crolin snorted. “Of course!”

“Excellent! Then, could we bother you to give us a thorough preview?”

Crolin blinked. “Oh?”

Bashir shrugged. “Well, I’d imagine my patronage would be a great advertisement…so if I were to have a full knowledge of this place—I could give a complete review—my recommendations for different needs of visitors, which rooms for which, that sort of thing.”

After a split second’s hesitation, Crolin nodded. “Ah, yes…well, that is an excellent idea. Very well—a thorough tour it will be!”

Bashir nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Crolin smiled. “No…the gratitude is mine, I assure you. Right this way….”

* * *
​

It was all perfect—too perfect. Frankly, there were a great many things wrong with that, as far as Bashir was concerned—things which he made sure to log in the photographic memory banks of his mind, to conjure them up when he would be able to safely.

As they entered the main turbolift to the ground floor, Crolin turned to Bashir with the seemingly permanent half-smile ever present on his face. “Well, Dr. Bashir, I trust it has been a satisfactory experience?”

Bashir returned the smile. “Oh, yes, it has, sir. Although…are we done, then?”

Crolin hesitated, and nodded slowly. “Of course…?”

Bashir shrugged. “Forgive me—I was wondering about the lower levels.”

“Oh?”

Bashir noticed Cynthia, outside the man’s line of vision, stiffen a bit as she also turned to him in concern.

Bashir spread a hand to the control panel on the wall. “There are two basement levels. I was just wondering as to their purposes—merely curiosity on my part, understand. See, one such level is…usually considered to be sufficient for maintenance and supplies.”

Cynthia’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she gave him a barely perceptible shake of her head.

Crolin didn’t bat an eye. “Ah, of course. Well, the higher level is reserved for offices, should we need them.”

Bashir made sure to raise his eyebrows in admiration. “Really! You intend to expand that quickly?”

“I feel this resort will become…a most prosperous business.”

Bashir let out a single whistle. “Well—I’m impressed, Mr. Crolin!”

Cynthia relaxed, visibly relieved.

Crolin nodded. “Thank you, Doctor. I was sure you, of all people, could understand ambition, and drive for success.”

“I certainly do, sir.”

The lift doors opened, and they stepped out into the main lobby. Bashir turned to Crolin, and said, “Well, sir, all in all, I’ve been most impressed. I believe I’ll give very serious thought to this place, once it is finished.”

Crolin nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Bashir. And Miss Gabrielle…” he took her hand again, “I would be most honored to accommodate you, as well.”

Cynthia smiled, and nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Crolin chuckled, and released her hand, extending his to Bashir. “Doctor…it has been an honor.”

Bashir took the man’s hand, shaking it firmly. “The honor was mine, sir.”

Crolin went back into the lift, as Cynthia and Bashir crossed the lobby, hands held again, exiting into the warm, sunny climate of Risa.

When they were a safe enough distance away, Cynthia rested her head against his shoulder, and muttered, “I wouldn’t have been as overt as you were in the lift, Doctor.”

Bashir shrugged. “Oh, I thought it was natural enough.”

“But was it necessary? We could have gone over it ourselves—frankly, I think we will, anyway.”

Bashir smiled, and turned to her. “My dear Cynthia…remind me later to instruct you on the importance of banter among gentlemen. It helps to create a sense of familiarity and trust.”

“I’m certain it does. Yet…somehow, it sounded a little too obvious.”

Bashir chuckled. “Well, you’ll have to forgive me. I’m not exactly a professional on this. Still…I do consider myself something of an expert in, shall I say, the finer points of conversation.”

Cynthia smiled. “Your ego is astounding, Dr. Bashir.”

Julian shrugged. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

* * *​

 

Hmm...no comments for the weekend?

EDIT: Phew. That's a relief....

 

So Bashir did know what exactly she was doing in the ladies' room. To quote Emily Litella: "Never mind."

 

Okay! NOW--this, ladies and gentlemen, is where the plot thickens.

New casting note: Mr. Crant, Crolin's top henchman, is modeled after actor Christoph Waltz.


Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
"From Risa With Love"
Chapter 5




They went straight to Cynthia’s room in the Resort of the Vulcan Stone. It was basically identical to Bashir’s own, more or less. The furniture was arranged somewhat differently, of course…and Bashir couldn’t help but notice that her bed seemed large enough for two.

Oh, of course you’d take note of that. You simply can’t help yourself, can you, Julian?

Cynthia promptly removed her earrings as she sat down at her desk, Bashir standing behind her. She pulled the tricorder out of her purse, and connected the earrings onto the front end. A hum escaped the machine, as it took in the information. Finally, it chirped its success.

Cynthia tossed Julian a light smile, and activated the screen on her desk. They saw, as expected, a complete and detailed schematic of the extent of their “tour”.

“Well,” Cynthia remarked, “The ground floor and above checks out.”

“Not really,” Bashir muttered.

Cynthia turned to him. “Julian?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s paranoia on my part, after what you’d said but…I sincerely doubt our Mr. Crolin intends to own that place for any length of time.”

“Meaning…what, exactly?”

“I mean—the furnishing of the rooms consisted of only the cheapest materials. Most people wouldn’t notice it, but…most people don’t possess my enhancements. Anyway—if he were truly intending to compete with the other resorts, surely he would spare no expense in the renovations. Impressiveness and uniqueness is all too essential in this sort of thing—and yet…it’s only impressive if you don’t know what to look for.”

Cynthia nodded slowly. “So…that supports our suspicions, then?”

“I’d say so. But naturally, most if not all of our questions would be answered if we knew exactly what is going on in the basement levels. Now, of course he didn’t take us down there. How’s your general scan?”

Cynthia pressed the appropriate controls on the tricorder. The screen changed. “I have an idea as to the size of the lower levels. The basement is normal—for all I can tell, it is office space.”

“And the subbasement?”

Cynthia turned to him. “The space in that level is massive enough so that it extends underneath the neighboring resorts.”

Bashir shook his head in bewilderment. “What would they be doing down there?”

Cynthia shrugged. “I…was able to pick up an energy signature.”

“A weapon?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing that massive. It could be simply a…reactor for the cooling system.”

“Well, let’s see it. The slightest detail could be important.”

“All right.”

Cynthia entered the command, and the vague, undefined schematic of the subbasement filled the screen. “Most of it is concentrated at a point, here,” she pointed to a glowing hub, “At the center of the level.”

“Well, there’s your reactor. But,” Julian pointed to a thin, faint line extending from the concentration, “You see that?”

She nodded. “Yes…an extension?”

“It looks that way. Note that it travels off into the distance, without any indication of going up to service the building. It fades the further it goes—but I’d say that’s only due to the limited range of a tricorder. Interestingly enough, it’s just as well for Crolin that it’s that faint—had we not suspected his ‘business’ already, this could just be shrugged off as an interesting anomaly.”

“I suppose, but…what couldit be for?”

“Knowing the Syndicate, I’d wager they’re controlling something from down there, using the resort as a cover.”

“Obviously. But what?”

Bashir ran the question over in his mind. What indeed? What on Risa…would they be able to control? What would they be able to control here, that they couldn’t on any other planet? What does Risa have, that other worlds—?

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him—a theory which would explain it all.

“Cynthia,” he asked. “Where’s the weather control system, relative to the Palais?”

Cynthia stared at him for a moment, a mixture of concern and bewilderment on her face. But she entered the command into the console. A map filled the screen, the locations of the Palais and the weather control system indicated by two white dots—a mile or so apart.

“All right. Now…enter the ‘path’ of the energy signature—and extrapolate it.”

She froze for a moment, as the idea apparently entered her mind, as well. Finally, she entered the command.

Bashir was not disappointed. The line that appeared connected the two dots perfectly.

Cynthia shook her head with a whispered “Mon…”

“Clever, really,” Bashir muttered. “They’re tapping into the weather net. With the right technology, they could target a specific location and, say, strike it with lightning…or create a drought, or a flood. With residents and tourists unable to escape the planet, due to threats of storms and unstable weather...they could effectively hold the entire planet for ransom.”

Cynthia leaned back in her seat, hand on her forehead. “And it will happen soon, then—just like we feared.”

Bashir felt a smile come to his face, and he clasped her shoulder. “Not if we can help it.”

Cynthia looked up at him, blankly.

Julian raised an eyebrow. “Tonight, what say we turn off the lights on Mr. Crolin?”

Cynthia frowned. “…‘We’?”

Bashir shrugged. “Why not? We started this together—we might as well finish it the same way.”

Cynthia looked off for a moment, and sighed.

Bashir frowned. “Something wrong?”

“N-nothing, Julian. Just…”

She turned back to him, and rose to her feet. “Doctor…you were a great help to me, but frankly, with your…close call in the lift with Mr. Crolin, I’m not sure I can trust you in a more dangerous situation.”

Julian shook his head. “You wound me.”

“Doctor, I’m quite serious. You’re not…you’re not a professional in these things.”

Bashir crossed his arms, looking at her intently. “Agent Holland…I am a Starfleet Officer. I have been trained for combat—by both the Academy and the field. And frankly…two heads are better than one in such situations.”

“Doctor, if all goes well, there’ll not be any ‘combat’.”

“Cynthia—nothing ever goes according to plan. You of all people should know that.”

Cynthia raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps not…but two people are more likely to be discovered.”

“And one person is more likely to be shot in the back. Frankly, it’s a wonder S.I. didn’t give you backup to begin with.”

She hesitated, looking off.

Julian leaned forward a bit, and added in a teasing whisper, “I…promise I’ll follow your orders….”

Holland swallowed a bit, and finally nodded. “All right.” She met his gaze. “But consider yourself held to that.”

“Good!” Bashir smiled.

Cynthia returned the smile, but only halfheartedly.

“Oh, don’t worry, Agent—I think you’ll find I’ll prove most resourceful.”

The girl narrowed her eyes, her smile returning in full. “Oh, you’ve already proven that, sir.”

“Perhaps…” Julian’s own eyes narrowed, “But I’ve yet to show you the…extent of my abilities.”

Cynthia raised an eyebrow, as she sat herself on the edge of the desk, crossing her legs. “Really? You’re that capable, Dr. Bashir?”

“In many ways, Miss Holland.”

“Through your enhancements, I presume?”

“Well, I suppose so, but I’d think experience would also count.”

Her smile grew. “How much experience…?”

Bashir lowered his tone. “A considerable amount. My field naturally involves a great deal of…research.”

“I would imagine so….” Cynthia slid off the desk, and walked past him. Her arm brushed against his, gently and—Bashir strongly suspected—deliberately.

“Still,” she continued, as she turned to him, “I trust you will remember to keep your word, Doctor…following my orders to the letter.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I expect you here.” Her eyebrow rose again, “No games. Comprenez-vous?”

Bashir raised an eyebrow of his own, as he turned to face her with a smirk. “Completely.”

“Here, at…2100, sharp. We’ll need cover of darkness for this.”

“I suppose I’ll need to change—?”

“Not really, Doctor. Just something you can move freely in. And if you have a tricorder and a phaser…”

Bashir nodded. “Very well. 2100—and no games, I promise.”

“Good. I’ll report to my superiors, and ready the equipment for tonight. And then…” she slowly smoothed out her dress with her palms, “You will prove to me, tonight, just how far your abilities take you.”

Bashir’s smile grew. “As I said…you will not be disappointed.”

* * *
​

In the basement level of the Palais de Mystère, Crolin sat in his office, steepling his fingers as he looked across his desk at the man giving the report. “You’re sure?”

Mr. Crant, his most trusted subordinate, responded with a nod. “Of course, sir…Resort of the Vulcan Stone, ninth floor, suite 973.”

“And you say he only checked in two days ago?”

“Correct.”

“What of the girl—Miss Gabrielle?”

Crant shrugged. “Well, there’s nothing on her, as of yet. There are only two residents of the Resort with the name ‘Gabrielle’, and to be frank…neither fit the description. Obviously, she is either under an alias, or in a different resort. Perhaps both.”

Crolin nodded. “Of course.”

He looked off. “So…Dr. Julian Bashir, of Starfleet. Chief medical officer of Deep Space Nine—has a service of considerable note during the Dominion War…and now, looking into our affairs…”

Crant raised an eyebrow. “You think Starfleet suspects?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t care to take unnecessary risks—we must assume that they do.” Crolin sighed. “Serves us right, I suppose…. In the future, we must make sure to be more subtle, particularly in our financial transactions.”

To his credit, Mr. Crant apparently resolved not to remind him that he’d expressed that same concern beforehand. Of course, Crolin had understood that the operation had best be conducted as quickly as possible, so his decision had been final.

Crolin tuned back to his subordinate. “Keep track of the doctor. And if you locate the girl, keep track of her, too. In the meantime…we’d best carry on with the plan tonight—make sure they have as little time as possible to interfere.”

Crant smiled, and nodded. “Of course, sir….” And he turned, and left to carry out his orders.

Crolin leaned back in his seat. Ah, well. With any luck, this would prove to be merely a minor inconvenience.

* * *​

 

Nothing goes according to plan indeed. It's shaping up into a big confrontation to derail the Syndicate's plans.

 

Oh, my apologies. I totally forgot to comment.

Still, loving it, mate. Looks like the villains are catching on. As for plans, "Anything that can go wrong will go wrong."

I've actually developed a...countermeasure, if you will, against this type of thing. If you keep Plan A deliberately vague enough, you will not need Plan B, C, D or the ultimate mess: Plan F, as in, we're all fu...

 

And the plot thickens! Mwa ha ha...I like this evil plan the Syndicate gangsters have cooked up. Devious and audacious and awesome - just the kind of evil plot Julian Bashir lives to tear to pieces. Keep it up!

 

And now...a little "build-up" scene, as our heroes prepare for their mission. As always, it's not a "Bond" story without gadgets of one kind or another....


Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
"From Risa With Love"
Chapter 6



When he returned to her apartment, Cynthia was waiting for him—still in the green dress. Despite himself, Bashir let out a chuckle.

Holland tilted her head. “What?”

“What, you don’t have a field uniform?”

She gave a slight blush. “Oh, I—seem to have misplaced it. I like this better, anyway.”

Bashir shrugged. “Well—I’d hate for that to be damaged—”

She laughed. “Don’t worry…these are quite functional.”

I’m sure they are.

“So,” Bashir said, “What do we have, then?”

She grinned, holding up a large Starfleet-issue case. “Look at these.” She set it on the desk, opening it, taking out the tools, one by one.

First was a small cylinder—much like a hypospray. “This is for allowing us into the building—deactivating the security device for one of the secondary entranceways.”

“A lock pick.”

“More or less. But naturally, we’d not want to be detected by the scanners, inside.”

“I’d say not. Your solution?”

“This,” she held up a smaller device, resembling a tricorder scanner, “should interfere with our bio-signs. When activated, it warps the scanning signal, bending it around us—much like a…”

Bashir nodded, smiling. “…cloaking device!”

“Yes…but someone on the level would still see us, obviously.” She took out a second, handing it to him. “You’ll want to put this in your tricorder, as well. One for each of us.”

Bashir took it, tilting his head. “You carry two?”

Holland shrugged.

Bashir chuckled. “Should I consider myself lucky—or are you always assigned two of everything?”

“Oh, not everything, Doctor—this is merely essential for every agent on the field. It wouldn’t do for something to happen to this on assignment. It’s recommended we have backup for that.”

“Oh, of course…. Anything else?”

“Well, I have an assortment of standard-issue sabotage devices…they should short-circuit the reactor, and detonate at a pre-set time afterwards.”

“Yes—about that. I sincerely hope that won’t affect the turbolifts.”

“Oh, it shouldn’t.”

“Well, that’s good. I don’t recall seeing any alternative exits in the scan—stairways to the main level…?”

“There’re not—doubtless for security reasons.”

Bashir nodded. “Well, I’d hate to be stuck down there….”

The girl shrugged again. “We shouldn’t. Still…if the worst should happen—we could always open the top of the lift, and climb….”

Bashir sighed. “I don’t suppose you have a belt with a grapple.”

She shook her head.

“Well, then,” he muttered, “We’d better hope you’re right about the lifts. I can’t say I came here to end up sore—at best.”

Cynthia chuckled. “Neither did I.”

* * *​

 

I do like this hybrid of Bond and Trek. You obviously know, and love, both subjects well, and do a great job of combining them.

I was being a bit overly suspicious earlier. When I read that Cynthia' parents had died in a mountaineering accident I thought it could be an in-joke, which it was. But I had another thought, that Cynthia might not be on the level and had lied to Bashir knowing that he was a Bond fan. She might have been using that to play on his sympathies, to manipulate him for some reason...

I'm glad to see I was wrong!

 

^Thanks, Badger.

 

Mate, i was half expecting a, "You're Q," points at the new guy, "that makes you R, doesn't it?"

Splendi! Cant wait until the shit hits the fan. They will end up in quite a few sticky situations, I'd imagine.