"Sensors are gone!" O'Brien called. "Impulse engines off linerain fact, everything's off line.

 

 

Emergency power is holding for nowre" "Garak," Sisko called, "take a look outside!" The Cardassian struggled to get his own headset up and working, muttering, "Just a moment.... " Sisko twisted to O'Brien. "What happened?" The engineer's pale face screwed into a mask. "Not surerowe might've been hit by some kind of gravitational spike in them" But Garak cut him off.

 

 

"Hang on!" CHAPTER 11

 

 

"You $HOULD'VE SEEN the arrogant, smug look on his face. He was in control and there was nothing I could do about it! The war isn't over yet, but as far as Dukat's concerned, he's already won. I'd love to show him he's wrong." Kira Nerys stalked the floor of Odo's office, still broiling and twitching, and wishing she could be honest about Dukat's underlying motives regarding her personallyrebut how could she tell Odo something like that? Knowing how he also felt about her?

 

 

What was all this? Was she wearing the wrong perfume?

 

 

I don't wear perfume.

 

 

"I'm afraid," Odo responded with his gravelly voice, "for the time being at least, he has won. Look at me. I don't know why I bother to sit here every day.

 

 

I don't even have a security force to patrol the Promenade." Stopping in her tracks, Kira looked at him. "Then ask for one! Demand that they reinstate your Bajoran deputies." "Dukat will never agree to that." "Forget Dukat," she told him. If only that were possible. "Go directly to Weyoun. He'll listen to you.

 

 

In his eyes, you're a god. That gives you power!" Odo was watching her intently. The fact that he didn't respond right away proved that she might be on the right track. Yes, of course! He had a natural advantage! Why weren't they using it?

 

 

"What good is having power unless you're willing to use it?" she pressed. "He worships Founders, you're one of themre" His unsculpted chin rose an inch. "I am certainly not one of them." "No, no, I didn't mean that," she backpedaled.

 

 

"But you know what I do mean." "Yes.... I suppose there's no avoiding reality. I am what I am... physically, anyway.... " "And to Weyoun, you are what you look like. Go in there, Odo. Be a Founder. Get your authority back.

 

 

We need it. Get up. I'll walk you there."

 

 

The whole process of requesting an audience with the great Weyoun, orta and representative of the Dominion, made Odo wish to melt into a puddle and slip into a crack somewhere. Even more disgusting, Odo caught the end of a conversation between Weyoun and Dukat as he was led in by Damar.

 

 

"... the Founders are the masters. I am merely their servant. As are the Jem Hadar. And you." "That may be, but even amongst the servants, someone has to be in charge." "That's exactly the kind of observation I've come to expect from you, Dukat. Interesting, yet somewhat petty." Odo almost turned around and left, but Damar was already announcing their presence. "Forgive the interruption. But he insisted on seeing you immediately." Odo glanced at Damar. He had made no demands about immediacy. Perhaps the urgency was Damar's.

 

 

Did the assistant Cardassian not enjoy seeing his Gul shunted to inferiority by the Vorta?

 

 

Making a note to remember that, Odo stopped moving forward as Weyoun floated toward him, arms outstretched, as if he meant to commit the gravity of an embrace.

 

 

"Founder," the Vorta mewled. "I'm honored by your visit. Is there some way I can be of service?" "I want my Bajoran security officers reinstated," Odo flatly said.

 

 

Weyoun bowed his head in reverence. "Consider it done." Oh... much too easy.

 

 

But might as well enjoy. "From now on they'll be responsible for security on the Promenade." "I don't see any problem with that." Unable to use all the arguments he had been storing up, Odo found himself simply staring at the subservient Vorta's milky violet eyes, and found himself being nauseatingly appreciated in return.

 

 

"I do." Ah--a hint of reality. Odo turned to Dukat.

 

 

And so did Weyoun, with a hard look and a silencing hand. "This is between me and Odo, Dukat.

 

 

I'll thank you to keep out of it." Then he smiled.

 

 

The smile was really too much to continue gazing upon. Odo t~urned to Damar. 'Tll have my officers report to the armory within the hour." Damar stiflened, obviously blistered at the idea of actually arming Bajorans on the station that Cardassians had just wrested from them, and he shot a glower at Dukat, but the Gul bit his tongue and nodded. Damar was being given no quarter to refuse.

 

 

With nothing more to say, Odo turned to leave.

 

 

Now the Vorta stepped to him before he had completely turned. "Now that I've done something for you..." Odo turned back.

 

 

"Perhaps," Weyoun continued, "there's something you'd consent to do for me." Feeling his entire body temperature drop a degree or two, Odo remained silent.

 

 

The Vorta turned a shoulder to Dukat and Damar, dismissing the two Cardassians with a subtle gesture.

 

 

"We would be honored to have you join us as the rulers of this station." "Rulers?" Odo repeated.

 

 

"Yes," Weyoun said. "The station's ruling council.

 

 

You, me, and Dukat." "Absolutely not!" Dukat came to life suddenly, and swung on Weyoun. "Are you out of your--do you

 

 

realize what it took to get control of this station away from Bajoran and Federation sympathies?" "Odo is neither Barjoran nor one of those Federation races, Dukat. He is a Founder. We cannot put ourselves above him in any way, here or elsewhere." "Ridiculous!" "Even so." There was no getting out of it. Odo sourly realized he'd been maneuvered, or counter-maneuvered at least. The question became whether he wanted his armed security force more than he wanted to kick Weyoun's face into the wormhole.

 

 

Still... even such a maneuver offered other chances.

 

 

"Will you do it?" Weyoun asked. "Will you please?"

 

 

Kira narrowed her eyes, which was difficult because somehow she was gawking at the same time.

 

 

"A member of the station's ruling council? You?" The noise of Quark's bar provided adequate cover as she sat there with Odo, but Kira still felt as if anyone looking at her could easily have read her mind from a distance.

 

 

"Along with Weyoun and Dukat," Odo said. "Now I'll have a voice in station policy." That sounded almost plausible, which made it harder to believe. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" she asked him.

 

 

"Dukat thought it was a terrible idea," Odo countered, as if that were a good point. "You should've seen his face when Weyoun offered me the position." Actually, it wasn't a bad point. But it also wasn't enough.

 

 

She leaned closer across the table, only remembering at the last moment to restrain her body language.

 

 

"Don't you see Weyoun's using you? Your presence on the council validates the Dominion's control of the station!" Odo crossed his legs and tilted his shoulders in a way that told her he had just been insulted. "I thought we were using him." He paused long enough to communicate to her that he needn't any lessons on play and counterplay--he understood the gameboard's options. "I know the dangers, Major. I've had to walk this line before, during the Cardassian occupation. I can do it again.... But this time I won't be alone. I'll have you to help me." Withdrawing the scolding nature of her questions, Kira reached out and lay her hand across his. "That's right... you will." His artificial mask softened. "Then this is a victory after all." "I suppose it is," she murmured, "but for some reason, it doesn't feel like one. I wish we weren't obligated to be here.... It's got to be awful for you.

 

 

At least I can tell myself I'm sticking up for my planet and my people." "They're my people too," Odo quietly reminded, and Kira was suddenly embarrassed. "Bajor is another of the many unfortunate localities who happened to be near a point of contention. All through history, yours, mine, everyone's, there have been those caught with something valuable in their front yard. They

 

 

didn't make it, they don't want it... yet they must defend it or be overrun. That is us, Major... and something will happen to change all this somehow.

 

 

Because now we are in the Federation's front yard.

 

 

Soon the knocking of Cardassia and the Dominion will waken the sleeping giants inside... and help will come. Help will come.... "

 

 

CHAPTER 12

 

 

"READy... heave! Ready... heave!" Shoreline. Skies, rocks, sand, blue ocean lapping up against a cliffside. After years of life in space, this was like a dream inside their nightmare. In the middle of the bay, the captured Jem Hadar ship lay nosed into the water, half submerged in sandy muck.

 

 

Ben Sisko urged his surviving crewmen to haul their makeshift raft up the sandy shoal to the water's edge.

 

 

All hands who were alive when the ship crashed were now accounted for.... Himself, O'Brien, Bashir, and Lieutenant NeeIcy hauling this makeshift raft cobbled together with barrels, conduit, cables, and loaded with what little salvage they could toss out--phasers, tricorders, jackets, and the blanketed form of Jadzia Dax, tied to the raft and blessedly unconscious.

 

 

"Ready... heave?'

 

 

Nog, already on the shore. Garak standing over him. Ensign Gordon on his hands and knees on the beach, coughing up seawater and fighting for consciousness.

 

 

Sisko envied them. He wanted to be on the warm sand. He wanted to lie down and relax his knotted neck, let his legs go limp, unclench his hands.

 

 

"One more! Ready--heave.r' Sand scratched under the raft, rattling Sisko from his spine to his shoulders. They'd made it. Grounded.

 

 

"How... how is she?" Sisko gasped.

 

 

Not nearly as exhausted as everyone else, Bashir scanned Dax's quiet body with his medical tricorder.

 

 

"Stable for now. Garak! I need a hand!" "Bloody hell!" Who was that? Oh, who else? O'Brien.

 

 

"What?" Sisko demanded.

 

 

"I can't believe it!" "What?" "I tore my pants!" "You tore your pants... ?" The sheer tragic irony in his own voice made Sisko grin. Then the grin caught a spark and he was chuckling.

 

 

"That's right.... "O'Brien tugged at the lips of his trouser leg, torn halfway up the outside hem.

 

 

That was funny. It was hilarious. The two of them fell back against the damned raft and let the joke roll through them. Torn trousers. A rip in the fabric of the universe!

 

 

Shipwrecked. Beached. Down.

 

 

"You all right otherwise, Chief?." Sisko gasped

 

 

when he'd caught more of his breath. "Whatever ripped your pants didn't rip you, did it.'?" "Let's see... shipwrecked on a quirky little planet inside a dark nebula with a little white sun and a possibility of starvation....No, I'm just dandy otherwise." With a lingering chuckle, Sisko shoved himself around and stood up on his shuddering legs. On the beach, Garak and Bashir were settling Dax into a rock's shadow. It was bright here... where there was sun and water, there would have to be food. And they'd salvaged a few days' worth of survival rations.

 

 

He glanced into the sky. "A little chilly despite the brightness. Might be downright cold when that sun goes down. We'd better find some shelter." Squinting, and holding his pants closed with one hand, O'Brien scanned the rocky seawall north of them. "I see caverns in those cliffs. Maybe there are caves on the dry side." "Good bet. We've got to keep Dax warm. I wish that diagnostic bed could float." He turned and looked back at the sinking Jem Hadar ship that had so recently been their hope and home. The ship rotated slowly in the water, one wing low, while the sea crept quickly up the exposed hull. "How deep did you say it was out there?" "Three to five hundred meters, depending on the topography of the seafloor." "Guess we won't be making any free dives." "Let Julian do it. He can probably hold his genetically enhanced breath to fifty fathoms." "You're all heart, Chief. Help me beach this raft."

 

 

"Aren't we beached? It's completely--" "There might be a tide. I want to get this up on the sand and get off this open beach before anybody sees US." O'Brien's face screwed up into a snarl. "Who in God's green meadow is going to see us?" "We got in some good shots on those Jem Hadar. At the last minute Nog thought he saw one of them spiral in after us, on almost the same trajectory. I think they crashed. If they hit the water too, they might be alive." "Well, with a little luck they hit a rock instead." "We can't count on luck, Chief. Now, get a grip on the raft and let's go. Heave/" CHAPTER 13 ALIEN SHORELINE. Workable planet--breathable atmosphere, enough light, too much light, a surface which could be moved upon. Moving on foot is troublesome. Jem Hadar are not constructed for infantry, but for space battle. Walking about is a tiresome business. Moving on foot must be kept to matters of practicality. The ship is irretrievable, bottomed in one of this planet's deep pools.

 

 

Third Remata'Klan. Engaging unfamiliar emotions. Concern. The future--unsure. The Vorta injured. That is critical.... Jem Hadar without a Vorta are directionless. Who will distribute the white if the Vorta dies? How can Jem Hadar soldiers make an injured Vorta heal?

 

 

Response: revert to procedure. Patrol. Study.

 

 

Conelude. Act.

 

 

Fourth Limara'Son approaching.

 

 

"We have established a defense perimeter around the entrance to the cavern," came the report from the other soldier. "I have sent out two patrols to reconnoiter the shoreline in both directions." Take that in, digest it, say nothing. Facts require no response. Look at the crashing surf... so unnatural.

 

 

Limara'Son. "The Vorta's condition has worsened.

 

 

He will die soon." Remata'Klan. "What about the First and the Second?" Opaque sensations. Worry. Uncertainty was not familiar at all. This must be uncertainty. Was it also weakness? Inability to change occurrences?

 

 

Limara'Son. "I vaporized their bodies myself and redistributed their equipment to the rest of the men." Good. Actions had been taken, positive movements forward. Some of the uncertainty faded.

 

 

Limara'Son. "You are now the First." "No. I questioned the Vorta's orders. He will not forget that. As long as he lives, I will remain Third." "You were right to question him. If he hadn't ordered us into the nebula two days ago, we would not have crashed--" "It was not my place! Remember... 'Obedience brings victory.'" Limara'Son accepting the axiom. "'And victory is life.'" Suitably humbled. Good. The situation began to gain ballast.

 

 

Crashing seas. Wind and air... an uneasy eternalness without purpose.

 

 

Remata'Klan. "Until we re-establish communication, we will hold this world for the Dominion." "And if we cannot re-establish communication?" "Then we will hold this world for the Dominion until we die." Back to the base camp. A wet, cloying environment, but cover from the natural elements outside. A hiding place, defensible, functional. Comfort was no legitimate factor.

 

 

All soldiers occupied, working on communication sytem, stripping and cleaning weapons which had been submersed in that pool. Clumsy movement.

 

 

nervous twitching. Tools being dropped, fingers trembling. Glances of distraction.

 

 

They are all suffering from lack of white. Neck tubes were all gurgled nearly dry now.

 

 

A small fire for light, and to keep the Vorta warm.

 

 

The fire struggles in the big cave, only a tiny source against the bigger moist darkness. The Vorta upon his mat, raised on rock slabs. He seems pained, if pain can be seen. Misery creasing his pale features. Dark hair grayed with dust and crusted salt from the pool of surf.

 

 

The orta. Looking at Remata'Klan. "This must be... quite gratifying for you... but I've decided not to give you the pleasure of... watching me die in this foul-smelling cavern. I intend to... live." "I understand." "How long is it until we re-establish communication?" "Seventh Yak'Talon estimates it will take at least ten days before we can attempt a low-power test."

 

 

161 "?/Libr ,rV A crease in the Vorta's forehead. "Ten days.... " He seems exhausted. Now his eyes are closed. What is he thinking? If he dies, will Remata'Klan become First? Distribute the white?

 

 

Remata'Klan. "It is time for the white." An acquiescing gesture from the Vorta, and a wave of his hand toward the black container. A nod from Remata'Klan, and a soldier brings the precious case to the Vorta, who works the security lock, finally, wrenching the scorched and battered top upward.

 

 

Remata'Klan cannot see inside the case. Looking around would suggest distrust for the Vorta.

 

 

Other soldiers gather around, waiting for their dose of white. Soon the weakness will be gone, the twitching, the trembling, the hunger and dizziness. The fears and cramps.

 

 

The Vorta. "Third Remata'Klan... can you vouch for the loyalty of your men?" Part of the white ritual. Only one answer.

 

 

"We pledge our loyalty to the Founders from now until death." "Then receive this reward from the Founders. May it keep you strong." The first vial goes to Remata'Klan. The second-- But the Vorta is closing the case. He's locking the case.

 

 

Limara'Son. "Only one?" Remata'Klan. "Keep your place!" Anxiety from the soldiers--so little white between them? One vial?

 

 

"This case of white must last until we're rescued." The orta. "At least ten days. Possibly more. I will

 

 

ration the supply. Don't worry. I am the Vorta... I will take care of you all." A nod from Remata'Klan, and turn, then gesture to all the soldiers that they should go back to their work.

 

 

Work was everything. Work, patrol, survive, defend.

 

 

Behind, the Vorta lies injured. Perhaps dying.

 

 

Alone.

 

 

Caverns, cold and forbidding. Moisture leaked down the shale walls. Flat-faced bits of mica glistened and made tiny rainbows on black surfaces. Sisko thought of the black lacquer desk in his office on Deep Space Nine, and the lamps glowing them. There was no source of warmth at all, not even from the single leg of sunshine leaning in the narrow opening. The light bent upward a meter, then quickly failed.

 

 

Sisko made the decision, with some internal struggle, to use one of the phasers to heat the standing rocks on the ground, where they were partly insulated and would hold the energy for a while. He had to be sparing--they might need the phaser as weapons later. If they were to be here any extended amount of time, they'd have to build shelter, find something to burn, find something to eat. Survival came down to those three things. Home, heat, food.

 

 

The waterlogged crew busied themselves and didn't complain, even turning to a gallows humor to bolster the soggy moment. Everyone stripped out of the wet uniforms, after Sisko's second order, and laid them on the hot rocks. He didn't want anyone getting pneumonia and taking Bashir's attention away from Dax.

 

 

Soon the cavern was moist with steam from the

 

 

process. The clothing dried quickly enough, as Starfleet ordnance was constructed to do, but the boots stayed wet a long time, forcing them to pick around barefoot on the gravelly sand. Nog inventoried the stuff they'd managed to salvage. Neeley and Gordon checked the integrity of their cavern for hidden exits that might have to be guarded, or structural instability that might fall in on them. Garak mended O'Brien's trousers. Bashir tended Dax as well as possible with very limited medical equipment.

 

 

Sisko--his job was to worry.

 

 

He realized he was in trouble when he made a foolish promise to the drowsy Dax. He promised to get her out of here.

 

 

How? An uncharted rock inside an uncharted nebula, in Cardassian space after having come in here without logging the voyage, flying a captured enemy ship. Get out?

 

 

When would he learn to stop making promises?

 

 

Promise Dad to get Jake off the station... he couldn't make good on that one either. Now he was stuck here, as trapped as any pre-spaceflight Neanderthal, on a protoplanet in the middle of, quite literally, nothing. And nobody knew where they were. Nobody but possibly the enemy. Great. Make more promises.

 

 

Dax.... Her face was so pale, threaded with pain, reduced to the universal prescription of rest and relying upon her own natural healing powers, if any.

 

 

Julian Bashir had certainly done all he could do and probably a few things he conjured from sheer cleverness, but there simply wasn't much more than a rescue kit and a medical tricorder. Dax was down and

 

 

she was going to stay down for a while. The only favor Sisko could do for her was pretend he didn't need her advice, that she could relax and he would muddle through.

 

 

As his clothing dried he fretted about the situations here and on DS9. How were Kira and Odo doing, back under the control of Gul Dukat, and with the added irritant of the slimy, soft-spoken Vorta? Every Jem Hadar crew of any size had a Vorta on board to manage them. The cool-blooded genetically engineered master running the hot-blooded genetically engineered vassals. A soup not meant to be stirred.

 

 

And Cardassians for spice. Would Kira and Odo dare tinker with the status quo on the station? Mixed feelings rushed through Sisko. What would he do? Sit there under the treaty and bide time? Make nice with the Cardassians and the Vorta in order to keep Bajor and the station from becoming targets?

 

 

Maybe. But Kira was a former freedom fighter and Odo had lived long and hard under the oppression of the Cardassians. Could he expect them to be passive now? Complicitors in their own minds?

 

 

No "maybe" about it--he'd take some kind of action. Some underlying subversion. He knew what he would do, and yet he also hoped Kira and Odo wouldn't do that. Odd, to have these tumbling feelings, to field a dozen plots and tricks in his mind yet not be able to act upon them or even know if acting upon them would be the right thing to do. He'd left Bajor and DS9 in a certain condition because he wanted them to survive. He expected his friends to understand what he wanted and hold back their quite

 

 

justified reactions. Was he asking too much of them?

 

 

With communication cut off completely, how could he know what was happening?

 

 

And Jake was there, barely out of his teens, inexperienced, feisty, trying to prove himself in the trenches.... What would happen to the son of the emissary of Bajor if Kira, a Bajoran, and Odo, a shapeshifter thought to be a deity by the Vorta, took action against the Dominion? Sisko knew he had created a problem for Kira and Odo just by arranging a treaty between Bajor and the Dominion. Yes, the move saved Bajor from attack, but it also put Bajor and the station at the mercy of the Dominion. There would be no more trade with outside sources, no inflow of repair parts, medical supplies, food, technical help. The planet and the station would be forced to turn to the Dominion for support, and that would strengthen the Dominion's position. The leaders of the planetary population would deeply resent that.

 

 

The Vedeks particularly would bristle at any hint of Dominion occupation over what they saw as their spiritual territory.

 

 

Gul Dukat would know all that and be ready to respond with a hard slap to any protests. Not a good situation, and it would never become good. Bajor or the station would break, or Kira would break or Odo would melt. Something would go wrong. The balance would be broken and everything would spin out of control.

 

 

Somehow, eventually, that station had to be recaptured.

 

 

Thoughts of loss and insurgence bucked and sizzled in Sisko's mind. Frustration boiled in him as he had never known it before. He was stuck here, unable to do anything or know what anyone else was doing. For so many years he had juggled many baseballs, and now he only had this one little stitch to mend. His universe had contracted from a whole sector, a big populated planet, a crowded station, and the doorway between two quadrants to this handful of survivors, this tiny rock they were on, a desolate strip of surf and sand, a sunken Jem Hadar wreck, and a few days' worth of rations. And both challenges were dauntingly equalmthat was the strange part.

 

 

"Mr. Gordon," he said, breaking his miserable thoughts, "Take Lieutenant Neeley and scout the terrain north of here. Mr. Garak, Cadet Nog, you two go south-east along the ridge. Look for fresh water, edible vegetation, edible animals, possibly dangerous animals, toxins... what else?" "Jem Hadar," O'Brien piped.

 

 

"Oh... yes, do keep an eye out for Jem Hadar." "Why should we?" Nog irapulsed.

 

 

"Because I told you to, Cadet." The boy blinked as if he'd been slapped. "Oh.

 

 

yes, sir." Sending Nog with Garak might be a mistake. They had an uneasy history. All right, they had a downright hostile history. Come to think of it, that was as good a reason to send them together as it was not to send them together.

 

 

Off they went, leaving Sisko, O'Brien, Bashir and

 

 

the drowsy Dax in the dampness together. Light from outside was changing--how long was the day on this tiny excuse for a planet? The air was a little thinner than Sisko was used to, but air was air. Between sea and space, anything breathable would do.

 

 

After two hours, Sisko was ready to start giving himself a manicure if he didn't get a report pretty damned soon from his field operatives. He had been watching O'Brien fiddle with a piece of Dominion equipment, just one of a dozen bits of circuitry they'd tossed onto the raft at the last moment. To keep himself from running out there and doing the crew's jobs for them, Sisko fixated on O'Brien's work.

 

 

"What's that?" he asked.

 

 

"With a little luck," the engineer said by way of an answer, "I might be able to hardwire one of our combadges into this sensor relay. That would give us a crude transmitter, but no power source." Without bothering to point out that they had nobody friendly in this sector to transmit to, Sisko asked, "What about draining one of our phasers?" "I thought about that. But I'd need a converter to bridge the two power cells, and I can't build a converter without an ion exchange matrix." Sisko didn't respond. It didn't matter--right now they needed all the phasers, at least until they eased the area and made sure there were no hostile forces lurking here. Contacting rescue parties was a far-flung and slim chance, therefore not their first priority.

 

 

Their first priority was to stay alive right now, down here, for as long as possible.

 

 

Ensign Gordon saved him from having to voice any

 

 

of that by striding in with sand on his uniform and a worried look on his face.

 

 

"Captain, I think we may have a problem. Garak and Nog haven't reported in yet and they're not answering my hails." "How long since they reported in?" "We contacted each other at fourteen hundred, sir.

 

 

It's been over an hour, and we agreed to contact hourly." "Where's Neeley?" "She's on guard outside, sir. We haven't seen anything.... Living, I mean." "All right, form up. Doctor, we're going out on a search party. Let's hope it doesn't turn out to be a rescue party."

 

 

The shoreline was wide and open--too wide, too bright, too easy to be seen. It was also the way Garak and Nog had gone and the only passable ground in this direction.

 

 

The search party was widely spread out across the beach to avoid providing a tempting cluster for a single shot. All personnel had their phasers drawn, except Neeley, who was handling a tricorder, tracking the infrared remnants of Garak and Nog's footprints.

 

 

Unfortunately, for long stretches of beach, the footprints had been washed away by cooling licks of tide.

 

 

"Captain." Neeley slowed her pace to let Sisko catch up to her, keeping her eyes on her tricorder. "There's a group of life-forms up on the cliff... range seventyfive meters... elevation thirty meters." Casually Sisko glanced around the whole beach,

 

 

deliberately not focusing on the location Neeley had specified. Keeping his voice too low to be picked up by sensors, he muttered, "That's where I'd be.

 

 

Are they Jem Hadar?" "I think so." "Well, let's not make it easy for them. Tell the chief to head for that large outcropping of rocks at ten o'clock. But we need to walk... not run." Without any overt moves, Neeley picked up her pace and caught up with O'Brien. After a moment, O'Brien paused, pretended to get his bearings, then led the party toward the surge of rocks encrusting part of the beach, just under the ridge. No one looked up, nor indicated in any way that they knew they were being watched. Sisko kept his eyes focused ahead.

 

 

Neeley continued pretending to scan. O'Brien moved slowly toward the protection of the bigger rocks, but Sisko noticed the engineer's finger was already on his phaser trigger.

 

 

Just a few more seconds... just a few more steps to protection, to a defensible position-- Part of the rock in front of O'Brien opened with a sharp explosion. Energy blast!

 

 

"Move!" Sisko shouted. "Go! Go! Go!" He grabbed Neeley, who was still trying to pretend they hadn't been seen, hadn't been fired upon, and with her he dashed to the rock face, firing as he ran.

 

 

Above them, he caught a glimpse of a stony Jem Hadar face, and then another blast.

 

 

"We're pinned down," he choked. "Fire at will!" He thought of tossing in a sentence about firing

 

 

accurately and not wasting shots because the phasers were all they had, but this wasn't the time. The rock face was being chewed away by free fire from the Jem Hadar and his people had their hands full just keeping their heads from being shot off. They were in the defensive position, lower than the Jem Hadar and able only to lay down restraining fire. The Jem Hadar soldiers, pumped up and brain-clouded with the taste of victory in their single-minded way, were firing their disruptors murderously, cutting into the fissures and shearing away huge portions of the cliff that were protecting Sisko and his crew. If that was their plan, not to just hit the crew but also knock away the protective rocks, it was working.

 

 

Sheets of rock slid away, making a percussive rattle, then crashing to the sands below.

 

 

A Jem Hadar voice roared from above. "Terminate fire!" But the disruptor fire didn't terminate--it kept up at the same vicious pace. "Terminate!" Some of the shooting did stop, Sisko noticed then, but somebody up there was still trigger-happy.

 

 

"You've been ordered to stop!" Probably the "First" Jem Hadar, or whoever was leading that team. Apparently he was having trouble getting control over his men. Good, that might help.

 

 

And it might be a clue--if they were castaway here, were they running out of ketracel white? Losing mental control? Going through withdrawal?

 

 

O'Brien and... who was that--Gordon--were

 

 

still firing on the Jem Hadar position. Sisko didn't yet order them to stop. If the Jem Hadar were indeed in the first stages of withdrawal, the harassment, or even the stubbornness, of the Starfleet team could irritate them into dissention.

 

 

Yesmthey were arguing. He heard them, but the specific words were guttural, muffled.

 

 

"--reduced to Sixth!" "--shroud... base camp." "--suppression fire... rodraw." Draw? Withdraw, maybe? Were they pulling back?

 

 

Why?

 

 

They had a superior position. Why would they pull back?

 

 

The answer might be as simple as some set of orders they had received and weren't supposed to mangle.

 

 

They weren't engineered to be too independently thinking. Obedience was everything, spontaneity was not encouraged, and such minds could be confused.

 

 

He let O'Brien and the others keep firing until he was sure the Jem Hadar were no longer returning the shots.

 

 

"They're pulling out," O'Brien called.

 

 

Sisko almost told him to keep quiet, but changed his mind. "Looks that way to me." "Why aren't they camouflaged?" "Good question. Let's hope the answer is something in our favor. Cease fire! Lieutenant Neeley?" "Sir!" "Are they there, or are they gone?" "Not reading them in the immediate vicinity any-

 

 

more, sir, although some of my readings are garbled. I think this tricorder got bumped or something." "They're not up there anymore?" "No, sir, no life-form readings withinre" "Take a position where you can read the top of the ridge." "Yes, sir." "All hands, disperse and meet back at the cavern."

 

 

Two hostages. A good event.

 

 

Remata'Klan. "Kneel before the Vorta." How strange it seemed that the Vorta had no satisfaction in his face at seeing these two captives from the Federation ship they had been chasing. Now it was confirmed, for these two were here, that that ship had crashed also. The Vorta's conditionmwas it worse? How could a Jem Hadar judge a being like a Vorta?

 

 

The two Federation captives on their knees. No speaking yet.

 

 

The Vorta. "How many... others... are there in your unit?" "Nog!" The Ferengi. "Cadet third class! Serial number CX dash nine-three-seven-three dash--" "Shut up!" The other captive. The Cardassian one.

 

 

"As I tried to explain to your men, my name is Kamar and I'm a member of the Cardassian Intelligence Bureau, what used to be known as the Obsidian order.

 

 

A week ago, while performing my duties in the glorious service of the Founders, I was captured by the U.S.S. Centaur. I was being held aboard one of

 

 

their shuttles when we were forced to hide in his dark matter nebula by the unexpected appearance of a Dominion battleship. The shuttle was then hit by--" "Excuse me, Mr. Kamar." The Vorta. "If that's really your name.... But if you're one of our allies, why were you wearing this?" A Starfleet cornbadge. A change in the Cardassian's behavior. A stare at the combadge.

 

 

"I was hoping you weren't going to ask me about that." "I have only one further question for you. Is there a doctor in your unit?" The Cardassian. "Yes." "Garak!" The Ferengi.

 

 

Now the Cardassian's real name was known. The rest, assumably, also lies.

 

 

"Don't be too hard on him, young man." The Vorta. "He just saved your life. Take them to a secure area. Third..." Soldiers taking away the two captives. "I have a mission for you. All our lives may depend on it. Can I trust you to carry out my orders without question?" Remata'Klan. A purpose. A mission. No more void moments. "My life is pledged to the service of the Dominion." "Good. I want you to find the Starfleet unit. But do not engage them. Locate them, assess their strength, then report back to me." "I understand." "No, you don't. But that's all right. It's not important that you understand. Only that you carry out my instructions precisely."

 

 

"'Obedience brings victory.'" "Yes. Yes, it does.... Go."

 

 

A good approach. Without detection even in the brightness of this nebular sun glaring down upon this planet. Starfleet officers on the low ground, Remata'Klan and soldiers up here, on the rocks, a tactical advantage.

 

 

A burst of weapons fire! Against orders! The Vorta had ordered not to engage! Who is firing?

 

 

Two... three Jem Hadar, firing on the Starfleeters!

 

 

Return fire vomiting back up the rocks. The Starfleeters are fighting back. The Vorta's orders must stand until he dies!

 

 

Neck tube sucking again... the dizziness getting worse. Cramps and shaking in the fingers and knees.

 

 

"Terminate fire!" Remata'Klan. "Terminate fire!" The men drunk with murderous fury, still firing downward, confused, drilling the rocks without even hitting a targeted enemy. Waste of weapon energy!

 

 

Remata'Klan--strike down the nearest Jem Hadar.

 

 

Nearby, Limara'Son now looks up, stops firing, seems to waken from the rushing confusion. Beyond him, another Jem Hadar hears nothing, ignores orders, keeps firing down again and again. Only the roar of the weapons and the sucking horror of their empty neck tubes--deafening.

 

 

Limara'Son, turning his own weapon on that other soldier. "You've been ordered to stop!" A great effort, and the soldier stops firing.

 

 

Starfleet still firing upward, looking for cover, blast-

 

 

ing the cliffs to rock fragments. The soldiers are unhappy about restraint. This curtails forward movement of actions, a chance at getting more white. The universe was closing in. At first, there had been war.

 

 

Purpose. Orders. Then only a ship. Then only a planet. Now only the white. The tunnel closed and closed. Soon there would be only the insanity of withdrawal, and the orta would die and they would go insane trying to get the box open.

 

 

Remata'Klan. "Your orders were clear! You were not to engage the enemy! Who fired first?" All silent.

 

 

Limara'Son, finally. "I did." Disappointment. Remata'Klan. "You are reduced to Sixth. We will shroud and return to base camp--" Explosion on the rocks. Blistering pain.

 

 

Remata'Klan's arm bleeding.

 

 

Limara'Son. "I can no longer shroud myself." All the others too. No more shroud energy left anywhere. No more protection.

 

 

Remata'Klan. "You and you will provide suppression fire as we withdraw." Limara'Son. "Understood." Pull back carefully, while Limara'Son and the Ninth open fire again on the Starfleet position. A pause.... Crouch for a moment of watching the movements below.

 

 

Limara'Son. "Remata'Klan... I regret my disobedience." Regrets. There were so many. Surely they stood beneath this sun and glare because of errors.

 

 

Remata'Klan's hand on Limara'Son's shoulder for

 

 

balance. Stand and move out to follow the others back to base camp.

 

 

Remata'Klan. "Follow us in ninety seconds. We will face the Vorta's fury together."

 

 

"Why were my orders disobeyed?" The cave has an echo. Even injured and dying, the Vorta has a piercing voice.

 

 

Remata'Klan. "Lack of white produces anxiety among us. One man could not restrain himself when he saw the enemy." "Which man?" "I have dealt with the matter." "I asked for his name." "He is my responsibility." "His name!" At the side, Limara'Son waits to be betrayed. But if obedience is victory, is not loyalty success?

 

 

"I may not be First." Remata'Klan. "But I am the unit leader. You can discipline me, but only I discipline the men. That is the order of things." The Vorta is angry, but also fatigued. He cannot struggle or resist. Things had to be in order.

 

 

The Vorta. "Very well. I leave him to you." Success? A tactical win for Remata'Klan? Would the Vorta give them more white now? A glance at the unit. "Dismissed." It's well that they leave quickly, before the Vorta's pain makes him change his mind.

 

 

"You've done well, Third." The Vorta. "You may yet become First. Now... I have a new task for you."

 

 

"All right, it's pretty clear now that we've got a problem. Until we know if they have any weaknesses, we have to assume they don't. Come down here, Chief." Drawing in the sandy flats of the cave floor, Sisko crouched with O'Brien and made a sketch of the surrounding area.

 

 

"We'll set up three defensive positions," he said, glancing at O'Brien. "You and Ensign Gordon on the south ridge, Lieutenant Neeley near the lava tube, Bashir and I in the dunes." From the slab behind him, Dax murmured, "I'll stay here and guard my clothes." He smiled, and was immediately interrupted by a comm call.

 

 

"Neeley to Captain Sisko." "Go ahead." "A Jem Hadar soldier has just approached my position, sir. He says he wants to talk to you alone." "Understood. Stand by. And don't turn your back on that soldier." "Standing by." He eyed O'Brien. "What do you suppose that means?" "A Jem Hadar with a superior position and a tactical advantage wanting to parlay?" O'Brien tipped his head thoughtfully. "I'd say they want to make a deal, they must need something pretty badly. We ought to let 'era suffer." "I'd like to, but you're forgetting something." "What am I forgetting?"

 

 

"Nog and Garak. They haven't reported in. That Jem Hadar might be here to negotiate a hostage deal." "If they've got Nog and Garak, you'll have to be careful." "Cunning is what I have to be. More than they are." "Not very hard, sir." "No, but if they've got a Vorta with them, that changes everything." "Are you really going to meet him by yourself, sir?" "I'd better. But... there's one thing I can do to seem to have an upper hand. Sisko to Neeley." "Neeley. " "Tell the Jem Hadar representative that I will meet with him, but in our cavern, which will be his prison if his words fail to advance our situation to mutual advantage." He knew the Jem Hadar was standing right there, listening. NeeIcy acknowledged, and Sisko turned to O'Brien. "Take Bashir and Gordon and stand guard in a half-circle perimeter, but stay out of sight." "Out of sight, aye, sir." It took Neeley ten minutes to bring the Jem Hadar representative into the cavern, even though it was only a two minute walk--and that was good thinking.

 

 

Sisko hadn't been able to say anything to her over the comm, but hoped she knew procedure. Never lead an enemy directly to your camp. Make the route as complicated and unrememberable as possible.

 

 

Here they were.

 

 

On the slab over there, Dax remained still and pretended to sleep, but she wasn't sleeping. Sisko

 

 

silently motioned for Lieutenant Neeley to make herself scarce. Then he faced the jagged features of the Jem Hadar.

 

 

"I'm Captain Benjamin Sisko," he said simply.

 

 

"Third Remata'Klan. Two members of your unit are being held at our base camp. We will exchange them for you and your doctor." Suddenly several pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. Sisko controlled his expression, pretending he realized nothing.

 

 

"Why do you need a doctor?" "The Vorta has been severely wounded." "And why me?" "The Vorta wishes to speak to you." "It sounds like he wants to trade two low-ranking prisoners for two more valuable ones. Would you accept a deal like that?" "No." "Then why should I?" "You shouldn't." "You're not a very good negotiator, are you?" "I was not sent to negotiate," the Jem Hadar said.

 

 

"I was instructed only to deliver terms." Terms--a strange reference from the Vorta. Terms for surrender or terms for a treaty?

 

 

"I see.... Well, then I want to talk to someone who can negotiate. I want to speak with your First." The Jem Hadar soldier paused, shifted his feet uneasily, eyed Sisko as if he didn't know exactly how to respond to that.

 

 

After a moment he said, "There is no First."

 

 

Sisko measured the soldier's reaction. "I take it there's no Second either." "I command the unit," the soldier admitted.

 

 

In those few words a flood of active possibilities rushed into Sisko's mind. There was a problem in the Jem Hadar camp. They had crashed. Their Vorta was injured, and this soldier, the Third, was in command, but he hadn't been promoted to first or even second, and that meant he must've done something wrong. He didn't deserve the posting, even though he had the job. That meant tension between him and the other Jem Hadar who also could not move up until he did, and it meant some kind of tug and pull was going on between him and the Vorta. Hmm.

 

 

"It must be hard," Sisko prodded, "for a soldier to take orders from a Vorta." The soldier stiffened. "The Vorta command the Jem Hadar. It is the order of things." "'Obedience brings victory,'" Sisko recited, and got a strong surprised look from the soldier. "I was on a mission with the Jem Hadar once, before the war, of course. They were good... tough. Professional. It was an honor to serve with them. But their Vorta.

 

 

he was something different. Manipulative.

 

 

Treacherous. Trusted by neither side. In the end, he was killed... by the Jem Hadar First." The Third blinked and gaped, unable to hide his shock.

 

 

"Surprised?" Sisko asked quietly.

 

 

Nervous but fighting to recover, the Third fidgeted.

 

 

"Such things have been known to happen, but they are rare and only occur in units that have lost discipline." He paused then, twitching under Sisko's analytical glare, then forced back the subject he'd come here about. "The Vorta has instructed me to give you his assurance that neither you nor the doctor will be harmed and you'll both be free to leave at the end of your meeting. What is your response?" "The Vorta's word doesn't carry much weight with me," Sisko snapped. "Can I have your assurance that we'll be free to go, Remata'Klan?" Moved by the unexpected faith from an enemy who pointedly did not take the Vorta as superior, the Third hesitated and searched around for an answer that wouldn't compromise the loyalty he was supposed to hold for the Vorta.

 

 

"I have been ordered," he said slowly, "to let you leave after the meeting. You can be sure that I will obey that order." Sisko paused a couple of seconds, just to imply that none of this meant quite as much to him as it did to the Jem Hadar, but then said, "We'll make the trade in one hour." "Agreed." Remata'Klan turned and boiled out of the cavern with new things to think about.

 

 

When the footsteps faded and he and Dax were alone, she opened her eyes.

 

 

"Sounded like you were actually getting through to him for a minute there." Sisko shook his head. "You can't break through all that Dominion conditioning in one conversation."

 

 

"Do you really think you can turn him against his Vorta?" "I don't know. But there were at least seven Jem Hadar soldiers up on that ridge this morning. Say at least two more at their base camp, guarding the Vorta and their prisoners. Without Nog and Garak on our side, that gives them almost a two to one advantage." Grimly, Dax blinked and sighed. "I think I'd like to check out now." "So would I, old man, so would I." "Don't trust them, Benjamin," she said, letting the concern rise in her weakened voice.

 

 

"I don't," he told her, "but if they've got Garak and Nog, I have to do something. I have the moral and legal authority to sacrifice myself for them as their commanding officert" "But that doesn't include Julian." "Better him that Nog, at least." "True.... " "Sisko to Bashir." "Bashir, sir." "Doctor, come back to the cavern. I have something to tell you."

 

 

The rain it raineth on the just, And also on the unjust fella: But chiefly on the just, because The unjust steals the just's umbrella.

 

 

Lord Bowen

 

 

O

 

 

CHAPTER 14

 

 

KIRA NERYS stood at the rail overlooking the Promenade of Deep Space Nine. Below, a flow of people moved like a sleepy beast. Jem Hadar soldiers, a couple of Vorta, Cardassians, assorted other aliens, and now Bajorans who had returned to the station or were visiting. All was quietmrather too quiet. There was function here, but no joy. There was life, but it possessed no bubble. The taste of her morning's raktajino lingered on her lips, growing stale. Lingering in her mind, unerasable, the image of Jem Hadar and Cardassians manning the posts in Ops, posts which only weeks ago had been home to the friendly faces of Dax, O'Brien, and her other friends. Friends.

 

 

Day by day she had taken raktajino from Mavek every morning. She had gone about her daily routine.

 

 

She had resisted any efforts to fight back against the Cardassian occupation, clinging to the glimmer of hope that Captain Sisko was out there somewhere, with a plan to take the station back, or at least a plan in which Kira's patience played a part. Even pressure from Vedek Kassim, one of Bajor's most prominent religious leaders, had not moved Kira to accept her one-time role as a rebel troublemaker. This business of a command position had been hard to understand at first, but she had acclimated, learned to comprehend the balancing act every officer must employ, and now it was her job not only to avoid making trouble herself, but to see that trouble was not made by others.

 

 

Thus her shame when, just hours ago, Vedek Kassim threw herself from this very rail to her death at the flat walkway of the Promenade. Her heart half eaten away, Kira looked down and knew the edek's desperation had been caused by Kira's own resistance to... resistance. The Vedek's sacrifice, and her final cry--"Evil must be opposed!"---was a message as much for Kira as for the Dominion and the Cardassians.

 

 

Despite appearances, there had been some unsavory changes that even Captain Sisko didn't know about since Bajor had been completely cut off from outside trade. Because of the Vedek's suicide, Gul Dukat had initiated a crackdown on security.

 

 

On top of all that, four hundred Dominion facilitators had been sent to Bajor to "help" because of all the shortages they had themselves caused with the

 

 

isolation policy. Technical assistance for a few months. Sure.

 

 

Kira herself and Odo had welcomed a group of Vorta to the station. That was part of their duty under the damned treaty with Bajor. That made it seem that Odo, supposedly a "Founder," was validating the Dominion's presence, especially now that he had accepted a position, in a deal with Weyoun, on the "ruling council" of the station. Odo had made a request, and Weyoun had cleverly turned it around on him. Now Odo appeared, in the eyes of all here, to be approving of the Dominion and Cardassian rule. Kira downright knew she was validating it just by not fighting it. Sickening.

 

 

And all this was further irritated by Jake Sisko's new habit of lurking about, playing the part of an investigative reporter.... That's all they needed.

 

 

Freedom of the press didn't exist in a totalitarian state, kid, and it can work against freedom when the press doesn't know better than to keep its mouth shut.

 

 

Over and over Kira heard the words of Vedek Kassim trying to convince her to rise against the Dominion. "The Prophets tell us that evil must be opposed. The Dominion is evil.... As Bajor~ liaison officer, what will you do to oppose them?... Freedoms are being curtailed one by one.... Can't you see what~ happening to you? You're becoming an apologist for them.... " Kira vaguely recalled her response--not to apologize for the Dominion, but a warning to Vedek Kassim that any public protest would have to be

 

 

stopped and it was Kira's job to stop it. What would it have taken to-- "Nerys?" She almost turned, guarding a flinch at the interruption, but then recognized Odo's voice and didn't need to turn. Her eyes were still fixed upon the scuffed floor down below where Vedek Kassim had lay dead before her, before everyone. Pedestrians below were deliberately avoiding even walking over the spot.

 

 

"Damar has been trying to contact you for the past five hours," he said, coming to her side at the rail.

 

 

Silently Kira opened her hand and showed her unactivated combadge, then closed her fist again. No explanation for that.

 

 

"I keep thinking about it," she murmured. "Over and over... and I just can't believe that I stood down there, ready to use force to stop a protest against the Dominion. Met When I was in the Resistance... I despised people like me. I'm a collaborator, Odo.... " "That's not true." His gravelly voice was calm, without pressure. "You're doing exactly what Captain Sisko wanted you and the rest of Bajor to do--remain neutral and stay out of the fighting." "We used to have a saying in the Resistance," she told him with a touch of reverie. "'If you're not fighting them, you're helping them.' Half the Alpha Quadrant is out there right now, fighting for freedom.

 

 

But not me.... How do I spend my time? I get a full meal every day, I sleep in a soft bed every night, I even write reports for the murderers who run this station-"

 

 

Odo cut her off. "This is a difficult time for everyone. Do you think it's easy for me to sit down with Dukat and Weyoun every day while they plot the destruction of the Federation?" Now she looked at him. "I'm not pointing a finger at you, Odo. I'm the one who told you to get more involved in the first place. No, this is about me.

 

 

this is about being able to look in the mirror every morning and not feel nauseated by what I see. Kassim was right.... I've got to do something. I've got to start fighting back." "That's a mistake," he said. "Active resistance will trigger a crackdown and--" "Odo, I don't want to end up fighting you, too, but I'll do it if I have to." There was a quiet pause between them now. She hadn't had to put much inflection into her words-- the conviction behind them carded perfectly well to the perceptions of her longtime friend.

 

 

And to Odo's credit, he wasn't foolish enough to argue. But even more, Kira sensed that he too had been wallowing in his own personal disgusts.

 

 

He glanced about, then lowered his voice. "All fight. But let's find a more discreet place to plan the New Resistance."

 

 

"The next thing we need is a secure way to communicate with our contacts on Bajor." "The Cardassians are extremely adept at locating the source of any illicit subspace transmission." "Then we'll have to be smarter than they are." Kira made her cryptic declaration almost flip-

 

 

pantly. She and Odo sat alone in Quark's bar, in the middle of a jumble of activity and the rattle of the Dabo wheel that masked their conversation. Nobody would expect a resistance cell to be meeting in the most crowded place on the station. Everybody knew she and Odo were friends. No one expected them to avoid each other. So it was perfect to talk here, plot and plan here, consider here, worry here. "Hi. Mind if I join in?" Kira straightened a little as the lanky Jake Sisko made a predictable appearance. Here to ask lots of questions, write them down, try to get them spread around, make a name for himself doing it. Just what every resistance cell needed.

 

 

"You already have," Odo droned.

 

 

The boy--all right, he wasn't a boy anymore, except for that silly glitter in his eyes--leaned on both elbows and flatly said, "I want in." Kira glanced at Odo, and he returned that same troubled look.

 

 

"In on what?" Odo asked.

 

 

"Your resistance cell." They hadn't even done anything yet! How could he possibly know? Were they that rusty?

 

 

Managing to bury a groan of frustration, Kira tossed off, "What cell?" "Come on, Major, I have my sources." Odo shifted in his chair and leered at Kira. "How reassuring." She knew exactly what he meant. She also knew that neither she nor Odo had said anything to any-

 

 

body. How had Jake found out about their embryonic resistance?

 

 

"I can help," Jake attempted.

 

 

"How?" "As a reporter, I hear things. People talk to me." Ridiculous--nobody who wanted anything kept private would talk to him, so who cared to hear about anything from anybody who wouM talk to Jake Sisko?

 

 

Kira evasively asked, "About what?" "Major," he said with a twinge of protest, "all I'm asking for is a chance." Irritation burned under Kira's skin, but she was saved from any response when Quark showed up and with typical rudeness interrupted them. "It's time, Major." Well, after all, she'd asked him to do this.

 

 

"Already?" she sighed.

 

 

"Fourteen hundred fifty-seven hours. The shuttle will be docking in three minutes." Resigned, and yet also glad to be leaving Jake behind, Kira got up. "I better go," she said with unshielded sarcasm. "I wouldn't want to keep him waiting." Leaving Jake to stew in his own choice of careers, she left the bar, and was gratified when Odo followed her out. It was a clear message to Jake that, if they were indeed doing something subversive, he couldn't be part of it. Not yet, anyway. Son of the emissary or not.

 

 

Kira held back on the Promenade until Odo caught up with her.

 

 

"How did he know?" she huffed. "Do you think Quark talked?" Odo glanced back, to make sure Jake was not following. "No, I don't think he would. It's quite possible that Jake is making a logical conclusion based upon his familiarity with us. After the edek's suicide, it's not a far-fetched idea that you might have been pushed too far. It's possible Jake was only acting upon supposition." "Pretty good supposition.... That's all we need-- to be that predictable. I wonder if Dukat or Weyoun are having the same suspicions." "Dukat hasn't been on the station for days." "Don't remind me. He and Damar practically danced for joy when they left to organize the Dominion facilitators on Bajor. They actually asked me to go with them! Can you imagine?" "Doesn't matter for now whether or not they suspect us of activity. We haven't done anything yet. All we have to do is nothing for a few more days--or at least, nothing that looks as if it could be the work of a resistance coalition." "I hate having to go meet them in the airlock, as if they were somebody.... " Odo paused before going off in another direction-- his presence wasn't required and might be misread at the airlock. "Keep in mind, Nerys, that anything you do to placate them can from now on work in our favor. Relax, and they will relax also." With a dirty little smile, Kira shook her head and leered at him. "Quit being so wise. It makes me feel inferior."

 

 

He returned a very small ironic smile, and veered off. Wise again--they wanted to be seen together, but no more than usual.

 

 

The walk to the airlock was mind clearing, though without comfort and left her physically chilled. This was her job, yes, but Odo was right--somehow this ceremonial crap would ultimately help her to be effective as a revolutionary. The authority would come into play... eventually. It had to, or it would drive her crazy.

 

 

The airlock rolled open less than a full second after she arrived. Gul Dukat strolled out already bearing a beam to beam smile, and behind him, with an equally poignant and venomous glare, was Glinn Damar.

 

 

"Major Kira," Dukat greeted, "so good to see you again." But Damar was less formal. "You're out of uniform, Major. Bajorans could use a lesson in respect." "Damar, please," Dukat said. "This is a happy occasion. Let's not spoil it. Major, I have a surprise for you." "Nerys!" Kira turned at the sound of her name being called from the airlock.

 

 

"Nerys, I'm so glad to see you!" A buoyant young woman shot from the airlock and clasped Kira in a bear hug.

 

 

"Ziyal--what are you doing here?" Kira drew back to get a good look at the girl's face, chalky and gray as a Cardassian's, obviously the dominant race in her heritage, but she also had that touch of Bajoran construction that showed at the

 

 

bridge of her nose. Dukat's daughter--Dukat and a Bajoran slave.

 

 

"You're supposed to be on Bajor," Kira told her.

 

 

Dukat beamed at them. "I talked her into taking a little sabbatical from the university." Kira leered at him. "You talked her into it?

 

 

"It didn't take much convincing," Ziyal admitted joyously. "Why don't you and I have dinner tonight?

 

 

I'll tell you all about it." "All right.... " "Splendid!" Dukat clasped his hands. "We'll dine in my quarters at twenty-two hundred." "What a minute! That's not what I--" But Ziyal cut her off and grasped her by both hands.

 

 

"I can't tell you how much I've missed you!" Before Kira had a chance to protest again, Dukat strode away down the corridor and tossed back, "Come along, Ziyal." Ziyal rushed off after her father, but called back to Kira, "See you tonight!"

 

 

"I'm not having dinner with you tonight. I'm not having dinner with you tonight.... I'm sorry, but I'm just not going to be able to have dinner with you tonight. I'm not really sorry, it's just a matter of principle, I hope you understand, but I won't be having dinner with you tonight or any night, or any year, or at least not until I shoot my head off. Oh, shut up and ring the stupid door chime." "Come in," Ziyal called from the other side of the door.

 

 

Kira walked in, unable to hide her tension.

 

 

"Nerys!" Ziyal was finishing setting the table with Dukat's finest crystal and flatware. "You're early! I just started the ramufta." Kira crossed the room to the table. "Ziyal, I'm not having dinner with you tonight." Ziyal paused, but her expression showed that this wasn't entirely unexpected. "Oh....It's because of my father, isn't it?" "That's right." "I thought you might back out....I was hoping I was wrong." Ziyal bothered to straighten a salad fork, but made no effort to hide her disappointment.

 

 

"Ziyal," Kira began, "what are you doing back on the station?" "Please don't be upset with me," the girl said. "I know how hard you worked to arrange things for me on Bajor. I tried--I really tried." "I'm not upset with you. Just a little confused. Now tell me what happened." "It wasn't any one thing.... The students at the university, everybody was... polite. But I'd see them whispering in the hallways and staring at me.

 

 

I'm the daughter of Gul Dukat. My father is leading a war against the emissary of the Prophets. I don't know what made me think I could fit in." She sank heavily to the couch, engulfed in the minute painful hits a young person could get from a situation that others might see as frivolous.

 

 

Not quite unfeeling about this, Kira sat next to her, but had no words of comfort to offer. This wasn't

 

 

much of a time for comfort, not as much as for reality.

 

 

Ziyal's return to the station made Kira's job that much harder. If she were to involve herself with a resistance movement, make life on the station more hazardous, more risky, then she would have to accept that Ziyal, a person about whom she deeply cared, might be caught in the cross fire.

 

 

"This station," Ziyal murmured, "is the closest thing to a home that I have. You're here....My father's here--" "And the last time you defied him," Kira harshly reminded, "he left you here to die." "We talked about that." Ziyal turned a plaintive gaze to her. "He admits he overreacted, but family loyalty is important to my father and he felt I betrayed him." "You betrayed him? I think it's the other way around." "He misses me, Nerys... and I've missed him." Scratched by the sudden warmth between father and daughter, Kira pushed to her feet and walked to the viewport to regain control over her expression.

 

 

"I have to give him a chance," Ziyal said behind her. "He's all I have, except for you. I was hoping you'd have dinner with us tonight, because there's something special I wanted to share with both of you... but I guess that's impossible." Her insides churning, Kira wanted very much to declare an assault on Ziyal for siding with her father and detach herself from this odd family relationship the three of them seemed to have. Looking at Ziyal, at the girl's downcast eyes, the smear of her hopes, Kira

 

 

couldn't spit the venom at Ziyal that was meant for Dukat.

 

 

"All right," she conceded. "I'11 be here. But I can't guarantee it's going to be much fun." Ziyal hesitated, looked at her, then jumped to her feet as joy spread across her face. "I promise my father will behave!"

 

 

A flower. Actually, a pretty well executed minimalist monochrome ink brush evocation of a single Bajoran lily pushing up out of the barren rocks of Nocroma Bayside. This and several others of Ziyal's artwork were laid out on the coffee table. Kira now wore her dress uniform, and so Dukat also was wearing his.

 

 

Dinner had been cordial but stiff. The conduit had been Ziyal, who loved them both, and Kira and Dukat had both been making a true effort to make her happy, suspending their mutual tension. Kira had more to suspend than Dukat. Kira knew he'd always been interested in her, first as an enemy, later as a.

 

 

let's call it a gaming opponent, and more recently as a woman--what a joke. All this made Kira uneasy, but somehow she had been on this station, among Cardassians on a working plane, for a long time now and had found variety in herself that she never expected. She'd spent the evening, for Ziyal's sake, looking for distractions. First, the spacescape out the viewport. Then the dinner itself. The decapus salad. A little tough, but spiced right. The main course. A little bland, but wonderfully tender. After dinner, drinks. Now, Ziyal's artwork provided some conversation, a further rea-

 

 

son to avoid any touchy subjects--and to Kira's pleasure, the art really was very moving and Ziyal had good news to go with it.

 

 

"The Institute is having an exhibition of new artists next month and the director might want to include my work," Ziyal bubbled. "It's a chance to show that both Bajorans and Cardassians look at the universe the same way. That's what I want to do with my work... bring people together." Breathless, Ziyal stopped herself, suddenly aware of how she sounded, and Kira hoped it was not her own patronizing expression that Ziyal had noticed.

 

 

"I guess that sounds a little silly," the girl diminished.

 

 

Dukat puffed up and proclaimed, "On the contrary, my dear, you're quite eloquent." Kira was glad Dukat spoke up. She didn't want to laud Ziyal for a simplistic hope, but that's what it was.

 

 

Artwork, or any manner of passive inoculation, simply couldn't bring people together who had fundamental moral differences. Struggle, disagreement, and conflict were, at their core, healthy elements of society-at least, a free society. If everybody just got along and bottled up their disagreements... well, you could find yourself sitting on a couch with a despot and smiling the whole time. And the despot would win.

 

 

"Are you ready for dessert?" Ziyat stood up, not waiting for an answer.

 

 

"I'm not going anywhere," Kira offered as the girl scampered off toward the galley, seeming very young.

 

 

Alone on the couch with Dukat, Kira kept looking at the artwork. "I don't believe the change. I've never seen her so--" "Happy?" the Cardassian imperial leader filled in.

 

 

"Neither have I, Major." "She's finally found something. A talent, a direction." "I'm reluctant to admit it, but you were right to send her to Bajor," Dukat offered. "I'm glad it worked out." He leaned back, crossed his legs, sipped his drink, and looked at her. "We seldom see eye-to-eye, Major, but I know you care about my daughter... and for that I'm grateful." His gratitude ran like chills up Kira's arms, yet she wasn't inclined to deny its veracity. That was odd-- but instinctive. Something told her he wasn't playing any games right now. The gaze he had given Ziyal as she dashed away--real pride.

 

 

"Ziyal's excited by all this," Kira told him, with a tone that offered a hand of cooperation for now. "A chance to have her work on exhibit? What an accomplishment." "I'm hosting a celebration for her in my quarters. I hope you'll join me." "When?" "Twenty-one-thirty tomorrow. Unless I'm unavoidably delayed." Kira leaned back. "The busy life of an interstellar despot." "I prefer the term 'tyrant.'"

 

 

Kira smiled, and a good mood started creeping over her hesitations. Dukat was throwing her a bone, seeming to understand for once what it was like to be on the receiving side of oppression.

 

 

"I was thinking," he went on, "of assigning Damar to escort Ziyal to the affair." "Damar? You can't be serious!" "He's a fine officer from a good family." Kira huffed. "He's a self-righteous sycophant who despises everything Bajoran." "I assure you, Major," Dukat attempted, "Damar doesn't despise your people." "Then why does his upper lip curl every time he says the word 'Bajor'?" She curled her own lip, bared her teeth, and mimicked, "'Bajorans could use a lesson in respect.'" Dukat narrowed his eyes. "He does no such thing--" The door chimed and without waiting for a call, the panel opened. Damar strode in, and Kira quickly put her lip back in place, wondering if he were not part Betazoid and could read minds.

 

 

"Gul Dukat?" Damar approached his leader with a padd.

 

 

"Ah, Damar... impeccable timing, as always." Dukat glanced at Kira with a light in his eye.

 

 

Kira pressed her lips flat, trying not to laugh.

 

 

"Sir," Damar said, "the Bajoran delegation requests that the replicators be shipped by Bajoran transports." Oh, damn--the laugh broke out. She tried not to look at Damar, although it indeed seemed ridiculous

 

 

that she was laughing at the pictures of flowers. Oh, who really cared what Damar thought?

 

 

"Thank you, Damar," she spoke up, taking the role of the Bajoran authority in the middle of this joke.

 

 

"That will be all." Damar glowered at her and parted his lips to snarl back, but Dukat interrupted. "You heard the major." "Sir?" Holding a breath, Dukat insisted. "We'll continue this discussion another time." Drawing himself up, Damar acceded. "Very well." He executed an about-face and strode out of the quarters.

 

 

Kira held her own breath. Dukat looked at the door for several seconds, but finally had to meet Kira's eyes. "I believe I owe you an apology," he said. "You and... the Bajoran people." His teeth showed and his lips peeled back.

 

 

Together, the two of them dissolved into laughter.

 

 

Something in common. Something at last. In common.

 

 

"I have something for you." Dukat stood up and drew a box from behind the chair near the viewport.

 

 

"A gift. For the party." "Oh...."Carrying the box to the table, she opened it.

 

 

A long silky gown tumbled over her arms, shimmering with fine crushed gems embedded right into the stretchy fabric.

 

 

"Oh," she murmured again, and held the gown up against her body. It was the perfect length, a little revealing, soft and luscious, flowing and tempting.

 

 

Moving to a mirror next to the door panel, Kira gazed at the vision of herself with the beautiful gown drifting across her form.

 

 

A soldier in a dancing dress... out of place, somehow... out of.

 

 

Disgust creased her brow. "What the hell am I doing?" From near the couch, Dukat said, "Pardon?" Suddenly boiling, Kira swung around and dumped the dress back into the box. The shimmering fabric spilled into its container, virtually folding itself, and still looked beautiful just lying there.

 

 

"You don't like the dress?" Dukat asked.

 

 

"The dress is fine." She turned to face him. "I don't like you." "Major, that's just not true," he said, disturbingly genuine. "There's a bond between usw" "Only in your mind. You're an opportunistic, power-hungry dictator and I want nothing to do with you." Pausing a moment, Dukat seemed sincerely disappointed, which only made Kira feel worse.

 

 

"Ziyal will be disappointed to hear you say that," he told her.

 

 

"She'll get over it." "Nerys," Dukat attempted, "why don't we sit down and talk about this." Get out. Get out quickly. Let him make any excuse to Ziyal that he could come up with. Let him explain to his daughter that her mother was a slave of Cardassian masters and that was why she felt so ill at ease with Bajorans or Cardassians alike. Let him tell her

 

 

that her dear friend and mentor Nerys was not a defacto mother, but in reality was a trapped enemy whose life of hunger and deprivation had once been devoted to repelling the occupation of despots. Sit down and talk about it?

 

 

"No," she snapped. "No, we won't."

 

 

Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do or die.

 

 

CHAPTER 15

 

 

"ARE YOU TWO all right?" "Perfect. How are you?" "I've felt better." Good enough for now. Sisko and Bashir kept walking after exchanging only those little words with Nog and Garak. They didn't even break stride as they passed each other on the stretch of sand, Garak and Nog heading for the Starfleet cluster at one end of the beach, Sisko and Bashir heading for the stand of Jem Hadar at the other end. Bashir carried only his medikit. Sisko carried nothing. That was the deal.

 

 

Remata'Klan was here. Another Jem Hadar, probably the fourth, introduced himself as Limara'Son.

 

 

They walked straight--absolutely straight--to a caw ern on another part of the beach, chilling Sisko with awareness of how close the two camps really were.

 

 

Inside the cave were other Jem Hadar soldiers, watching warily and fingering their weapons and twitching uneasily as Sisko and Bashit were led to the makeshift resting place of a very ill orta. Bashir immediately knelt at the Vorta's side, but the Vorta had no attention for the doctor. Instead he eyed Sisko with his penetrating gaze.

 

 

"Captain Sisko," he said weakly, "my name is Keevan. We have a lot to talk about." "Not for a while, you don't," Bashir contradicted, and looked up at Sisko. "He needs immediate surgery." "Now?" Sisko asked.

 

 

"I don't have any choice." Well, that was an honest answer. Sisko could tell from Bashir's tone that the doctor wasn't bluffing and had a genuine patient on his hands and that his Hippocratic oath had just kicked in, enemy or not.

 

 

Apparently the Jem Hadar also picked up the snap of urgency in Bashir's voice, for they suddenly clustered closer.

 

 

Bashir looked up, intimidated. "I'm a doctor--I won't hurt him." The Vorta smiled. "They're not here to protect me.

 

 

They've just never seen what the inside of a Vorta looks like." CuriousmJem Hadar soldiers crowding around to see the guts of a being they thought was somehow closer to the gods.

 

 

On the other hand, Sisko wasn't interested in a good look, and stepped aside to let the Jem Hadar

 

 

provide a convenient screen. Bashir went to work in studious silence. The Vorta must have been only minutes from death.

 

 

Sisko beat down feelings of just letting the posturing alien die, but that would leave the Jem Hadar without guidance and he thought he could more easily deal with a Vorta who owed him one than an uncontrolled pawn who didn't and who was going through withdrawal.

 

 

Yes, he decided, they must be short on ketracel white. These Jem Hadar were twitching and nervous, eyeing each other suspiciously, perhaps experiencing the first signs of mental instability which would soon lead to collapse if they weren't "fed." The surgery took a while. Sisko was from time to time tempted to take a peek. The Vorta must be very complex inside for Bashir to take so long, either that or the injuries were multiple and scattered. Halfway through, Bashir's jacket came off and an IV went in.

 

 

After--must have been at least two hours, for Sisko had no way to tell the time--Bashir let out a relieved sigh and stood up. When the Jem Hadar parted and moved off, Sisko could see the orta with his chest bandaged, still hooked up to the IV.

 

 

"How was the show?" Sisko asked as Remata'Klan approached him.

 

 

"Informative." The noncommittal answer was flat and pointless, but the Jem Hadar officer's face looked like a spooked cow's. Sisko was about to comment when the Vorta stirred.

 

 

"I... am... alive...." Bashir gazed down at his patient as he cleaned his hands, then picked up his tricorder. "No selfdiagnoses, please. I'm the doctor here. Internal hemorrhaging has stopped.... Your free collagen levels are dropping.... Tissue growth factors have stabilized.... And there's a fifty percent rise in cell oxygenation. You're alive. Be careful--most of your insides are being held together with cellular microsutures and a lot of hope." With the warning that motion could unpin him like a fabric pattern, the Vorta stopped trying to shift his position. "Leave us," he told Remata'Klan, and motioned to the Jem Hadar. "And take them with you." Once they were gone, Keevan pointed at a black case. "May I have that, please?" he asked Bashir.

 

 

With a glance for permission toward Sisko, Bashir obliged him.

 

 

Keevan worked the security lock on the case.

 

 

"There are ten Jem Hadar soldiers on this planet, Captain." He opened the case and displayed the interior. A ketracel white storage and distribution case--except that the case was smeared with crushed glass and spilled white. Some had been distributed. The rest-- all the remaining tubes of ketracel white had been smashed except for one last vial.

 

 

"That," the orta went on, "is the only vial of ketracel white we have left. When it's gone, my hold over them will be broken. They'll become nothing more than senseless, violent animals. And they'll kill

 

 

anyone they can--you, me, and the rest of your men.

 

 

And finally they will turn on each other." "Why are you telling us this?" Sisko demanded, cutting to the bottom line.

 

 

Keevan let his head fall back and seemed to realize Sisko was growing impatient. "I'm going to order the Jem Hadar to attack your base camp in the morning.

 

 

But I will provide you with their precise plan of attack. You should be able to kill them all." Expediency was one thing, but this... Sisko stared at him. "They're your own men?' "Yes." "You still haven't answered my question. Why are you doing this?" Keeven gestured to communication gear on the other side of the cavern. "That's a communication system. It needs repair, but I'm willing to bet you've brought one of those famed Starfleet engineers who can turn rocks into replicators. He should have a lot more success repairing it that a Jem Hadar suffering from withdrawal." Sisko and Bashir both looked at the communication system, trying not to gaze too hungrily, but Sisko realized they were poorly hiding their temptation.

 

 

"After you take care of the Jem Hadar," Keevan went on, "I'll give you the corem system and surrender to you as a prisoner of war." Bashir cast him an unfriendly glance. "And you spend the rest of the war resting comfortably as a Starfleet POW while your men lie rotting on this planet." Turning his head to look at the man who had just

 

 

saved his life, Keevan made no apologies. The Jem Hadar were doomed, if this was all the white left, that was true enough. It was down to him or them, and they were dead already.

 

 

"I see we understand each other," Keevan rasped.

 

 

"I'm ordering the Jem Hadar to attack your position tomorrow whether you agree to my terms or not. So you can either kill them or they'll kill you. Either way, they're coming." Distasteful, but certainly effective. Keevan had assessed the situation about as razor-sharply as could be asked. He was acting upon his best interest, as anyone else would do, but somehow there was a cold ball of heartlessness at the bottom of this. Perhaps it was the lack of regret that plucked so sour a string.

 

 

He had the Jem Hadar figured out, and unfortunately he had Sisko figured out too. Sisko was backed into a corner. Use the information or don't use it.

 

 

Cooperate or don't. The Jem Hadar were coming.

 

 

Standing here in the wake of the ultimatum, Sisko felt like a perfect fool. Out there in the bay was a shipload of ketracel white, at the bottom of the sea.

 

 

When he'd seen the Jem Hadar spiraling in, why hadn't he thought to salvage a case of the stuff?. What a bargaining chip it would've given him!

 

 

Instead, he stood there with his hands empty and little to do but play into the Vorta's struggle to survive.

 

 

As he and Bashit stood there not liking any of this, the Vorta quietly began to draw a diagram in the sand.

 

 

"This is your base camp.... Two kilometers to the

 

 

south is a canyon. I will order the Jem Hadar to follow the canyon floor..."

 

 

"What are they talking about with the StarfleetersT' "I don't know. It's not for me to know. Or you." Limara'Son. "The Vorta will betray us now that his life is saved." Troubling thoughts. Betrayed, distrust. Ugly to a mind conditioned to believe.

 

 

Remata'Klan. "He will live." "We should have let him die. Then we could open the case and get the white and live ourselves. Now, our lives are in his hands." "Our lives were always in his hands." "But now the Starfleeters are of more value to him than we are. There are ten of us and we are starving.

 

 

When the Vorta needed us to keep him alive, we had an advantage. We have no advantages now. We have nothing to offer him. The Starfleeters have a doctor and food for him." Remata'Klan, disturbed. "What would you have me do? Or what should I have done before?" Limara'Son. A pause. "You saved me from the Vorta's rage. He could've ordered me destroyed for what I did." "You did not disobey orders. You were overcome by the hunger. I have trouble understanding what a Jem Hadar is supposed to do when two forces pull upon the inner will. What is expected of us? How do others resolve the struggle?"

 

 

"Humans handle such trouble." Limara'Son.

 

 

"They seem to thrive on the struggle inside." He also didn't understand, apparently.

 

 

"Why won't the orta give us white?" Limara'Son.

 

 

"Now that he will live, he should make sure we will live also. He has the same obligation to us that we have to him." Remata'Klan. "We all serve the Dominion as a working unit. Together, we move forward." "Except that we have one leg now, and the Vorta is in charge of that. I have never known such.

 

 

such..." "Nor have I. What would you do, if you were First?" "Or Third?" "Yes... or Third." "Attack the Starfleet encampment. Kill them all.

 

 

The Vorta will be forced to deal with us." "That is against obedience." "Shall we have obedience or shall we have survival, Remata'Klan? We can have no obedience to anything if we fail to survive. Is it not our duty to survive in order to continue serving the Dominion?" Remata'Klan... inner quake. "And if the Vorta fails to help us survive, then he has stopped serving the Dominion. I do not know anymore what to do.

 

 

how to choose. There must be a manner of obedience that does not involve treason." "But if the Vorta is treasonous, if he is dealing with the Federation for his own survival, then it becomes our obligation to--" "Enough, Limara'Son. This is destructive talk."

 

 

"Is it? Then here is more....I believe the Vorta has no more white." A piercing terror. No white? Shuddering hands, frozen legs. Remata'Klan. "Why would he say he did?" "To keep us in his control, to keep us doing his bidding until he can deal with Starfleet and get them to save him from this place." Arguments pressing on the mind.... Weakness spawns a cloying trouble of thoughts that are all naughty.

 

 

This guilt... ugly and purposeless.

 

 

Limara'Son. "Now they have saved his life. He has no need of us." "These thoughts..." Remata'Klan. "... are bad for Jem Hadar. These kinds of thoughts make us too much like them. We can't be like them, Limara'Son.... We have to remain Jem Hadar, or all begins to dissolve. No one will fear us anymore. The Dominion will lose the war." Limara'Son's gaze. "All this lies upon you and me?

 

 

Our unit?" "Yes. All this is on us now. What we do, everyone will hear. The Dominion, the Jem Hadar, the Cardassians, the Federation.... There will be no one who respects Jem Hadar anymore if you and I fail to obey in the face of betrayal. Ours is not to set precedents.

 

 

We must not carve new ways. If the Vorta betrays us, the indignity is his, not ours. The reports will say that the Vorta lied, the Vorta cheated, the Vorta betrayed, but the Jem Hadar obeyed to the end and stood strong in our vow. Our lives are worth that, Limara'Son...

 

 

so the Jem Hadar can be higher than the Vorta in the eyes of everyone... just one time."

 

 

"... and once they've reached this point, we'll have them in a cross fire." Ben Sisko's officers glowered over the sand diagram he had just re-created on their own cave floor. He felt like some kind of stooge.

 

 

"They won't have a chance," Ensign Gordon observed.

 

 

"That's the idea," Garak told him. "In case you've forgotten, we're in a war and they're the enemy." "There are rules, Garak," O'Brien sourly commented, "even in war." "Correction," the Cardassian smart-mouthed.

 

 

"Humans have rules in war. Rules that tend to make victory a little harder to achieve, in my opinion." "So we just shoot them down?" Sisko let them wrangle. He didn't want to get in on it. They could make any excuses or complaints they wanted, but he knew the truth. They were being used by the orta for his own survival. Keevan was giving them an advantage they dared not turn down, and that was more distasteful than a supposed officer setting up his own men, even if they were going to die anyway.

 

 

When Nog issued a protest, though, that was too much. Sisko snapped, "This isn't a vote. The decision's mine. And Garak's right--we're at war. Given a choice between us or them, there is no choice. Let's move out." They scooped up their weapons and hurried out

 

 

rather faster than they had to, anxious to put this bitter episode behind them, leaving Sisko to linger a moment with Dax. If things went badly and the Starfleet team was all killed, she would be here alone, injured, on a planet with a recovering Vorta and whichever of the withdrawing Jem Hadar were left over.

 

 

"I'd say good luck," Dax uttered, "but I don't think you'll need it." Sisko bottled a temptation to growl something about having a desperate orta on their side instead of luck, but he didn't need that any more than she did.

 

 

"Say it anyway. Because I'm still hoping there's another way out of this." "In that case," she offered, "good luck, Benjamin." With a short nod and a wish to stay, he simply turned his back on her and hurried out after his crew.

 

 

She knew the realities as well as he did. No sense prolonging the painful.

 

 

The blood-red sun was now rising over the horizon.

 

 

The small planet's single ocean made an uneasy mirror, with one distant island lying upon it like a pumpkin seed.

 

 

The two muscles of rock which held the two caverns and the two base camps came together on the other side of the ridge into a box canyon, a narrow passage with high walls on either side--textbook recipe for ambush. From a precipice, Sisko and his crew watched as Remata'Klan and Limara'Son traveled down through the passage with the rest of their men.

 

 

Even from here, even in this early light, the twitching of their limbs, the shaking of their heads, the trem-

 

 

bling of their hands was obvious. Withdrawal was taking its toll on them already. Soon they would lose what was left of their self-control and go mad with need. Already they were having trouble concentrating, focusing on the path, keeping in line.

 

 

Remata'Klan kept glancing at his men. He knew what would come if they failed.

 

 

Sisko had no idea what the Vorta had told them-- probably that the Starfleet crew had some stores of white in that ship. Strange how close to right he was, if that was his story. It had to be his storymwhat else could he have told ten hungry Jem Hadar in order to make them do something this profoundly untactical?

 

 

All the Starfieeters had to do was open fire.... All they had to do was mow down the enemy who were clustered now into a perfect target. Fire.

 

 

Ready.... Fire.

 

 

Aim. Fire. Phasers fire. All hands.

 

 

Sisko shook his head. The order froze on his tongue.

 

 

He stood up abruptly, surprising even himself.

 

 

"Remata'Klan!" The Jem Hadar all whirled, and spotted him as he stood tall above them from an obviously stronger position.

 

 

"I want to talk!" he shouted.

 

 

Remata'Klan paused, measured the situation, then called back, "Agreed!" The soldier then said something to his men, and left them behind to walk toward Sisko.

 

 

Sisko left his astonished crew behind and picked his

 

 

way down the ridge to meet the Third halfway. They stopped several paces apart.

 

 

"There's no way out of this canyon," Sisko said, "and we have phaser locks on every one of you." Remata'Klan glanced around the canyon. He didn't need convincing. "You appear to have a decisive advantage." "A battle under these circumstances would serve no purpose. I'm prepared to offer you terms--hear me out! I know that you need more ketracel white. My doctor can sedate your men and keep them alive until we're rescued. After that, we can put you into medical stasis until we secure a new supply." Remata'Klan shook his big rocky head. "The Vorta did not give me the option to surrender." "Keevan's betrayed you." With that, Sisko laid every card he had on the table, short of telling the Jem Hadar that a shipload ofketracel white lay a deep dive away. That far... he would not go. Instead, he finished, "He gave us your entire plan of attack last night." Remata'Klan wasn't as moved by the news as Sisko expected. "It was obvious that approaching your position through this canyon was a deliberate tactical error on his part." Now it was Sisko's turn to pause. "You knew?" "I suspected. Despite what Keevan may think, the Jem Hadar are often one step ahead of the Vorta." "You can stay one step ahead. Surrender." "I have my orders." "He hasn't earned the unwavering loyalty you're giving him," Sisko said honestly. "He's a manipula-

 

 

tive little creature trying to save his own neck by sacrificing you and your men." "He does not have to earn my loyalty, Captain," Remata'Klan said. "He has had it from the moment I was conceived. I am a Jem Hadar. He is a Vorta. It is the order of things." "Do you really want to give up your life for 'the order of things'?" Remata'Klan gazed at him with two emotions plying at his eyes, suddenly very human eyes despite the lizardish mask in which they were set. Sisko saw both envy and dignity in those eyes at that moment, and for the first time he found himself involved in respect for a being that had until now been nothing more than a fabricated tool.

 

 

As Remata'Klan spoke his final words, he was certainly much more than a simple tool.

 

 

"It's not my life to give up," he said with a tincture of pride. "And it never was."

 

 

Along with his resolve to do the ugly thing, Sisko also found himself strangely supplanted by noble respect for Remata'Klan's selfless decision.

 

 

Engineered life-form or not, Remata'Klan had been given as clear and honorable a choice as any soldier could expect--a chance to save his men from certain defeat, and to save all their lives at the same time. The tempting offer, which Sisko would've taken, had been summarily turned down.

 

 

Something about that embarrassed him. He knew he would win, but the victory now would be shriveled and flagless.

 

 

He made his way back up to O'Brien and the others, fielded a pointless question about what had happened, but he knew the answer showed perfectly well in his demeanor.

 

 

The Jem Hadar got back to their pathetic position and opened fire, apparently not wishing to prolong the conflict to which they were committed. Streaks of disruptor energy tore into the rock face, splintering the Starfleet team with shards of mica. Dust blew into blinding clouds. Flying sand blistered their skin.

 

 

Sisko leveled his phaser and returned fire. His team took his cue and did so as well, scorching the field below where the Jem Hadar had so little cover. He took out the first soldier himself, seeing with a bizarre relief that it wasn't Remata'Klan.

 

 

Like a hologame, they took out the Jem Hadar soldiers one by one, and got a scorching fight in response. Jem Hadar, despite everything, did not die easilymor alone. As Sisko watched from thirty feet away, unable to reach out, Remata'Klan's last shot cut into a fissure and a sheer slab of the rock face slid off the promontory. Even as he admired the Jem Hadar's quick assessment and use of the geology, Sisko choked at the sight of Ensign Paul Gordon's body convulsing in the energy wash of that shot. Before Sisko could cry out for someone to help him or grab him, Gordon tumbled forward to the open air that now lay before him, and followed the slab of rock all the way down to the canyon floor.

 

 

The fighting intensity increased. Any hesitation melted away from Sisko, and from his crew. Their arms went stiffer behind the phasers. Their shots were

 

 

more carefully targeted. In less than thirty seconds, all the Jem Hadar lay dead on the canyon's bottom.

 

 

Slowly Sisko rose from the rubble. Pebbles sheeted off his back and crumbled to the slag deck. He led his crew down the jagged escarpment to the canyon floor where Bashir quickly but uselessly checked the still form of Ensign Gordon. At Sisko's signal, Nog and Garak stayed higher, guarding the scene.

 

 

With guilt pricking his chest, Sisko knelt at the body of Remata'Klan rather than the body of his own crewman. He knelt there and for a moment wished not to stand again. He felt the eyes of O'Brien and the others, and was strangely irritated when O'Brien spoke.

 

 

"Captain..." At first Sisko thought he was being either comforted or mildly scolded, but then instinct kicked in and he glanced up. O'Brien was looking not at Sisko but off at the canyon passage.

 

 

Sisko turned and stood. Keevan came slowly through the debris, stepping over the bodies of his soldiers, carrying the communication gear. He paused only once, over the body of Remata'Klan, but the Vorta's expression was unreadable. In fact, he had none.

 

 

"You know, Captain," he began, "if I had had just two more vials of white... you never would've had a chance." Loathing chewed at Sisko for this rapacious clown.

 

 

His jaw tightened. He couldn't speak to Keevan.

 

 

"Chief," he said instead, "take him back to base camp and then get to work on the comm system."

 

 

"Aye, sir." "Lieutenant NeeIcy!" "Sir!" "Form a burial detail." "Aye, sir." As she turned away, heading for Garak and Nog, Julian Bashir came to Sisko's side, his face heavy with the death of Paul Gordon and the inability of advanced medicine to do a damned thing about it.

 

 

"Will we be rescued now, sir?" the doctor asked.

 

 

Stiff and sore, Sisko couldn't meet Bashir's eyes.

 

 

"O'Brien can fine-tune the communication equipment and use it with what we salvaged. I gave him Martok's personal frequency. Might take longer than we'd like, but at least we'll be rescued by someone on our own side. With a little luck, the Jem Hadar in this area won't be able to pick up a frequency that specific.

 

 

You go back and prepare Dax for transport." "Aye, sir.... What's the matter, Captain? It's over, isn't it? We won, didn't we?" "Yes, Doctor. Yes... we won." CHAPTER 16

 

 

SERENE LIGHTS IN SPACE. In wartime, the harborlights of safe haven were like an old-time cook fire to the hungry mind.

 

 

General Martok glanced with satisfaction at the success of his fighter wing and his flagship, which he himself chose to command. Rotarran was an old ship, proven and strong, and he preferred it to any other. It was a fine training ship, small enough to handle, simple enough for raw recruits, complex enough to make them into good spacefarers.

 

 

Strange thoughts, to be empathizing with those being conquered. Klingons had for centuries conditioned themselves to be the conquerors, to surge forward against all obstacles, even sensations of sympathy for the targets of their overbearance, but now things were different and Martok did nothing more

 

 

than engage in reverie of Klingon superiority for days.

 

 

In fact, this was preferable, this alliance with the Federation. He had never resented Starfleet as had so many of his peers. He had, instead, admired them.

 

 

Generally, the Federation was made up of physically weak races who could not stand one to one against stronger races such as Klingons, but banded together in a common goal, they had been strong indeed and relentless in their purpose. That was to be admired more than physical training. Brains mattered. Only fools believed otherwise, and Martok had never allowed himself to respect the foolish, no matter how fools posture& Success these days was measured in small increments. The tougher the fight, the smaller the increments. When the enemy was strong and winning, spirits were kept high by small jumps. Today, upon his bridge, he had a small jump for which he and his crew could be proud for a while.

 

 

"Are you glad to be home?" he asked, turning to his side and speaking to Benjamin Sisko.

 

 

"I'm not home yet, General," Sisko said as he gazed out the main viewscreen at the shimmering lights of Starbase 375. But there was victory in his voice despite the circumstances.

 

 

The rescue had come just in time, just before Sisko and his crew starved on that nebular rock, and Martok was pleased to have cast his net and saved them. He and Sisko still had their pact, their purpose, though they had not spoken of it during the voyage back here. Too many risks.

 

 

As helmsman, Ch'Targh steered the Rotarran into

 

 

an approach spacelane, Martok punched his comm.

 

 

"This is General Martok of the I.K.S. Rotarran requesting permission to dock." "General, you're cleared for docking at Bay Eleven," the station harbormaster responded almost instantly.

 

 

Near the rear of the small Klingon bridge, Engineer O'Brien and Dr. Bashir stood together, speaking quietly.

 

 

Bashir's quiet breath carried a plaintive, "Thank God.... " "I never thought I'd miss Starfleet field rations," O'Brien murmured back. "Give me some freeze-dried peaches, or powdered carrots, anything as long as it's not moving." Martok smiled. They didn't think he could hear them. Perhaps they'd forgotton during their time on the wide expanse of rock that a commander on a ship became attuned to any noise on his bridge. They were speaking of Klingon food, of course, and Martok forced his smile to flatten out though he continued to enjoy their squeamishness. Must have been a trial for these humans to come off near-starvation by being treated to Klingon food.

 

 

"I don't mind the food," Bashir muttered to O'Brien. "It's the singing." "Till all hours of the night.... " "If I had to listen to one more ballad about the honored dead, I'd've gone stark raving mad." "Captain Sisko, Admiral Ross requests that you and your senior staff beam to his conference room for debriefing immediately." Sisko came to life at Martok's side. "Tell the

 

 

admiral we're on our way. General... once again, thank you for rescuing us." Martok turned. "Try not to get too comfortable lounging around that starbase. We need you back in the fight." He added a little flicker of his remaining eye, indicating that the two of them would speak privately about their own plans at some later date. There was enough to do, there was time to connive.

 

 

Sisko offered a smile. "Are you a betting man, General?" "One of my pleasures." "Then a barrel of bloodwine says that I'll set foot on Deep Space Nine before you do." "Done!" Sisko negotiated a good grip of agreement, then turned to shoo his crewmen back to their own lives.

 

 

"General Martok, harbormaster." "Martok." "Change of plans, General. Your wingship Lach needs immediate hull plating repair or they'll be down for weeks. If it's clear with you, we'd like to have Rotarran orbit the station for a day so we can use that inner slip." "We expect new recruits at the starbase. Can you arrange for transport?" "They're all ready to board the Vor'Nak and raft up with you in orbit. Then Vor'Nak can tranfer Captain Sisko's crew over to the starbase shuttle station. It's some leapfrogging, but it'll get Lach back into space sooner." "Very well for us, starbase. We shall take orbit."

 

 

"Thanks. Stand by for Vor'Nak." "Standing by. Ch'Targh, you heard." "Taking orbital attitude, General," Ch'Targh responded gruffly.

 

 

"Kich'ta, tell the crew they'll have to wait a day for shoreleave." "Yes, General. They'll be irritated." Martok chuckled. "Good. Order my lunch." In the time it took him to move slowly through his ship to the mess hall, checking on details, speaking to crewmen, dipping into areas to assess damage and encourage repairs, he knew that Vor'Nak was docking in the orbit lane. He could hear the subtle crunch of clamps on the outer hull and the gush of the umbilical systems rafting the two ships together according to Starfleet safety regulations, which demanded more exacting care and extra attachments than most Klingon crews bothered to employ. A cold plate of gagh was waiting for him at his table in the mess hall, the delectable life-forms just coming out of their stasis stupor. Barely had he sat down and put his utensil to the fat worms than the door opened and Commander Worf strode in with his usual grouchy demeanor.

 

 

"General, I've just received word. The reinforcements from the Vor'Nak are here." "Good. Look at this. Barely moving. I'd give my good eye for a plate of fresh gagh. How many replacements?" "Five." Martok looked up. "Five? I requested fifteen."

 

 

Worf took the scolding as if this were his own fault.

 

 

"General Tanas could only send us five." Pushing his plate away, Martok stood and arched his cramping back muscles. "We keep falling back and the Dominion keeps pushing forward. I tell you, Worf, war is much more fun when you're winning.

 

 

Defeats make my wounds ache. Ah--replacements." The door opened again and, in keeping with custom, the new recruits came to the general instead of the other way around. They formed a line and tried to appear appropriate, but Martok and Worf simply gaped at them while sharing a thread of disheartenment. These were warriors?

 

 

Two whiskerless youths, two teenaged girls, and a stooped old man. Uch.

 

 

Martok sucked back his comments and moved toward them. Worf, the coward, remained behind.

 

 

"I am General Martok. Welcome to the Rotarran.

 

 

May you prove worthy of this ship and bring honor to her name." Dismal. Look at their faces! They're in shock!

 

 

"This is a glorious moment in the history of the Empire, a chapter that will be written with your blood. Fight well, and our people will sing your praises for a thousand years. Fail, and there will be no more songs, no more honor, no more Empire. Who among you hears the cry of the warrior calling you to glory?

 

 

Clumsily they all raised their fists and shouted "Qapla!" Well, at least they had been coached.

 

 

Martok followed the script. "Who offers their life for the Empire.9" In turn, each recruit stepped forward and announced.

 

 

"N'Garan! Daughter of Tse'Dek!" "Katogh, son of Ch'Pok!" "Koth! Son of Larna!" "Alexander Rozhenko!" "Doran, daughter of W'mar!" From behind, Worf spoke out of place, out of the traditional script. "Alexander... ?" Martok looked at him, then noticed that the boy was returning Worf's glare with frozen eyes.

 

 

"Rozhenko?" Martok repeated. "Of what house is Rozhenko?" "Of no house," the boy said. "My honor will be my own." Worf stiflened, but said nothing more. Ah, trouble.

 

 

"Well," Martok bridged, "there will be much honor for the taking on this ship, enough for all of you. I accept your lives into my hands. Glory to you, and to the Empire!" With visible effort Worf recovered his composure and barked, "Dismissed!" The troops filed out. Martok turned.

 

 

"This Alexander Rozhenko... you know him?" Worf was staring at the door as it clacked shut, and still he stared at it. "He is my son." Martok nodded. It had been easy to suspect. "Such trials are a strain on a small ship. Perhaps you would

 

 

like a transfer back to Captain Sisko for the time being." "No, General," Worf said instantly. "My son's coldness will never push me from my duty." "He will be distracted enough, Worf, and so will you. We have orders at last." "Orders?" "Yes. We are to escort a convoy to Donatu Five." Ordinarily such news would be welcome for idle Klingons, but Martok saw a crimp in WorPs expression and instantly understood. Worf was involved in plans to be married. Also, his child was now on board.

 

 

Donatu Five-- "The last three convoys sent there were destroyed by the Jem Hadar," Worf uttered, as if remembering.

 

 

Martok did not believe he was complaining, but the boy was here now, and no parent could think that clearly.

 

 

"Which is why this one must get through," Martok told him.

 

 

With that he succeeded in steering Worf's attention to tactical concerns. "How many ships will form the escort?" "The Rotarran is all the High Council can spare." Martok smiled with anticipation. "A vital mission!

 

 

Impossible odds and a ruthless enemy! What more could we ask for? I tell you, Worf, I feel young again!" He scooped up the padd that had been sitting next to his listless plate ofgagh and handed it to Worf. "Here is the briefing. Start battle drills immediately. Train them hard." Worf came to life with fresh purpose as his mind

 

 

fixed on a concrete task. "By the time we join the convoy, this crew will have the reflexes of a Norpin Falcon." "I expect nothing less. One moment, Worf." Martok lowered his voice, even though they were alone.

 

 

"We have shed blood together, escaped a Jem Hadar prison together... you have pledged yourself to my house. Yet in all this time, you never mentioned you had a son." Deeply disturbed, Worf scanned the deck. "It is a diffcult subject to discuss." "That much is obvious." Worf wanted to leave, Martok knew, but a question had been posed and it would eat at them both until the answers came, one way or another. Rather than let his exec off the hook, Martok stood silent and waited until the air around them began to crackle.

 

 

Worf shifted uneasily. "Alexander and I were never close. His mother was only half Klingon and disdainful of our ways." "I see. You allowed her to raise the boy." "No, General, she was killed... when he was very young. He spent a short time with me aboard the Enterprise. After that, I sent him to live with my foster parents on Earth." "Why?" "He... showed no interest in becoming a warrior.

 

 

It was difficult, but I learned to accept it and, in time, I encouraged him to follow his own path." "Then why has he joined the Klingon Defense Forces.'?" "I do not know.... I have not spoken with him."

 

 

So instincts were right--this had been a complete surprise, not just a disagreement or an order disobeyed. Martok raised his stiff arm and placed a hand on Worf's shoulder. "My friend, this is not good.

 

 

When a father and son do not speak, it means there is trouble between them." By this, they both knew, Martok was offering to act between the two in some way, to quell the turbulence or take Worf's place as the boy's trainer until things changed. All those offers were endemic in his interference. When ice formed between members of a house serving on the same ship, the result could be clumsiness at best and at worst... disaster. As commander, it was Martok's prerogative to push between them.

 

 

The response was not really a surprise, though.

 

 

"I prefer to handle this in my own way," Worf said.

 

 

"Then do so." And that, they both knew, was an order.

 

 

Martok left the mess hall because he knew it would soon be time for the crew to eat and they were uneasy if he ate with them. The unfortunate realities of superior rank.

 

 

Instead he went to his quarters, waiting part of an hour until the crew was well entrenched in their meal, then tapped his computer comm unit.

 

 

"Computer, where is Alexander Rozhenko?" "In the mess hall." "Give me a picture of the mess hall, while keeping the mess hall screens dark." "Visual of the mess hall on line."

 

 

Eavesdropping. An unethical but effective tactic, one of Martok's favorites. Privacy was for women in childbirth.

 

 

He sat back, ordered a mug of war nog, then focused his working eye on the smoky room on the screen. The crew was there, crowded to the tables, enshrouded in smoke, drinking, eating, snarling stories to each other and laughing harshly. They had heard the newstoa new mission was coming, a fresh chance at glory, a chance to strike again at the claws of the Dominion. Spirits were high.

 

 

Then he saw what he wanted... Alexander Rozhenko, narrow of shoulder and small of countenance, collecting his meal at the dispersal unit. The boy turned to find a seat, and unfortunately chose one next to Ch'Targh.

 

 

Ch'Targh had no children and was intolerant of the children of others.

 

 

Equally unfortunate was Alexander's choice of words.

 

 

"Is this seat taken?" How very Earthly a phrase. To an old warrior like Ch'Targh, it would ring of past stresses with humans and the shame of the Empire at having been contained by the Federation for so many decades.

 

 

"Alexander Rozhenko," Ch'Targh greeted. "We were holding it just for you." Martok grunted a laugh and sipped his drink. He wished he could be there.

 

 

"I'm honored," the boy responded, like an idiot.

 

 

"The honor is ours. Please." Ch'Targh was actually standing up! As if the boy

 

 

deserved the seat! Now the helmsman was pulling the chair out for the boy. Wiping it with his glove. Martok instantly saw the rippling snicker that ran around the table, but apparently the boy saw none of it. Who could make such a show!

 

 

Alexander took the chair, fool, and Ch'Targh sat next to him. "Bregit lung," Ch'Targh approved, surveying Alexander's plate. "An excellent choice.

 

 

Would you care for some grapok sauce?" The other Klingons had stopped conversing and were watching the sport. If only the boy were stupid enough to refuse-- "No, thank you." "Oh, you must try some. It brings out the flavor." Ch'Targh doused half the bottle onto the boy's plate, until finally the boy grabbed the container.

 

 

"That's enough." "Some bloodwine to wash it down?" One of the female recruits, sitting on the other side of Alexander, began laughing, and the joke was out.

 

 

Alexander snapped around to her. "Why are you laughing?" The girl just shook her head.

 

 

Ch'Targh harrassed, "Or perhaps the son of our illustrious first officer would prefer an Earth beverage.

 

 

A glass of 'root beer.' A lump of 'ice cream'!" The raft of Klingons dissolved into roars of laughter and table pounding.

 

 

The boy straightened in his chair. "Are you mocking me?" Ch'Targh's snaggled teeth showed. "Now why would I mock you, son of Wort?"

 

 

"I am called Rozhenko!" "And I will call you whatever I please!" Ch'Targh's smile dissolved. "And you will learn to like it." Alexander jumped to his feet, trembling with rage.

 

 

For someone who had never really been among Klingon's, his self-control was unenviable.

 

 

Ch'Targh remained amused. "Does the son of Starfleet's finest think he is too good to eat with us?" Martok, as he sat there watching, couldn't tell through the screen whether Alexander were piqued at the idea of being Worf's son or of having Worf referred to as 'Starfleet' or at being associated with Starfleet at all. Perhaps all three. Whatever the cause, Alexander's breaking point had arrived. He said, "No... have some lung," and dumped his entire plate, sauce and all, into Ch'Targh's face.

 

 

Enjoying all this, Martok reeled back with laughter and nearly lost the balance of his chair. Half the contents of his mug splashed down his beard. As he brushed it away, Ch'Targh was also wiping food from his own face and rising to his full height.

 

 

Big even for a Klingon, Ch'Targh brushed the two nearest chairs away as easily as he had cast the bregit lung off his chest. "I do not like your smile," he said to Alexander. "Perhaps I will cut you a new one." Alexander showed his inexperience by drawing his ceremonial dagger. Ridiculous. Ch'Targh drew his own.

 

 

Martok chuckled with satisfaction. None of this would have happened if their general had been in the mess hall with them. Now he could watch without

 

 

impeding the normal flow of events. The secondary blades of Ch'Targh's dagger snapped out for work.

 

 

Alexander was quick and small, but Ch'Targh was especially graceful for a large man, even languid in his movements. Any posturing was simply meant to intimidate the boy. Martok recognized the drama.

 

 

The other Klingons urged them to bloodshed, but no one interfered. Ch'Targh made circles with his blade, but did not attack. This was too much for the boy, who finally flew forward with a clumsy thrust.

 

 

Ch'Targh fluidly sidestepped, forcing the momentum to throw Alexander off balance, then drove his elbow into the side of the boy's face.

 

 

Alexander spun like a graviton and splattered to the floor on his ignominious part. The Klingons erupted with joy.

 

 

"He fights like a Ferengi," Ch'Targh commented.

 

 

In that moment, Alexander came to his feet and nicked Ch'Targh's arm before the veteran could pivot aside.

 

 

"Oh, very bad judgment," Martok commented. He should make this a training tape.

 

 

"Shakk-Tah!" Ch'Targh swore. A big Klingon, yes, but Ch'Targh had a low tolerance for pain.

 

 

"And bad timing," Martok mentioned as he saw Worf enter the mess hall. From this vantage point, he was the only person who saw Worf come in. Even those in the room hadn't noticed.

 

 

Worf stood as if in shock, peering through the shouts and waves, searching for the cause of this chaos. Perhaps Worf had not yet seen that his son--

 

 

Alexander attempted another swipe at his tormentor, but Ch'Targh avoided it again and smashed the heel of his free hand into the boy's face, driving him back into the nearest wall, dazing him like a stricken sparrow and leaving the boy's face bleeding freely.

 

 

"Your combat training has been sadly neglected, little one." Ch'Targh flipped the blade inhis hand. "I will teach you a new lesson. One you will not soon forget." He stepped toward the boy, and Martok imagined the scar Alexander would soon be sporting for the rest of his life, but a strong hand caught Ch'Targh's arm and held him back.

 

 

"Mmm..." Martok moaned. "Better the scar than this, Worfm" "Enough?' Worf's judgment was no better than his son's, apparently. Ch'Targh tried to wrench away, but couldn't. Worf backhanded the helmsman with a closed fist and sprawled him over a table. Plates and utensils jangled insanely.

 

 

Ch'Targh COuld do nothing now. Worf was inarguably his superior officer, and strikes by superiors could not be returned.

 

 

Worf turned now to his son, but the boy was venomous.

 

 

"You had no right to interfere!" Alexander said.

 

 

"That's right," Martok commented in the privacy of his eavesdropping. "Good boy." "You will both report to the medical ward immediately," Worf barked. "After they have finished with you, you will remain in quarters until your next watch." Alexander scowled and put his blade in its dagger, then stalked away from his father.

 

 

Worf swung to the other Klingons. "The rest of you, back to your stations now?

 

 

"They'll resent that," Martok muttered. ',Worf, we must adjust your people skills." Grumbling, the other warriors shuffled out of the mess hall. Ch'Targh rolled off the table, now wearing most of everyone else's dinners, retrieved his weapon, and paused before Worf.

 

 

"Are you going to fight the Jem Hadar for him as well?" "Mmm," Martok grumbled around a sip. "Quite fight. Computer off. Martok to bridge." "Bridge." "Disengage from the Vor'Nak immediately.

 

 

Inform the harbormaster we will take on supplies out here in orbit, then depart immediately for the Donatu Sector. I am tired of waiting and I think the crew is also." "Yes, general." "And tell Worf to begin training exercises. Our first officer needs to concentrate."

 

 

Four days into the transit to Donatu, Martok called Worf to his quarters on the bluff of reviewing the training log. That, of course, meant that he was obliged to actually look at the log for a few minutes and make a comment.

 

 

As Worf stood before his desk, Martok studiously scanned the information, name after name, response after response, and pretended to be interested.

 

 

"The response times are much better. Keep working them. Sit down." Uneasily, Worf took the chair as ordered. Martok poured Worf a nog and one for himself. "Two more days until we reach the Donatu System. We should be hearing from the Jem Hadar soon." "Yes." "There's only one thing I hate about convoy duty.

 

 

The waiting. After all these years, you'd think I'd be used to it. But nothing is better for breaking tension than a tankard of war nog. Except... maybe a good brawl." That comment set Worf into a glare. "You heard about the fight in the mess hall.... " Martok looked up from a good long slug of drink.

 

 

"But not from my first officer. I lost him the moment his son stepped aboard this ship." Worf set his mug down. "You think I acted improperly?" "It is not easy to stand aside and watch someone injure your son," Martok offered, and managed to soothe some of the crispness from WoWs expression.

 

 

"Alexander was no match for Ch'Targh," the first officer said. "He would have killed the boy." "Ch'Targh might've cut him a little, maybe broken a few bones, but nothing more. You say Alexander never wanted to become a warrior... clearly he has changed his mind. You are his first officer, Worf.

 

 

teach him to survive! The Jem Hadar will not be as forgiving as Ch'Targh." Only a moment later, Martok would have offered

 

 

to train Alexander himself, for this might be more effective. Then at least the boy would not be first fighting to climb the mountain of his resentments for his father. But the ship's general alarm interrupted his thoughts. From the bridge, the comm unit bellowed.

 

 

"Battlestations! Alert status one!

 

 

"Report." Martok clumped onto the bridge. Behind him, Worf stormed along as they both landed on the command deck.

 

 

Ch'Targh was at his helm. At the sensor array to Martok's left was the boy Alexander. N'Garan, the new female recruit manned the engineering and longrange sensors.

 

 

Trial by fire. Good enough. Better than squabbling in the mess hall.

 

 

"Jem Hadar attack ship bearing one-seven-zero mark zeroflour-five," the boy reported nervously.

 

 

"Estimate weapons range in twenty-two seconds." Dumping into the command chair, Martok ignored Worf at his side. "On screen." The viewscreen flickered to show a wide expanse of empty space. Empty?

 

 

Had the boy read his sensors wrong?

 

 

"Where is it?" "I have no target on my sensors," N'Garan said, trying to cover her unease with volume.

 

 

Worfglared at the screen. "Reroute primary sensors to weapons controls."

 

 

"Aye, sir," his son dutifully responded, and Martok was pleased by that. The boy was not so immature as to let his personal irritations keep him stony while at work. "The Jem Hadar has launched two torpedoes." Worf looked at him. "At us or at the convoy?" "At us, sir. Impact, ten seconds!" "Drop cloak," Martok snapped. "Raise shields.

 

 

Evasive action!" Frantically the crew complied. The ship lurched as inertial dampers struggled to catch up with the sudden radical change in course.

 

 

There was a tremor in Alexander Rozhenko's voice.

 

 

"Torpedoes still locked onto us. They will hit in four seconds. Threere" The arms of the chair were hard and cold under Martok's hands. "Brace for impact." "Two--one!" Tense, the crew hunched for the strike. Two seconds... three... four.

 

 

"Reinitialize primary sensors," Worf ordered when nothing happened after five seconds.

 

 

"Sensors reinitialized," Alexander quickly responded. "The--the Jem Hadar ship is gone!" "Of course it is gone," his father growled. "You forgot to erase the battle simulation program from the sensor display!" All heads turned toward Alexander. The boy stared in devastation at his control board, his shoulders hunched in horror of embarrassment.

 

 

Exasperated, Martok heaved an audible sigh.

 

 

"Stand down from alert status. Resume course.

 

 

Reactivate cloak." Only more irritating than the stupid mistake was Ch'Targh's grin as the helmsman stood up, moved to Alexander's side, and sat down there. "Keep a close watch. There may be more hostile simulation programs out there." Ch'Targh dropped a rough hand on Alexander's shoulder and laughed unremittingly.

 

 

Martok watched without interference. When a shadow passed over his good eye, he launched his gauntletted hand and stopped Worf from crossing in front of him. "Wait," he ordered quietly. "He will never make that mistake again. And it's better for us to be too ready than not ready enough." The rest of the crew was laughing now, covering both Worffs move forward and Martok's halting him.

 

 

Ch'Targh gripped Alexander's shoulder and shook him. "At least you're keeping us on our toes." And Martok found reason now to laugh also, and there was something about the laughter that communicated belonging to Alexander rather than resistance, for the boy began to sheepishly smile.

 

 

Martok kept his voice low, between himself and Worf. "You see? They have accepted him." Grimly Worf relaxed a little. "They have accepted him as the ship's fool." "Mmm," Martok grunted. "Come with me." Hoping not to make their departure too obvious, Martok circled the long way around the bridge, peeking at some readouts here and there, making the new

 

 

recruits nervous, and finally led the way around to his ready room door. He clomped inside, and Worf slipped in silently behind him. The door slid shut.

 

 

"Have you spoken to your son about the wedding plans you have?" Staring down the barrels of the two biggest concerns in his life that didn't involve the war, Worf visibly hardened, then almost immediately let the hardness dissolve. "A father has no need to consult a son regarding wedding plans. The house structure of Klingon family goes from parents to child, not the other way around." Martok dropped into the chair behind his desk.

 

 

"My friend, you make your own troubles." Worf sank into the other chair and then somehow continued to sink further. "I... have so little ability to make relationships go smoothly.... I find myself fortunate to have found a woman who fits so well into so many cultures." "Yes, and who is three hundred years old but still appears to be young." "She is young!" "Yes, of course, and why are you shouting?" "I do not know." "Well, I do." Martok attempted to sag a bit in his own chair so Worf would not feel so small. "Marry your woman and train your son. Embrace them both as part of your private world. Let them know they are part of each other through you. Pull down the fences between you. A wedding is just a wedding, Worf, not a state occasion. You fret too much about details. You

 

 

embrace tradition frantically, but you forget why we have traditions. Not for the sake of having tradition, certainly. Even if all tradition is thrown into the warp core, when all is over, you will be married and Jadzia will be one of my house. And your son, if he wishes, will be one of my house too. He will grow up, Worfi He will change. Time works on a young man. You want him to change in the next ten minutes. Forget that! You did not grow up in a day. I did not grow up in a day. Why do you expect your son to come here and grow up today?" Worf glared at him for several seconds. "Is that what I do?" Martok leaned forward with his elbows on his desk. "My friend, you are a manufactured Klingon.

 

 

You were raised by humans who tried to give you an idea of being Klingon, but it was a human idea of what Klingons are. They tried, I never deny that they tried, but they were still humans looking inward from afar. This is why you struggle and why you cling to details of tradition too much. There is no mold for behavior that comes in a bottle and has 'Klingon' stamped upon the label and which will sour if not refrigerated. Alexander was raised the same way.

 

 

Among humans, with a sense of unbidden guilt that he is not Klingon enough. Perhaps it's not you he resents, but being too much like you. I don't know... I am no ship's counselor. You think he resents you?" "Yes. He told me so." "He lies." "Lies?"

 

 

"Yes. He lies to himself." Worf looked quite disturbed. Even hurt. "Why would you say this to me?" "To destroy and diminish you and give Ch'Targh your job." Martok fixed a responding glare on him, then scolded him further with a thump of his fiat hand on the table. "Worfl Wake up! Alexander tells himself he resents you. Then he tells it to you, so he gets an upper hand for a while. Every teenager does such things, man. Every young hawk going from the nest first wants to fly around the nest and defy those who built it." "I do not understand that...." "Do you not? Well, further be confused by this-- your son was assigned to the Tur'Nask. He requested transfer. He was given transfer to the Gurshk. He again requested transfer. He was finally assigned to Rotarran. " Fuming over this news, even Worf seemed to be warmed by it. He gazed at the desktop. "He should be transferred... then he could concentrate on his work. Any work other than being my son, or not being my son." "If it comes to that," Martok agreed, "he will be transferred. But we shall make any tranfer temporary." Worf looked up. "Temporary?" "Of course. Father and son should ship together eventually, but after each is secure in his purpose. Oh, we will somehow fail to tell Alexander that the transfer is temporary. Are we clever? Or cowards? I don't know. We'll send him to another ship to become

 

 

a real crewman, if that suggests itself as the best way.

 

 

For a while, he can stay here and we shall see. Despite the harrassment he receives in your shadow, I have received no request for transfer from Alexander, and that tells me a great deal, Worf. The young hawk circles you. For now be proud, and show him the way to fly."

 

 

Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith let us to the end dare to do our duty as we understand it.

 

 

Abraham Lincoln

 

 

O

 

 

CHAPTER 17

 

 

Captain's Log, Stardate 51145.3 The Defiant has been operating out of Starbase 375, conducting forays into Dominion controlled space. While the missions have taken a toll on my people, they remain determined to do whatever it takes to win this war. As do I. One thing that's made all this easier, if not more of a balancing act, is that Charlie Reynolds of the Centaur has been providing backup on some of the missions.

 

 

For security reasons we haven't filled Charlie in on most of our plans, but he hasn't been asking the wrong questions and that means we can let him in on the action. At least, Ross wants me to consider Charlie an asset, and even though I resisted at first, it does seem to be working out.

 

 

! guess it's good--it gives my crew the idea

 

 

that they're not so alone. Charlie Reynolds is now one of very few captains who have any idea at all that Starfleet is working on covert actions.

 

 

He doesn't really know what I'm up to, but I can tell from his sarcastic evil eye that he's always thinking and adding things up that nobody in his right mind would add up.

 

 

I wish we could tell everyone, all the people we really do trust--maybe then I wouldn't feel so alone either.

 

 

My meetings with Martok have been very rare because we have to be tightly secure, but they've been fruitful. He has been involved with recruiting more Klingons for our cause and training younger warriors for active duty. Not a job I envy him, and certainly not with Mr. Worf on board the Rotarran. Worf will expect those young Klingons to accept some version of Starfleet regulation in order to work as our allies. It must be quite a show going on over there. Worf has been tightlipped about whatever they're doing, but I can tell he isn't happy. A shipload of recruits and an unhappy Worf... Martok's got his hands full.

 

 

The general just finished secretly charting all the stations in that sensor array in the Argolis area and funneling that information through Starfleet Intelligence to Admiral Ross. Now we can make a plan for assault. Frederick the Great said, "He who tries to defend everything defends nothing." That's my goal--to blind the Dominion so they can't track the movements of Starfleet squadrons. That way, they'll have to

 

 

defend everything. Their forces will be spread thin. That's when we move in a major assault.

 

 

I have to play my cards carefully from now on.

 

 

Commanding a battleship on special maneuvers and also juggling an advisory desk job for Ross has been tricky. Even more difficult has been keeping Ross from noticing that it's tricky. I have to be valuable enough to him to keep my inside position, but not so valuable that he wants me here full-time. I admit to feeling torn--they do need experienced advisors at Starfleet Command. I just don't want to be one of them.

 

 

THE MESS HALL aboard Defiant was crowded with scruffy but victorious officers and crew. They'd just docked after returning from another covert and hazardous missionmanother successful one. With careful planning on many fronts, the alliance was starting to take nips at the Dominion. Judging from the fierceness of the responses, the nips were starting to sting. Slowly but surely, the effort was starting to come together.

 

 

Over there, Nog had set up a makeshift bar, complete with bottles and glassware, and was playing Quark's role for the crew. Sisko approached the bar with Dax and Bashir, knowing they were all showing signs of fatigue along with the satisfaction. The Defiant was under repair--there was always damage-- but had proven a tough-hulled ship with flexible systems and had so far brought them back every time.

 

 

They'd been conducting a series of raids on supply and tactical installations, but the trick had been to inflict the raids far enough apart and on a random

 

 

enough timetable to make them unpredictable, which didn't always fit in with the repairs the ship needed or the rest the crew needed. Several times they'd set out on a mission with only minimal repairs, which compounded the ship's needs and often compromised them. Because the crew had learned to work together so well, Sisko had avoided reassignment of any but the most badly injured of casualties, and that meant recoveries were cut short sometimes too.

 

 

Weeks had gone by in the war with the Dominion, and Defiant had been almost constantly out on special missions, usually without support. Each time they rested and repaired, but each time there was a little less rest, a little less repair. They never had a chance to recover completely.

 

 

So they needed every little bit of encouragement, and today Nog was handing Sisko just enough.

 

 

"Saurian brandy? How did you get your hands on this?" Bashir accepted his glass from the cadet. "In the middle of a war, no less." "It's a busy starbase," Nog claimed evasively. "I may be a cadet, but I'm still a Ferengi." Dax raised her glass. "Lucky for us." "Excuse me, Captainre" Sisko turned to see O'Brien pushing through the crew toward him, with a large silver tank in his arms.

 

 

"Power cell from the phaser array, sir," the engineer said. "We used it up on the last mission." A used-up power cell--enough phaser energy for a year of conventional service, and it had been used up in one mission. That was how things had gone lately.

 

 

Sisko took the canister and held it up for all to see.

 

 

"Take a good look at this, people! It says something about this ship. It says that we're willing to fight--and that we'll keep on fighting until we can't fight anymore." Cued by Dax, the crew shouted, "Yes, sir!" Sisko gazed at the scorched canister. "You don't throw something like this away." "No, sir!" He made his way through the crowd as they parted for him, to a place against the wall where a small shelf had been mounted. There, six other canisters from their previous missions stood like sentinels. He set the bottom of the heavy mechanism in place, then let its nose bump against the wall.

 

 

As he turned, the crew broke out into cheers and applause, until Nog's voice piped over the noise.

 

 

"Admiral on deck!" "As you were," Admiral Ross allowed quickly enough that their fanfare and good spirits weren't snuffed.

 

 

The crew fell noticeably quieter, but were still too pleased with themselves to quiet down completely, admiral or not.

 

 

"Ben," Ross greeted, moving immediately to Sisko.

 

 

He was carrying a padd, but didn't mention it or hand it over.

 

 

"Admiral." "Let's take a walk." "Corridor?" "Yes, good." "What was going on in there?" Ross asked as the mess hall door closed behind them and cut off the noise of the crew.

 

 

"Just a little ritual we fell into," Sisko said. "It helps the crew unwind." "They deserve it. They've done a hell of a job." "Thank you, sir. But you didn't come here to tell me that, did you?" Ross smiled, but there wasn't much underlying joy.

 

 

"No, I didn't. Ever since this war began, the Dominion's been able to outmaneuver us at every turn. No matter where we send out ships, they always seem to be there waiting for us." I know. It's because they're watching our every move.

 

 

"I've noticed that," Sisko said, without tipping his hand.

 

 

"It's almost enough to make you think they're smarter than we are, but they're not. They've just had an edge we didn't know about until yesterday.

 

 

Starfleet Intelligence located a massive sensor array hidden on the periphery of the Argolis Cluster. The damned thing can monitor ship movements across five sectors." Sisko controlled his expression. "That's how they've managed to stay one step ahead of us." Ross nodded. "They've had an enormous tactical advantage. I want you to take it away from them." "Gladly, sir." "It's not going to be easy. The array's heavily defended. Here's the Intelligence report. Look it over.

 

 

I want an attack plan on my desk by oh eight hundred hours." "You'll have it." As the admiral walked away, Sisko wondered if he'd

 

 

spoken too quickly, given too much away by not asking for a couple more hours. He already knew exactly how he was going to move on the array, and it required another movement by Martok elsewhere to draw the guard ships away from the array, or most of them anyway.

 

 

He tapped his cornbadge. Would this day ever end?

 

 

"Sisko to bridge." "Bridge." "Locate General Martok on the Rotarran and patch me through, private codes and scramble." "Aye aye, sir."

 

 

"This is a kar'takin, a weapon favored by the Jem Hadar. Defend yourself." The training room was a dark environment, mimicking as closely as possible the confines of a dim and damaged ship. The logic was simple--Jem Hadar ships had limited light, and any allied ship which Jem Hadar had boarded would probably be half wrecked and on emergency lights.

 

 

Thus Martok had trouble focusing on the scene being displayed by his personal monitor in his quarters. Better to eavesdrop here than in his ready room or anywhere else--the bulkheads here were soundproof, the door locked, and orders not to disturb him unless an emergency were in effect. So he could quietly interfere upon his turbulent first officer and the turbulent offspring, who would soon be a member of Martok's own house.

 

 

Though holding the kar'takin pole, Alexander

 

 

snapped into a stance that might be nearly perfect had he been holding a bat'leth instead. Intolerantly Worf lowered his own kar'takin and glowered at his son.

 

 

Mistakes, mistakes. Worf had the finesse of a nova.

 

 

"That is not the proper grip," the first officer spat.

 

 

"Your thumbs must be opposed so that twisting motions will not--" "I understand." Alexander jerked the weapon away.

 

 

"Then proceed." As Martok watched, he found himself paying closer attention to Worf's subtleties of temper than Alexander's movements of defense and offense. Those would come around with age, size, and experience, but WoWs truncated mental methods bore tending. If Worf failed to rein his personal troubles, he would soon be ineffective as a dependable first officer. Any officer with a child on board had divided considerations. That was a fact of shipboard life.

 

 

Alexander circled his father now and Martok watched with mild interest at the uninventiveness of the young mind. Worf held his position and tracked his opponent, but Alexander seemed not to know what to do. So Worf struck first. Alexander swept his weapon up respectably enough and met the blow with a resounding CLANG that made Martok wince with annoyance as the corem system enhanced the sound it did not recognize. That should be fixed. Who was the duty engineer this morning?

 

 

"No!" Worf shouted. "Do not try to shove my blade away! Deflect it and use your momentum to counter." "I know!" the boy foolishly argued. If he knew, then--

 

 

"Then do it!" Worf swung the weapon again, deliberately leading his student, but Alexander instinctively blocked the blow exactly as he had before and this time was jarred dangerously off balance. A death blow would've followed that, under the dictates of real combat.

 

 

"Don't try to fight force with force," Worf said, engulfed in his own battle for reasonableness. "You will lose every time." Again they swung, and again Alexander failed. The weapons went flying and clattered to the floor. Martok shook his head. No, it was not the boy who was failing.

 

 

"What did I tell you?" Worf shuddered with rage.

 

 

"Pick it up! If you had kept practicing what I taught you when you were a boy--" Alexander picked up his weapons and whirled on his father without warning, and without listening to the end of the lecture. A fury of wild swipes and thrusts flew at Worf, who easily blocked and parried them, but a pattern of shock was rising on Worfs face.

 

 

Martok leaned forward and watched with great interest. The boy's fanatic hostility was disturbing. He was flailing at Worf not with experience or determination, but with raw disdain. Soon Worf hooked the weapon with his own and it went flying again.

 

 

"What's wrong with you?" Worf demanded at the pause.

 

 

Alexander tossed his weapon to the deck. "I knew it would be like this." Wolf lowered his own. "Like what?" "You must be pleased," the boy said with a belliger-

 

 

ent step forward. "Now you can tell me what a failure I am as a Klingon." "Alexander..." "Or are you just going to send me away again?" Ah. Martok tilted his head and listened for clues.

 

 

That was one--being sent away.

 

 

Seeming bewildered by words that gave Martok such insight, Worf tried to revert to his mentor role againwthe irretrievable role.

 

 

"We are not playing in holosuites now. This is war.

 

 

The Jem Hadar will cut you to pieces." "Then I will be dead," Alexander defied, "and you will be happy. Now leave me alone." A guttural chuckle rose in Martok's throat. Such typical resistance. The wild imaginings and carryings too far of a teenage mind. The spouting of statements that were perfectly ridiculous and everyone knew it.

 

 

Even Worf knew it, for he made no reaction to the spouting. The significance of Alexander's declaration had nothing to do with the message of the words.

 

 

Martok chuckled again. Worf appeared so deflated and confused. Worf had never raised children.

 

 

Martok had raised seven. Some were warriors, some were not. Some were better at other things. If everyone was a warrior, who would do the other things? What was to be done now?

 

 

Wait a few hours. Then do what every good commander does best. Butt in.

 

 

Alexander Rozhenko looked exhausted as Martok slipped into the training room. The boy was in the middle of the mats, moving through a training exer-

 

 

cise with his bat'leth, the crescent-shaped blade flickering in the simulated evening light. His movements were clumsy, his limbs sluggish, and when he noticed Martok standing there watching him, he began the series of movements again but without any better skill. In fact, tension gripped the boy and his bat'leth slid right out of his hands, slapped to the deck, and barely missed a surgical maneuver on Alexander's foot.

 

 

Martok stooped, picked up the weapon, and naturally balanced it in his left hand.

 

 

"Fine blade," he muttered. "Well balanced. But in the end, it is only as good as the warrior who wields it." Then, internally, he laughed at himself. Cliches!

 

 

Stating the obvious. The harbor of a bored and grumbling grandfather who wished he were a father again. Hah! That was funny too.

 

 

"I need more practice," Alexander muttered, struggling between meeting his general's eyes and not daring to meet them.

 

 

"Rest a moment," Martok told him reasonably.

 

 

"You look like you can use it. Tell me, Alexander Rozhenko... why are you on my ship?" The boy drew himself up straight. "To serve the Empire, General." Disgusting. Martok set the bat'leth back on the weapons rack. "That is a slogan, not an answer. Say what is in your heart." Perhaps the evenness of Martok's voice made the boy uneasy. No--he was already uneasy. But certainly Alexander, raised among humans, was used to

 

 

the image of a Klingon grunting and roaring and barking and generally bulldozing his way through life.

 

 

He felt the natural surges of adrenaline to which Klingons were more succeptible, but his human restraint made him balk when he found a restrained Klingon. Martok's quiet words seemed to both calm and confuse the boy. But why should every sentence be spat like venom? What a waste of energy.

 

 

Alexander twitched and shifted. "Do you question every new crewman this way?" Feigning anger, Martok approached him. "I have no need to. I look in their faces and I know why they're here. They are Klingon warriors. They have answered the call of Kahless." "So have I!" "Lie to yourself if you must, but not to me. You do not hear the warrior's call. So I ask again... why are you here?" Shuddering now, Alexander lowered his eyes. "I'd rather not say." "What?" "It's a... private matter." "You are as tight-lipped as your father." "I am nothing like him!" Allowing himself to explodemperhaps behaving stereotypically would actually relax the boy--Martok roared, "You are both stubborn, tiresome Qu'vatlh!

 

 

The only difference is..." And he grew abruptly calm again. "... I need him. But I don't need you." Anxiously Alexander tensed and stepped forward.

 

 

"All I ask is a chance to prove myself--"

 

 

"I just gave you one. And you failed. You father has requested that you be transferred off this ship." The boy flared. "He had no right!" "He has every right. Both as your superior officer and as your father. At twenty-three seventeen, you will transport to the cargo vessel Par'tok. Collect your gear. Now." A good lie was as powerful as any blow. When twenty-three seventeen arrived, Martok knew, there would be no Par'tok in the area and some story would be contrived about how the cargo ship was detained or boarded, captured, something. Meanwhile, the boy would either sulk, and thereby give away his inner lack of resolve, or he would take action with his father that would lead to a final eruption of the swelling wound between the two.

 

 

And about time.

 

 

Worf sat in the mess hall, alone. It was ship's night.

 

 

No one would be here for hours. That was good, for he was surly. Alexander's presence on this ship had been a constant irritation. Even the crewmen were treating him differently, watching him for reactions, wondering how they should handle the first officer's son. In some faces he even saw the ugly spectre of ambition. If this tension drove him to distraction, he would be unfit as first officer and someone else would move into his place.

 

 

He had tried to think of what should be done, but answers evaded him. He wished he were back on Deep Space Nine, in the command of Ben Sisko and simply

 

 

exacting orders to keep an enemy at bay. This clumsy new aggression to try defending a whole quadrant was undirected and troublesome. Goals were opaque, successes tempered. The right thing to do remained cloudy and evasive. Like being a parent. What was best?

 

 

He knew he was a miserable excuse for a father.

 

 

That was why he had sent Alexander away, and now Alexander despised him for doing what Worf had thought was best. Is it not best for a child to be away from an inadequate parent? Not best to have the fulltime attention of two adults, not the partial attention of one adult who has no inclination to raise a child?

 

 

Yes--yes, that had been right! Alexander had been better off with the Rozhenko's than tagging behind Worf on a ship where children should never have been living. It had been right. He would do it again. He would happily do it now, and send Alexander to another ship, where the boy could learn what a spacefarer needed to know without thinking all the time that his father was on board. A captain and officers were what young spacefarers needed. Not parents.

 

 

Before him his rokeg pie was untouched. He had ordered it with all the intention of eating, but now that the dish sat in front of him, glowing and quickly cooling, he had no appetite.

 

 

This was foolish. To let a child upset him to stultification. And that was something to consider-- was Alexander's presence indeed curtailing Worfs own efficiency? That could never do for long.

 

 

And he knew it was true. He was failing as a father, an art at which he was inexperienced and untrained, but there was pitiful little excuse to fail at being an officer, a job for which he was qualified and longtempered. He would never tolerate such troublement in anyone else-- A Klingon dagger lanced through his ruminations and detonated his thoughts. The blade rang upon the table and bit a good three inches into the tabletop beside his plate. The rokeg pie erupted from the vibration and bled all over its crust.

 

 

Alexander glared down at him. Worf stood up sharply.

 

 

"You are fortunate that I am your father," he said.

 

 

"If you had challenged anyone else in this manner you would be dead right now." "If you want me off this ship," Alexander returned, "you're going to have to kill me." "Do not tempt me." Irritated, Worf put a pace between them. "I do not want to hurt you, Alexander.

 

 

I want to help you." "By getting rid of me? All you've ever done my whole life is send me away!" "I am a Klingon warrior," Worf told him. "I lead a warrior's life. That is not the path for you. You told me that yourself. And I have come to accept it." "How! By ignoring me? You call yourself my father, but you haven't tried to see me or talk to me in five years!" The truth of that bolted through Worf's chest.

 

 

Sending the boy away for his own good--that could

 

 

be excused. Not contacting him... no, there was no excuse. He had never faced the repercussions of his own silence.

 

 

"I wasn't the kind of son you wanted," the boy said, "so you pretended you had no son. You never accepted me. You abandoned me." Wolf digested the boy's inarguable point of view-- of course he would see things that way, and if honesty were religion Worf would have to ask forgiveness for his abandonment not of responsibility, but of spirit.

 

 

Perhaps there was something to proximity.

 

 

His son's words stung and stung, until his ears rang and he could hear the strident jangle of his frustrations and his failings and wondered if the damage would always scream like this.

 

 

"Battlestations. Alert status one." Worf shook his head to clear out the scream, but it continued. Martok's voice--they were under attack!

 

 

The jangle was the ship's general alarm!

 

 

"Battlestations. Commander Worf to the bridge. All hands to battlestations." The glaring paste of familial tension sheared away and suddenly Worf and Alexander were crewmates with a common goal--get to the bridge, take posts, defend the ship, defend the Empire and the Federation, for each was a child of either.

 

 

Before they reached the bridge, the bird-of-prey took several hard hits--the enemy must've sprung upon them from some hiding place or a very good cloaking mechanism, for the shots were direct, not at angles, and bluntly striking the hull. Vibrations of

 

 

return fire whined through Rotarran's hull, as audible as the alarms, savaging whoever was attacking them.

 

 

When Worf stormed the bridge with Alexander behind him, General Martok gave his first officer the seconds needed to understand that there were two ships after them, not just one. There was already heavy damage creating halos of smoke around the crew's heads. Martok clung to his command chair, waving at the smoke, and glanced at Worf. Worf was looking port, at the engineer who was slumped over his console, his face badly burned, eyes open and unblinking. Other bodies were strewn on the deck. A very bad beginning.

 

 

At a second glance from Martok and a quick point of one finger, Alexander slid into the seat where the engineer had been and did his best with the readouts.

 

 

"Shields at sixty percent." Martok selected patience--for now. "And the Jem Hadar?" "Which one, sir?" "The one shooting at us!" "His... aft shields are down to... twenty-five-- no, twenty percent and he's losing antiprotons from his starboard nacelle." "Weapons, lock onto that nacelle." At the weapons station, recruit N'Garan visibly trembled with adrenaline. "Target locked--" But before she could fire, Rotarran surged upward on another hit.

 

 

Alexander's panel plumed into a light show, blow-

 

 

ing him out of his chair. As he turned over, stunned, blood pulsed from a gash in his cheek. A good scar someday.

 

 

Worf was looking at his son, Martok noticed, but did nothing to help him. Shaking and dazed, Alexander pressed his fist to his wound and pulled himself back to his station. The instruments were seared and snapping, hot to the touch, and finally the boy shook his head.

 

 

Without making Alexander vocalize that there was nothing he could do there, Martok turned to Ch'Targh and N'Garan in turn. "Come to three-one-seven mark zero-four-five. Weapons, can you hit him?" "Negative. He's out of range." Shifting to another station, Alexander pulled the engineer's body away from the console and attempted to read the flickering displays. "We've lost internal communications." Martok ignored him. That was Worfs problem, and Worf promptly acknowledged his son and stepped to the science station.

 

 

"Helm," Martok ordered, "come to course zerotwo-zero mark two-two-seven." "There's plasma venting from the primary impulse injector on deck five," Alexander called past Martok to his father.

 

 

Ch'Targh glanced up, then said, "Course laid in." Martok cranked around. "Worfl Get that plasma leak under control before we lose that entire deck!" The ship bolted again. That was a belowdecks hit, and that meant casualties. Worf was looking around

 

 

to see who could go with him, but there were precious few crewmen still standing. "I can seal the leak." Who said that? Martok waved at the smoke again.

 

 

Alexander?

 

 

The boy was standing straight, looking at his father, and now at Martok.

 

 

"I'm of no use to you here," Alexander admitted.

 

 

There was no bravado in his voice now--a welcome absence.

 

 

Logically, Worf should be the one to go with him, but Martok put out his hard-toed boot and caught Ch'Targh in the thigh. The helmsman looked up, caught his general's glare, and promptly swung around.

 

 

"I will go with him," Ch'Targh offered. "It will take at least two of us to secure the injector before it explodes." Worf glowered at them, and Martok saw the struggle of refusal. But did it make sense that both the first officer and the helmsman should leave the bridge when there was a junior officer here? No.

 

 

Gathering his common sense, Worf acceded, "Go!" Alexander led the way. Ch'Targh followed. Rather poetic, Martok thought.

 

 

Grimly Worf crossed the bridge and took the helm.

 

 

"Worf, put us off the Jem Hadar's starboard quarter," Martok ordered, eager to distract his exec.

 

 

"Weapons, continue to target his damaged nacelle." Pirouetting furiously through space, gravitons

 

 

shrieking in protest, Rotarran vectored away from the attacking Jem Hadar and drilled the damaged ship's natcUe, dismembering it neatly until the overload surged into an explosion. And then there were only two.

 

 

"MajKkah.t" Martok exalted. "Helm! On my command, drop impulse power to one-third and come to course three-five-five mark zero-nine-zero. Weapons, be ready for him to pass in front of us." "Course laid in," Worf informed.

 

 

N'Garan fixed her gaze on her board, valiantly ignoring the main screen. "Weapons standing by." Martok ticked off the seconds as Rotarran decderated sickeningly, venting plasma that obscured the attacking ship's view and ability to judge distance visually.

 

 

"Now!" Martok called.

 

 

The deceleration jammed to almost a full stop, pressing everyone forward and making Martok feel as if his arms were being ripped off. On the screen, the pursuing ship shot past them, showing its underbelly.

 

 

The Rotarran pitched on a wing, clearing for fire, and shot full disruptors point-blank at the Jem Hadar.

 

 

A moment later there was only the ball of flame that happened when a contained warp core was breached.

 

 

The Rotarran surged backward on the shock wave.

 

 

Around him, Martok's surviving crew cheered.

 

 

"Well done!" he told them. Yes, it had indeed been well done. Two Jem Hadar gone. A good day.

 

 

Without even waiting for the sparkles to dissipate or to survey the deep-fried panels of their bridge as

 

 

was his job to do, Worf turned away from the main screen. "Permission to leave the bridge?" "Go," Martok told him. "Stand down from alert status. N'Garan, take the helm." As the damage control team flooded the bridge and Worf departed on the same turbolift, Martok leered at the blooming remnant energy from the ship they had just destroyed.

 

 

"Go, my friend, and hope your son has not already killed himself."

 

 

To be continued... The End