Star Trek - TNG - Dominion War 4 - Sacrafice Of Angels

 

 

CHAPTER 1

 

 

"BEN, COME IN. What've you got on the Argolis problem?" The admiral's office was a mirror likeness of Sisko's, with the exception of personal items that implied a certain permanence. Sisko had deliberately not put any such things in his office, not wanting to give anybody the idea that maybe he liked it here and wanted to stay.

 

 

Despite his inclination to rush in early, he had waited until 0800 before coming to Ross with a battle plan he'd had ready for much longer, but that would've given too much away. And he had to be careful how he worded his plans to Ross.

 

 

Admiral Ross already had a star chart of Argolis Cluster raised on a wall monitor. After a polite greeting, Sisko went straight to the monitor--he didn't mind showing that he was proud of his work.

 

 

The star chart was loaded with the positions of the sensor array embedded into its program, which proved to Sisko that Martok had funneled the information through already and he could speak freely-- more or less. There was even a set of faint blinking lights that indicated the fighter group of guard ships planted there by the Jem'Hadar. Destroying the array was one problem--those ships were another, much bigger, problem.

 

 

"All right, Ben, what's your plan?" the admiral asked. "How do we get an assault squadron in close enough to blast an array that can see them coming?" Though Admiral Harold Ross was not a great tactician, he was in fact known for keen selfappraisal and surrounded himself with advisors smarter than he was, whom he drove relentlessly. He wasn't a very sharp or inspiring fellow, except that he never beat around the bush and was scrupulously forthright.

 

 

"We'll have to draw the guard ships away from the cluster, Admiral," Sisko began immediately. "My suggestion is to use General Martok and a small task force of ships, no more than five, to create a diversion big enough to draw off at least half of the picket ships. Then, while the Jem'Hadar think the activity's going on somewhere else, we send in a single ship to exact the assault." "One ship to take down the whole sensor array?

 

 

Are you kidding?" "Not at all. The array can be neutralized with one powerful and cleverly arranged assault--" "Gosh, I wonder which ship you have in mind, Ben." Sisko turned to him and smiled. "You mean there's more than one ship around?" "Okay, but you still haven't told me how you can sneak up on a thing like that, even with just one ship." "I'11 get to that right now, sir. According to Intelligence, the array is capable of detaching cloaked ships as far away as two thousand lightyears. By the time the Defiant got around the Argolis Cluster, the Dominion would already know we were coming." Ross nodded grimly. "You'd have more than a dozen Jem'Hadar ships on you before you even got close." Sisko returned the nod. "We need to have the element of surprise on our side. It's the only way." "What are you suggesting?" "That I take the ship through the Argolis." "You can't take a ship through there! You'd be cut to pieces." "That's exactly what the Dominion thinks," Sisko told him proudly. "But if we came at them from the Argolis, they wouldn't know what hit them." "What makes you think you can get through?" the admiral asked again.

 

 

"Dax says she can navigate around the gravimetric distortions. She's studied protostar clusters and she knows what to look for." Ross glowered at the star chart, then at Sisko, then the chart again. He wanted to believe it could be done. Even more, he wanted that array shut down.

 

 

"It's a gamble," Sisko agreed to the silent protest.

 

 

"But it's one I'm willing to take." Troubled, Ross dealt with the fact that part of his job as flag admiral in a war was to take just this kind of risk, and also to trust the people he'd asked to give him ideas. If he didn't take suggestions, no matter how dangerous, eventually people would stop giving him their best ideas. They'd start assuming he wouldn't accept this or that, and they'd quit trying.

 

 

A recipe for disaster.

 

 

Stopping himself from pushing too hard, Sisko held his breath and waited. The admiral had the facts.

 

 

"All right," Ross said, "let's give it a shot. When can you leave?" Sisko cut short an anxious step forward. "As soon as we've finished repairs on the Defiant." Ross shrugged with just his eyebrows. "Keep me posted." "I will, sir." With a crisp about-face that really wasn't necessary, Sisko bolted for the door and mastered himself only enough to keep from running down the corridor. In the turbolift, he tapped his combadge.

 

 

"Sisko to Dax." "Dax here, Benjamin." "How are those repairs coming?" "O'Brien says we shouM be spaceworthy in twentyfour hours or less. We're also being re-armed and having our stabilizers--" "Tell him to cut any corners he can. I want to be ready in twelve hours." "Why?" "Because we have a--never mind. I'll give you the details in person. We have aboutre" "Ross to Sisko." "One minute, Dax. Sisko here, Admiral." "Come back to my office for a moment, would you?

 

 

Something else has come up." "Right away, sir. Sisko out. Dax, are you still there?" 'Tm standing by, Benjamin." "I've just been ordered back to the admiral's office. Keep up the repair process and muster all hands for a crew meeting at ten hundred. Sisko out." The turbolift almost got a hemorrhage when he made it reverse course all the way back through the interior of the station on express setting, but in less than three minutes he was back in the admiral's office--and he didn't like that. The longer he spent around Ross, the higher were his chances of blowing the delicate balance he'd set up.

 

 

The admiral had no secretary at the moment, so Sisko strode through the outer office and chimed the door, and was immediately admitted back into Ross's presence.

 

 

"You wanted to see me, Admiral?" He avoided adding again?

 

 

Ross turned from his personal monitor. "I just got word. Captain Bennet's promotion came through.

 

 

At my recommendation, Starfleet's putting her in charge of the Seventh Tactical Wing. She's one of the best adjutants I've ever had... strong grasp of strategy, and an ability to see the big picture." Uh-oh...

 

 

Sisko knew he was sinking fast, but there was only one response for this-- "It doesn't sound like it's going to be easy to find someone to take her place." Don't say it, please don't say it-- "I already have," Ross told him. "You." Unable to keep his expression in check, Sisko tried to appear astonished. "Sir?" Ross smiled--Damn, he thinks he's doing me a kindness/ 'Tve been very impressed with you these last few weeks. I think we're going to make a good team." Sisko struggled not to groan. "Thank you, sir..." "Your assignment is effective immediately." Just before he managed a resigned nod, Sisko felt his spine go stiff with interior assessment of what Ross had just said. Starfleet lingo was like legal lingo--now meant now.

 

 

"Immediately, sir... what about the Argolis mission?" "Commander Dax will captain the Defiant." A cold pit opened in Sisko's stomach. A risky mission was one thing when he was in charge--but now, with the idea of sending his crew out without him, things clicked into place and the full measure of danger bloomed before him.

 

 

"She is up to it, isn't she?" Ross asked.

 

 

With an internal flinch, Sisko realized that Ross might be misinterpreting his hesitation as some kind of doubt in Dax's abilities. That's all they needed!

 

 

To have a whole new command team assigned!

 

 

"Absolutely, sir," he pushed in quickly. "I'd just... gotten used to the idea of commanding the mission myself." But Ross wasn't moved. How many assignments had he himself been forced to give up because he was needed somewhere else? Sisko knew that was the burden of an admiral, and a captain's attachment to his crew and ship just couldn't play too deeply into overreaching plans and needs. He also knew that Ross understood the value of that attachment and probably hadn't made this damned decision lightly.

 

 

He'd blown it. He'd done his job just a little too well. Impressed Ross with the plans for covert assaults, and now his plan for the Argolis mission had broken the fine structure he'd set up. The balance had cracked, and now he was going to fall into the fissure.

 

 

With a sympathetic glance, Ross motioned to several padds stacked on his desk. "Look over these tactical reports. I want your thoughts on the Bolian operation. We'll meet here at 0600 tomorrow morning." With numb hands, Sisko picked up one of the padds and gazed at it.

 

 

Ross sat down at the desk behind which he himself was trapped. "Ben? Congratulations." Forcing a plaintive grin, Sisko nodded. Then he turned and left. What else could he do? Argue?

 

 

Locked in at Starfleet Command.

 

 

What would he tell the crew? Go out and risk your lives in the most dangerous mission so far in this war... but go without me?

 

 

And what would he tell Martok?

 

 

How would he ever get back to DS9?

 

 

0

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

 

WORF HURRIED PAST braised panels with equipment that sparked and snapped in his face and burned his hands as he passed. Several Klingons, injured or dead, lay crumpled on the deck. He ignored them all. On the deck five corridor, he found himself and a damage-control team stopped short at a locked conduit hatch. Ch'Targh and the damage-control team were clustered at the hatch panel, trying to get in.

 

 

"Report," Worf snapped to get their attention.

 

 

Ch'Targh turned. "We sealed the impulse injector, Commander." "Where is my son?" "Trapped in that corridor, sir. After we secured the injector, I sent him in there to put away the tools, and somehow he tripped the emergency lockdown.

 

 

We are trying to override it now." An uncharitable round of laughter rumbled through the working Klingons. They had their backs to him, so Worf's scolding glare had no effect.

 

 

They were mocking him, yes, but not in private. In its way, that was progress. He had never taken chiding well. Other Klingons learned early to field such social irritations, but Worfhad missed that. His foster parents had protected him from it.

 

 

A sudden stab of realization cut through his chest.

 

 

The Rozhenkos would have also protected Alexander, without really meaning to debilitate him. Worf had been attuned to his own floundering, without considering that the boy might be floundering too, not quite as sure of himself and his actions as he tried so hard to appear.

 

 

Was that possible? Had the boy locked himself away by accident or by design? Was he merely a confused youth, strangled for attention? Trying any trick to get it?

 

 

Would he try such a trick if he had been tranferred to another ship? Where his father was not present as an audience?

 

 

No, Martok was right. Worf was the target of Alexander's actions. Clumsy actions, perhaps, but Worf knew he was as guilty of faltering, floundering, taking comfort in inaction.

 

 

Ch'Targh let out a victorious grunt, and the hatch slid open, spewing a gout of smoke, some cinders, and a small-boned Klingon teenager. Well, onequarter Klingon.

 

 

Worf suddenly wanted to pay attention to the other three-quarters of his son.

 

 

Alexander faced him bravely and ignored the chuckles from the other Klingons, so effectively in fact that soon the chuckling died off and the others waited silently to see what Worf would do and whether Alexander would care.

 

 

"You locked yourself in?" Worf asked.

 

 

"Yes, sir." With some kind of understanding, Worf nodded even though he didn't really understand, and put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Come." Together they walked out of the company of others, whose opinions no longer mattered.

 

 

The others were silent this time. Something had changed.

 

 

"General. Thank you for coming." "I come because two of my crew require my help.

 

 

As far as friends are concerned, what a waste of time." Martok chuckled out the last few words, and Alexander smiled with some embarrassment. Sitting opposite his son here in his own quarters, Worf seemed to relax a little too.

 

 

So, Martok sensed, the hard part was over. The two had reached some kind of understanding that they could not change each other and perhaps that wasn't the key after all. They had stopped trying and now would make headway.

 

 

"Please sit down, General," Worf invited. Since he didn't stand to greet his superior, Martok took that as a signal that Worf didn't want the advice of a superior after all, but an elder. Yes, a friend. But more--a family friend.

 

 

That was well. And about time.

 

 

Martok sat down and wished for war nog. Or something hot. Later.

 

 

"What can I do for you?" he asked, deliberately looking at Worf instead of the boy.

 

 

"My son is a man," Worf said. "I have been seeing him as a child. What other mistakes have I made?" "You really want to know?" "I would like your opinion." "I would love to give it," Martok grunted. Now he looked at Alexander. "You want to hear also?" The boy--the young man--nodded. "I'm considering becoming a member of your house. My father says it's my choice now. I'd like your opinion." This was the moment Martok had hoped for. He had steered events and manipulated personalities in order to be asked to speak. Therefore he was ready.

 

 

"Then I will give you my thoughts by speaking some truths and by asking questions of you and requiring honest answers. Fair enough?" "Fair," Alexander said. Strange that the surly youth had graduated to a young adult who wanted the air cleared. This was a good thing.

 

 

Worf only nodded once.

 

 

Martok hitched to the edge of his chair and positioned himself nearly between them, so neither would imagine he was on the other one's side.

 

 

"Worf, you sent your son away many years ago." "To live with my parents, yes." "Humans." "Yes..." "Alexander, you lived with them and were content?" The boy's eyes flickered, uneasy about this line of talk. "Yes, but..." "But you wondered where your father was and why he failed to contact you." "I wondered very much. I heard stories, but never from him." "So you concluded because he was silent that he did not love you or care for you. Why did you think that?" Alexander's expression turned harder. "Because he didn't send me away until I told him I didn't want to be a warrior." Now he looked at his father. "You were ashamed of me." "I was never ashamed!" "Worf--" Martok held out his hand for peace.

 

 

"Alexander, did you prefer to be with your grandparents?" "Yes, I preferred them! My father wouldn't speak to me once I decided not to be a warrior." Martok let a moment of quiet come between them, and let Alexander's revelation ring a little, and also waited for something more important--for Alexander to make contact with his father. And he did. Their eyes met. The shields dropped another ten percent.

 

 

Watching Worf, Martok digested the complete shock in his first officer's face and the corresponding realization there.

 

 

"Alexander," Martok said, "the word 'father' does not mean 'all-knowing.' Your father struggled long to be a warrior. It came more naturally to him, but it was still a struggle. He struggled so hard that there is little left in him that is not warrior. He is not always a Klingon warrior--sometimes he is a Starfleet warrior, and that is very different but he has the courage to be different. Still, he is all warrior. When you said you had no wish to be a warrior, I think your father had no idea what to say to you. When Worf does not know what to say..." The boy looked at Worf. "He says nothing? Was that it? Because you didn't know what to say to me, you became silent?" Worf stared at him, but in many ways was staring back at himself. "I had no idea how to cope with your choice... the choice, not you..." "What your father is saying, in his lavalike manner, Alexander, is that he does not communicate well." Martok leaned back in his chair and forced himself to appear relaxed, signaling that progress was being made. In fact, it was. "When one is a child, everything your parents do seems intentional, doesn't it?" Alexander twitched and blinked, hearing the unspoken answer.

 

 

"Even when they do something hurtful," Martok said, "or clumsy or stupid, you figure there must be a reason and this must be something they're doing on purpose. Not just because they fouled up!" "Fouled up," the boy murmured.

 

 

"Of course!" Martok slapped his own knees. "You never thought about this. Perhaps your father is just terrible at being a father. Did you ever think of that?

 

 

No, never. You thought he was being a terrible father on purpose! Because he enjoyed it! Parents can't be doing something that seems bad simply because they are incompetent, but on purpose!" Alexander both slumped and gawked. "You mean... he..." "I mean he is as clumsy as a fish when it comes to knowing how a father should behave. This has nothing to do with his love for you or his devotion or how he thinks of you, boy. When you told him you didn't want to be a warrior, he simply had no idea what to talk to you about. Not because of you, but because of himselfl" With the insight of a young adult instead of a boy, Alexander gazed at his father as if looking at artwork for the thousandth time and only now seeing the brushstrokes. Acrimony suddenly, visibly melted and sheeted to the deck.

 

 

"And you," Martok said, shielding his happiness as he turned to Worf, "are guilty of clumsy silence, as are many parents, but you also respond too much as a warrior. Life is not war, my friend, even when there is a war going on. Honor is not just fighting with your hands, but with your heart and your mind.

 

 

Your son wants to be something other than a warrior, yet he is here. Why do you think he's here?" Obviously struggling, Worf showed great promise by leaning forward and rubbing his hands as if to clean them. "If he has other interests... why would he come?" "Why, Alexander?" Martok relayed.

 

 

The boy instantly said, "To do my part." "Why now?" "Because now... there's a war." "Simple answer! Like millions before him," Martok said flatly, "he wants to do his part." He stood up suddenly and clapped his hands to his thighs.

 

 

"Now you will speak as father and son, not as warrior and not-a-warrior." Worf looked up in a panic. "You're leaving?" "That's right. Sink or swim, my friends. I think you will swim."

 

 

When Martok left, Worf expected to feel empty, desperate, even frightened. But his son's gaze, like that of an equal, like that of an adult, gave him quick respite.

 

 

Somehow, the lifeline thrown by Martok was still here even after the general's sudden exit. Worf at first hated Martok, then greatly respected him for leaving just at this moment.

 

 

He squirmed, then faced his son and settled down to speak as equals.

 

 

"I have been a poor father," he admitted. "You were right to be angry with me, but you must believe I always loved you. I always wanted security and attention for you. I sent you to my parents because they could give those to you. I never required you to be a warrior, Alexanderw" "But Martok's right, isn't he?" Alexander asked.

 

 

"You don't know how to talk about anything else." "I am not a very... demonstrative man." "You're demonstrative enough to be getting marfled," the boy keenly noted, with a rumble in his throat that hinted at impending manhood.

 

 

Worf felt his face flush. "With women, things are different." Alexander rolled his eyes and sighed. "I sure hope so. Father, I don't know if I will want to stay a warrior after this is all over, if we win... but I want to be a warrior now, so I can say to my own son that I did my part when it was important. Do you understand the difference?" Gazing in fresh respect, Worf murmured, "You communicate very well. You speak freely... I should learn to respect that." Alexander nodded. "I am demonstrative." Sagging a little more, Worf pressed his elbows to his knees and gazed at the deck. "I don't require you to be a perfect warrior, Alexander... but if you're going to be a warrior, you must be able to survive.

 

 

For good or worse," he said, looking up now, "you joined the service and you must do a good job for yourself and your shipmates. I will help you. In return, I ask you to help me be a better father. Tell me when I am lacking, and I will work on it. There will be times when I respond as a warrior when I should be responding as a father. To you I grant the honor of... telling me." Alexander actually smiled. "And to you I grant the honor of telling me when I'm a bad warrior." "I have to," Worf told him. "I'm also your first officer." "My first officer, my father, and a member of the same house," Alexander told him boldly. "General Martok thinks I've judged you unfairly. If I've been wrong about you, then I should correct the wrong. I have a wedding gift for you, Father... to show my respect and admit my mistake, I'll join the House of Martok." Staring until his eyes burned, Worf absorbed the phenomenal depth of this gesture, this commitment, and quickly sifted the past few days to make sure he had not made any pressures or hints--no, this was all Alexander's idea, his own choice.

 

 

Worflowered his head and shook it. "This will not be easy..." "I don't care about easy," his son freely accepted.

 

 

"'Easy' isn't worth having." Greatly cheered, Worf suddenly straightened.

 

 

"That is a strong sentiment!" "I can be strong when I have to be," his son said with a lilt that sustained them both.

 

 

"Yes... you can. Alexander, I cannot change the mistakes I have made, but I promise you from this day forward I will stand with you." Unintimidated, Alexander said, "We'll see if you mean that." As a bristle of resistance rose in his chest, Worf realized his son was probably joking, but that he also had a point. "Yes, we shall. What you are about to do entails a grave obligation. Do not accept it lightly." "I understand. And I accept." "Good. I will teach you what you need to be a warrior... and you will teach me what I need to be a father. Come."

 

 

A wooden case, covered with gold stencils in the ancient Klingon language, unchanged for nearly four thousand years.

 

 

Martok opened the box slowly, with ceremonial deliberation. The ready room lights were severely dimmed, making the candles on the table the primary source of illumination.

 

 

Reverently Martok removed the gray-and-black crest of the House of Martok, first carved for the family of his grandfather, whose name he bore and had honored with his own service record. A rush of personal pride briefly overwhelmed the general, then he contained himself and concentrated upon the two men for whom the crest now made its forty-third appearance.

 

 

He held the crest above a shallow golden bowl which reflected the glow of the candles in its polished surface.

 

 

"Badge of Martok..." he began. "Badge of courage... badge of honor... badge of loyalty." Ah, the old words. Shallow in their sound, they were deep in old meaning. He placed the emblem in the bowl.

 

 

Together with Worf, he chanted, "Badge of Martok." Worf turned to his son. "Alexander, give him your dagger." The boy flinched as if coming out of a trance, then handed Martok his weapon solemnly.

 

 

Martok waited through the hesitation, then took the dagger and sliced his own palm. Closing his fist, he squeezed blood onto the emblem. Forty-three.

 

 

How full of pride he was! Even though he had no more children coming, his house was growing.

 

 

"One blood," he murmured, "one house." He handed the blade to Worf, who cut himself in the same manner. "One blood... one house." And now Alexander, who was not afraid. In fact, he seemed eager to cut himself and shed his blood onto the shield. "One blood, one house!" Satisfied, Martok picked up the jeweled decanter beside the ceremonial bowl and poured blood wine all over the insignia, until the blood from their three hands blended to a single shade. This was eminently enjoyable, this ceremony, this wallowing in tradition, despite his preaching to Worf that tradition was only a shading of their identity. Martok did like the ambience and the ties which this harkened from his memory. He thought of his father and his grandfather, and those were good thoughts for an old man to enjoy. He felt young again.

 

 

Taking one of the candles, he touched the flame to the liquid. The alcohol ignited instantly and flame rolled to the edges of the bowl, reflecting in the eyes of Alexander and Worf as Martok looked at them both.

 

 

For a moment Alexander seemed to have forgotten what to do, but when Martok turned to face him, he remembered.

 

 

"I will be faithful even beyond death!" the boy vowed.

 

 

The fire burned out--he had gotten the words out in time, luckily, or they would have to begin again.

 

 

"Now!" Martok barked.

 

 

Alexander's hand plunged into the bowl and he winced at the hot liquid, but pulled the insignia out and affixed it to his shoulder.

 

 

Beaming at the young man as if he were his own son, Martok was pleased that Worf moved to stand beside Alexander as an equal, not before him as an elder.

 

 

The general drew a firm breath and felt young as he made the announcement that tomorrow all would know. The ship would know. The Empire would know. He would tell them all.

 

 

"Welcome to the House of Martok... Alexander, Son of Worfi"

 

 

0

 

 

CHAPTER 3

 

 

QUARK'S BAR. The 'upper level. An illusion of sanctum.

 

 

Kira Nerys leaned on the metal railing and looked down over the milling crowd on the first level.

 

 

Behind her, Rom v, dped a table, keeping true to his role as first brother and busboy to the irascible Quark, which allowed him to nurse his role as Federation spy.

 

 

He had the best qualification to pull it off--he seemed slow, dopey, and greedy, but wasn't any of those. Thus, the perfect disguise. Any minute.

 

 

Below, several Bajorans were uneasily reacquainting themselves with the station, their mood subdued by the presence of so many Cardassians and Jem'Hadar soldiers. The Cardassians were having a good enough time at the bar and the dabo tables; the Jem'Hadar were inexplicably standing around watching, but never joining in. Kira saw Quark and several Ferengi waiters ducking about, serving customers.

 

 

Any minute now.

 

 

"There he is," Kira murmured. She stiflened slightly, then got control over it. "Damar's a creature of habit, all right." Almost directly below her, Glinn Damar strode in the main bar entrance from the Promenade. He had a particularly annoyed expression on his excuse for a face today--good. That meant he was getting more and more frustrated with Dukat's methods of running the station.

 

 

Kira turned her face slightly, so that she could only move her eyes to pretend to be looking in another direction.

 

 

"After a hard day's work," she narrated, "he deserves his glass of kanar..." Damar barked an unintelligible order to Quark, who moved behind the bar and got the oldest bottle of kanar. While taking a seat at the bar, Damar glared at the Jem'Hadar soldiers with unbridled contempt.

 

 

"Why are the Jem'Hadar always in here, he asks himself," Kira mumbled on, as Rom listened from behind her. "They don't eat, they don't drink, they don't gamble... all they do is take up space. Ah-- Damar asks his bartender if he found a padd he was working on the other day. He misplaced it, and he wants it back..." "My brother tells the truth," Rom murmured back, watching Quark pour the drink for Damar.

 

 

"He hasn't seen it." Appreciative of the scowl Quark got for his honesty, Kira felt a little grin creep across her lips.

 

 

"Damar doesn't like that," she uttered quietly.

 

 

"The padd contained a draft copy of a secret memorandum he was working on concerning the shortage of white. Without the drug, the Jem'Hadar will run amok, killing everyone and everything in their paths... If the Cardassians can't bring down the minefield and reopen the supply line from the Gamma Quadrant, they're planning to poison the last ration of white and eliminate the Jem'Hadar before it's too late. Rom... how did you get hold of Damar's padd, anyway?" "I'm good with my hands. Here we go... they've seen him." "And the Jem'Hadar Third motions for the others to follow him to the bar... they pause a few feet behind Damar... Damar turns, realizing there's going to be trouble. The Third barks again--and, 1o--he's got the missing padd. And Damar, true to his nature, accuses them of stealing it." "The Jem'Hadar didn't like that," Rom said, tense.

 

 

"Why's he pointing at the table?" "Because that's where he found it. Right where I left it." "Ah--the other Cardassians move to Damar's side... I knew this was going to work. The Cardassians and the Jem'Hadar may pretend to be allies, but they hate each other--Quark, don't get in between--oh!" "Ow!... I didn't know my brother could fly..." "There they go, Rom. Damar and that Jem'Hadar tearing into each other--I see a knife!" "That Cardassian's pulling a disruptor rifle! He's firing!" "One Jem'Hadar down!" "The others are returning fire! Oooh--" "This is bigger than I expected. They're rioting!" "Me too, Major! Duck!"

 

 

Constable Odo and a handful of Bajoran deputies had apparently needed nearly twenty minutes to reestablish some sort of order in the bar, finally separating the Cardassians and the Jem'Hadar physically-which was no little trick.

 

 

Gul Dukat had listened in amazement at the report that there was trouble in the bar, yet somehow he wasn't really surprised.

 

 

Dukat stormed into the bar in time to see Weyoun dressing down the Jem'Hadar Third in the most aggravated tone the Vorta had used to date. Dukat had come to believe the Dominion's representative couldn't actually raise his voice, but evidently he could.

 

 

The brawlers were bloodied and bruised. Several Bajorans had been injured in the corona of hostility and were being tended by Bajoran medics and a nurse. Broken chairs, smashed tables--and scars of phaser fire. Weapons discharged. Unforgivable.

 

 

As he came in, Dukat almost tripped over an unconscious Jem'soldier who at second glance seemed to be dead. And over there was another. At first he was satisfied, almost amused, but then the crowd parted and Dukat saw two... three dead Cardassians.

 

 

Dead Cardassians! And no battle!

 

 

This fired a switch he had never felt click inside his head before. Allies... now they had killed each other. There was no treaty for this.

 

 

"Who started this! Damar! Give me a report!" Still furious and yet somehow sheepish, Damar stepped to him and straightened to attention. "They stole my padd! There was critical information and they have no right under our agreement with the Jem'Hadar that they can look at classified Cardassianm" "I don't care what they did!" Dukat exploded.

 

 

"You shouldn't have let the situation get out of hand!" Damar parted his lips and his mouth hung open, but there was nothing he could say to defend himself against a "you shouldn't have." Just to avoid giving him the chance to think of anything, Dukat whirled just as Weyoun gave his final glare to the Jem'Hadar Third and said, "You're reduced six ranks." Weyoun was upset--Dukat could see that. Of course he was. The Cardassian/Dominion alliance was jagged enough without incidental trouble. The Vorta turned to Dukat and very carefully controlled his tone as he came to stand near Dukat and made sure no one else could hear them speaking.

 

 

"How could Damar have been so stupid as to leave such an inflammatory document lying around for anyone to find?" Dukat gritted his teeth. "Your men stole it from him." "The Jem'Hadar are not thieves." "And Damar is not a liar." "Keep your voice down," Weyoun warned. "Our men need to see that we're still allies. Smile.

 

 

Dukat --" "I'm smiling." "Gentlemen." Constable Odo stepped toward them, and suddenly Weyoun mellowed in a rather horrible way at the nearness of a Founder. Dukat almost threw up.

 

 

"I suggest," Odo began, "that we get everyone out of here as soon as possible." "Odo's right," Weyoun--of course--said. "Tell your men they're confined to quarters pending disciplinary hearings." When he saw Dukat bristle, he threw in, "We'll do the same. And... keep.

 

 

smiling." Smiling. How noxious. What sense did that make?

 

 

Smile after an event like this. Mightn't it seem more reasonable to be displeased? What good was there in pretending?

 

 

The war had been going well enough, but not as well as Dukat had hoped. He was a haunted man, unable to gain release from the ever-present face in his mind. That face flickered in the beveling of his morning mirror. It blew by in the glossy black facings on the station's storefronts. A shadowy set of eyes and a firm chin showed in the orb of the baseball on his desk when he happened to turn just right. He was being watched, eternally watched.

 

 

And there was a voice, too. It came in every report about activity on the Federation and Klingon fronts.

 

 

Significant wins were always dogged by hurtful losses. Scissorlike raids dotted the star charts and were impossible to predict or track... and in most of those, there was a report of a familiar ship making daring cuts into Cardassian and Dominion holdings.

 

 

Always that face... laughing at him. Murmuring predictions. Threats.

 

 

Why was Odo looking at the upper deck? There's nothing up there... oh, Rom, nervously finishing cleaning tables. That retarded Ferengi stump, why would Odo pay attention to him? Just checking the vicinity, most likely. Certainly there was nothing Rom had to offer. Was there someone else up there?

 

 

Irritated, Dukat dispensed with concerns about Odo and the upper deck, which couldn't possibly mean anything on a day when his own men and the Jem'Hadar had caused far more trouble than anyone else on a station of hostiles. That was not the corner from which he expected trouble to come.

 

 

In fact, the Bajorans had been annoyingly steady, as had everyone else on the station, give or take that little temper tantrum by Vedek Kassim which had ultimately come to nothing but her own crushed skull. A charming display of sacrifice, but ultimately fruitless. What the Vedek had hoped to accomplish was beyond Dukat's reasoning.

 

 

Well, the latest tally... one dead Vedek, two dead Jem'Hadar, three dead Cardassians. One embarrassed Weyoun. Acceptable.

 

 

He turned and left the bar, followed by the phantom face in the curved rim of a table that had been sheared in half.

 

 

"Odo, you wanted to see me?" Kira Nerys strolled into Odo's office, a little more pleased with herself now that she had talked herself into the idea that this was a real war and if the enemy died, well... then they died.

 

 

Odo was pacing behind his desk, and if his masklike face had given her any hints over the years she had learned to recognize irritation when she saw it.

 

 

"Well?" he asked. "Don't you have anything to say to me?" Tilting her head a little, Kira fished about with, "You mean what happened in Quark's?" When he nodded, she decided to take credit. "It worked better than I expected." "I knew you were behind it!" "Of course you did," she told him. "We discussed it at the last Resistance meeting." "And I said it was a bad idea!" "Yes, you did." Annoyed at the memory of his resisting the Resistance, Kira let her indignation show. "And then you walked out of the room as if there was nothing more to say. But Rom and Jake stayed and we discussed it. And y'know what? I decided it was a good idea!" "So you went ahead and did it behind my back?" "Why are you taking it so personally?" "How do you expect me to take it? I spend my days sitting on the Council with Dukat and Weyoun, doing what I can to make sure Bajor survives this war intact. The last thing I need is to have you running around causing mayhem. Do you have any idea what would happen if Dukat found out you were behind it? It would give him all the excuse he needs to throw every Bajoran off this station." "The Federation is losing this war!" Kira challenged, seeing in him the same complacency she had kicked aside in herself. "We can't just sit by and do nothing!" Odo drew a long breath and tried to calm down.

 

 

"There are limits to what we can do." Kira could see he was trying to sympathize, and knew, unfortunately, that part of his motivation was keeping her safe--not all of Bajor or all Bajorans or the station, but just her. How could she be angry at someone whom she knew had those unrequited feelings?

 

 

"I'm beginning," she let herself say, "to think you shouldn't have agreed to sit on that council. It's as if you've gotten so invested in making sure the station runs smoothly, you've forgotten there's a war going on." He appeared stung, and deeply insulted. "Are you questioning my loyalties, Major?" Kira hesitated. She hadn't meant that, but as she spoke she knew that was indeed how those words sounded. "I need you, Odo," she said, rather than waste time stating the obvious. "The Resistance needs you." "Answer me," he snapped. "Are you questioning my loyalties?" "Of course not! That's not what this is about." She drew a breath to say more, but the door opened suddenly and she and Odo both turned, surprised. There had been no chime, no request to enter. As she turned, a lump of worry settled into Kira's stomach--at least they had managed to keep up the basic courtesies on the station so far. Had something changed?

 

 

Outside the door, flanking the entrance to Odo's office, several Jem'Hadar soldiers formed two lines, but did not come inside. Had Dukat gotten fancy?

 

 

Wanted an honor guard now? Or was this Weyoun, staging an entrance?

 

 

But the individual making an entrance scarcely needed fanfare--or guards, for that matter.

 

 

The masklike face and plain tan shift implied simplicity, but this individual, clearly a female, yet in no way a woman.

 

 

"Hello, Odo," the creature said. "It's good to see you again."

 

 

Kira's skin crawled at the sight, at the sound, of the female shapeshifter. These beings--all but Odo--gave her the creeps. They were just too strange, too illusionary. What she was seeing, she knew, was not at all the truth. A shapeshifter, a Founder. Weyoun's idea of a god. Kira's idea of trouble.

 

 

Had the mine field fallen? Why was this Founder on this side of the barrier? Was she trapped?

 

 

Odo... he was quite obviously rattled. In fact he was shaken to the bones. Except that he didn't have bones, but that was.

 

 

So much history here, such agony and joy, then more agony. This person could convince Odo, and once had, that a shapeshifter was somehow damaged by time spent among "solids." Were these the only two Founders on this side of the wormhole?

 

 

Kira almost spoke up, but the female shapeshifter barely acknowledged that there was anyone but Odo in the room. The female didn't look at Kira, but kept her eyes focused on Odo's, as if they were in a mutually supportive trance.

 

 

"Leave us," the female said. "I wish to speak to Odo." Elbowing herself forward a step, and quite unimpressed, Kira sneered. "Do you?" With her manner she communicated that she had no intention of abandoning Odo here with someone who could influence him so fundamentally.

 

 

For the first time, the female turned toward her, like a mannequin turning on a spit. The female gazed with those icy eyes, framed by the bony orbits of that expressionless, creaseless, featureless face.

 

 

And in the eyes, there was expression.

 

 

"It's all right, Nerys," Odo said before anything came of the cool glare. "I may as well hear what she has to say." Kira quite dismissively turned to him as if to make the female shapeshifter insignificant. "Are you sure?" Hesitant yet somehow secure, Odo paused, then nodded.

 

 

A crawling awareness moved across Kira's shoulders. She was no longer an equal--she was the "solid" in the room.

 

 

What could she do? Odo could make his own choices.

 

 

But could he, her key ally, her friend, her secret admirer, her link to the Ruling Council... how much influence, how much remembering, how much sensation, how much intimacy... how much could he resist?

 

 

Pulled in two different directions, how much could one person take?

 

 

As Kira turned and stalked out of the quarters, leaving Odo to the mysterious influence of the nonwoman, she knew that he was trapped as much as she, and she was trapped as much as the female shapeshifter. They were all trapped behind the lines.

 

 

"You called her 'Nerys.'" Odo nodded at the female shapeshifter's loaded statement and reflected that the Founders were not so distant that they failed to note the difference between a first name and a family name in a culture so different from theirs.

 

 

"What of it?" he asked her. Admittedly her presence here both annoyed and somehow insulted him.

 

 

"You used to call her 'Major.' Using a solid's name denotes intimacy." Oh--that was it. Odo had turned away from her, but now he turned again to look at the face so like his own, the plastic and formless humanoid echo, and suddenly understood why he avoided mirrors.

 

 

"You're a long way from horne. Here to keep an eye on the war effort?" "I'm content to leave the details of the war to the Vorta," she told him.

 

 

"Then what brings you to Deep Space Nine?" "You." She fixed her sunken eyes upon him. "I was trapped here in the Alpha Quadrant when Captain Sisko mined the entrance to the wormhole.

 

 

I've spent too much time among solids. I came because I felt the need to be with one of my own." Tender, but all lies. Odo returned her gaze with a cold glare. "That's ironic, considering what happened the last time we crossed paths." "You caused the death of a fellow Changeling, Odo. Turning you into a solid was the only punishment severe enough for your crime--" "And now that I'm a Changeling again, you come here as if nothing ever happened?" "We've forgiven you." A lump of resentment filled Odo's inner being.

 

 

"Well, I haven't forgiven you." She apparently thought she was losing control over the conversation, because she closed the distance Odo had managed to put between them. "It's time to put the past behind us?" "What about the present?" Odo countered.

 

 

"You're waging a war against my home." "This isn't your home, Odo... you belong with your own kind, as part of the Great Link." Her proximity was nerve-rending. He stepped back a pace. After the Founders passed judgment on him and cursed him to solid status for so long, he had learned who he really was--an individual. Now they held that alluring drug out to him again, now that they needed his influence here in this quadrant.

 

 

"I'm quite content here, thank you," he told her bluntly, and meant it.

 

 

"You say that," she insisted, "becaue you don't know what you're capable of becoming. Perhaps if we spend a little time together... you'll begin to understand." Tempting, tempting--he gazed into the past, into the moments of fulfillment his form of life could have, a spreading, drunken euphoria with the merging of a million minds and the comfort that came from forgetting individuality.

 

 

Individuality was a responsibility, a moral charge.

 

 

Who wouldn't take the chance to suspend such a burden? To forget there was tomorrow and Tuesday and Wednesday and things to be done? Challenges to overcome? Being in a group assuaged those burdens and suspended the pressures of being an individual.

 

 

He had come to think of that suspension as lazy and lowering.

 

 

But as the female stood here, holding the drug before him.

 

 

"'To become a thing is to know a thing'..." His own voice startled him. Was she making him feel this way somehow?

 

 

"'To assume its form,'" she continued, "'is to begin to understand its existence.'" Odo offered her a less malevolent gaze. "You tried to teach me that when I visited our homeworld." "I remember." "I didn't understand what you meant by it at first," he went on, caught up in reverie, "so when I came back to the station I got rid of the furniture I used to have in my quarters and replaced it with other objects. I've assumed every shape in the room... I suppose if it weren't for you, I would never have known the simple pleasure one can take in spending time existing as a stone or a branch..." He flinched slightly, knowing how silly that would sound to any of his other friends.

 

 

Then he flinched again--he had just accepted her as some kind of friend. What was happening to him?

 

 

Why were his limbs tingling?

 

 

She bowed her head slightly, accepting his words as gratitude. Perhaps they were.

 

 

"I'm glad you learned something from your visit." She moved closer in their minds, without actually taking a step. "Your arrival was a time of great joy for the link... and your departure a time of great sadness. If only you'd stayed with us, Odo--" "I couldn't." "You chose the solids." "And I haven't regretted it." "Not even a little?" Why couldn't he lie to her? His chest was cold now too.

 

 

"I do think about the link from time to time..." "It's there for you." "I can't..." "Why? Because of Kira? You still have feelings for her, don't you?" Through his silence, she seemed to deduce the rest. "She doesn't share them. I'm sorry." Odo snapped a surprised glare toward her. He hadn't thought she knew how he felt about anything but the link. "Aren't you going to tell me that I shouldn't waste my time with a solid?" "You love her." "I wish t didn't." He gripped his hands and tried to feel humanoid, tried to sense the separation of his fingers and the pressure of imitation muscles. "I'm so vulnerable to her... all she has to do is smile and I'm happy beyond reason. A minor disagreement between us and I'm devastated. It's absurd!

 

 

Sometimes I wish I could reach inside myself and tear out my feelings for her, but I can't." The female managed a small smile. "Poor Odo." "I don't want your pity," he quickly said, embarrassed at the adolescent nature of his feelings and his inability to mature them.

 

 

"I'm not offering pity," she said. "I have answers for your many questions. Why don't you ask me something? Ask me one of the many things you need to know for your inner sanctity. Ask me while I have a form and voice. Ask while we are separate." That implied there would be another time, without separateness. Odo almost challenged her, almost denied her the prediction, but something stopped him.

 

 

Answers--to all the questions. Just a few answers.

 

 

He forced his voice up. "Have... have our people always been shapeshifters? Or was there a time when we were like the solids?" "Eons ago we were like them," she said. "Limited to one form, but we evolved." Her tone said not just "evolved," but "superior." He didn't like that.

 

 

"On the Homeworld," he pressed, "are you always in the link or do you sometimes take solid form?" "We prefer the link. But occasionally it can be interesting to exist as something else. A tree perhaps or a cloud in the sky." That didn't make sense. How could a shapeshifter become a cloud? Clouds were not a single object, but millions of single droplets. Could they do that? How would it be physically possible to divide to such a microscopic level? How could he ever pull himself into a unit again? Could such division occur and still be one being? Curiosity drove Odo to try imagining such a frightening change. A cloud--he thought that might be a shapeshifter's idea of death.

 

 

"So many questions, Odo," she murmured, amused.

 

 

"I'm sorry," he said. "There's so much that isn't clear to me." Was there death for them? Should he ask?

 

 

"If you link with me," she offered, "everything will be made clear." Promises pounded on Odo's mind at her offer. He had promised Kira that he wouldn't. How could he tell the shapeshifter that a verbal bond to a solid was holding him back?

 

 

"You have to understand," he attempted, "the link is very overwhelming for me. Right now, it's easier to talk." "But words are so clumsy, so imprecise--" "Even so." "As you wish." She paused then, waiting for him to continue his line of questioning, to search himself for things he wanted to know and ways to cram the bigness of his thoughts into the littleness of words, the widely inarticulate into the confines of linear sentences.

 

 

So he decided to start more simply this time. A place where solids had learned ages ago to begin any relationship.

 

 

"You've never told me your name." She looked at him with a peculiar whimsy. "What use would I have for a name?" "To differentiate yourself from others." She managed a perfectly human shrug. "I don't." "But... aren't you a separate being?" "In a sense." "When you return to the link, what'11 happen to the entity I'm talking to right now?" Her flat lips elongated into a soft grin. "The drop becomes the ocean." A glimmer of that vague answer occurred to Odo, then almost instantly fled. For a moment he thought he understood, but like grasping at that cloud, he lost it.

 

 

"And if you choose to take a solid form again?" "The ocean becomes the drop." She apparently knew what that meant, but for Odo, clinging to the image was troubling.

 

 

"Yes," he murmured, trying to convince himself.

 

 

"I think I'm beginning to understand." Without pursuing the bizarre idea that he was talking to an ocean, he took a few moments to really try to understand the elusive concepts.

 

 

"Then can you answer your own question?" she wondered. "How many of us are there?" With the force of a revelation, Odo said, "One and many. It depends on how you look at it." "Very good. You are beginning to understand. But there's so much more you don't know." "Tell me," he begged.

 

 

"Words would be insufficient. Link with me again... it's the only way I can give you the understanding that you seek." "I can't..." "Why not?" "I promised Kira..." "She's a solid. This has nothing to do with her.

 

 

This is about you, Odo... what do you want?" Exasperated, torn, his mind blurring to confusion and need, he intoned, "What I want is some peace." Her hand took his hand--he didn't stop her, didn't draw back or flinch away.

 

 

"What you need is clarity." Her voice was harp music against the quiet of deep space. "I can give you that..." As the spreading euphoria clouded Odo's mind, the female closed her eyes and that was the last he saw of her before his own eyes drifted closed. There was not the usual darkness of decomposition, but this time a warm glowing silver light.

 

 

"Do you want me to stop?" she asked.

 

 

She knew the answer and he hated her for it.

 

 

Hated her, loved her, wanted the melting glory she held out before him, that he so deeply craved and was so tired of resisting day after day, minute after minute.

 

 

And there were no more minutes, and no more days. They were energy, flowing like lava, peace, clarity. Rolling-- Nerys...

 

 

"What are you doing in here, Damar? Did Dukat demote you to security detail?" This was Odo's office. So why wasn't Odo here?

 

 

Like he was every other morning? Behind his desk, mulling over the situation and redistributing security around the station?

 

 

Instead, there was no Odo and Damar was here, talking to some Cardassian nondescript.

 

 

Damar turned to her. "What can I do for you, Major?" "I'm looking for Odo." "He's not here." "Do you know where he is?" "Yes." Rrrrrrr.

 

 

"That's good," she popped back. "It's always good to know where your boss is." Just the slightest inflection on the word "boss" and Damar bristled at the reminder of his position.

 

 

Satisfied, Kira turned away to leave.

 

 

"He's in his quarters," Damar said. This time the inflection was his to wield. "With the other shapeshifter... jealous, Major?" Annoyed that she had let him see her reaction to this, Kira fixed him with a glare. "Try to stay out of trouble, Damar. You don't want to end up on sanitation duty." She left him before he could construct a winning quip and walked straight to Odo's quarters and chimed the door. Her arms and legs twitched with instinct. None of this was good. None of it. No answer. She chimed again.

 

 

From inside, a muttered response. Good enough.

 

 

She walked in, knowing that Odo might as easily have said get away as come in. "Odo?" He stood near the window, gazing out, as if not registering her presence. He seemed serene, but somehow that was artificial. Was he drugged?

 

 

Hypnotized?

 

 

Influenced-- "Nerys," he acknowledged, finally turning.

 

 

"I dropped by your office. Damar told me you were here. With her." "She was here. But she's gone now." "Are you all right? What did she want?" "She didn't want anything..." "Then what was she doing here?" It was almost as if only one voice were actually speaking. Kira heard her own voice, but Odo's was like a whispering wind.

 

 

"I know how you feel about her, Major, but there's no reason to be concerned." She stepped closer. "You don't know how much I wish I could believe that. You didn't link with her, did you?" A frustrated breath came on the wind.

 

 

"Actually... I did." "You did? What were you thinking!" A change came over Odo. He seemed to leave the dream behind long enough to be annoyed. "She didn't find out about the Resistance, if that's why you're worried." "It's not," Kira lied. She dared not get into that one--just how could he possibly know the female shapeshifter hadn't sifted his mind while they were enmeshed in that liquid union they did?

 

 

Odo apparently didn't believe her. "The link isn't about exchanging information... it's about merging thought and form... idea and sensation." "Sounds like a perfect way to manipulate someone." "She's not manipulating me." "Ever since the day you crossed paths, she's been lying to you," Kira pressed, "tricked you, sat in judgment of you--I don't trust her. And I don't understand how you can trust her." "I linked with her. If she had some hidden motive, I would've sensed it. She's... just trying to teach me about myself... about what I'm capable of becoming." "An intergalactic warlord, maybe?" Kira blasted before this turned into a therapy session. "Because that's what she is!" Odo didn't even seem inclined to deny that or, at least, that Kira was justified to think that. "Who knows? By linking with her, I might be able to make her understand that the Federation doesn't pose a threat to her people." Amazing! Could he really believe that the Dominion was waging a war against a power they thought might come and hurt them someday? Kira shuddered with frustration. How could she explain the nature of overbearance, tyranny, control, imperialism... he wasn't grasping those right now. He was lost in something else.

 

 

Kira lowered her voice, trying to find his plateau of common sense. "Do you really believe you can convince her to call off the war?" Troubled, Odo paused. "If you could experience the link, you'd understand the effect it has on my people. You'd realize that anything is possible.

 

 

I'm only beginning to understand it myself. Now that she's here, I finally have a chance to get some answers." "Odo, this isn't the time for you to go off on some personal quest! There's too much at stake. After the war's over, do whatever you need to do. If you want to leave and join the Great Link, I won't try to stop you. But right now, I need you here. Focused." Encouraged by a glimmer of guilt, of responsibility, in Odo's eyes, she surged on. "Promise me you won't link with her again, Odo... not until this is over." He turned away from her, thinking carefully, torn between his great need and his great commitment.

 

 

"All right," he said, very hesitantly. "I won't. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get to work. I'll see you at the Resistance meeting." He left her then, moving in a controlled but hurried manner. He wanted to get away from her.

 

 

She knew the signals.

 

 

Kira didn't turn to watch him leave. He was in trouble and she knew it, and she also knew she couldn't do anything about it. What did she have to offer him that would stand up against physical and mental merging with the ultimate of wondrous fulfillment?

 

 

Nothing. He would have to find his own way.

 

 

"See you at the next meeting." "Maybe," she murmured to the empty room. "But things are different now... and I'll have to be careful around you."

 

 

Up Guards and at them again!

 

 

The Duke of Wellington

 

 

0

 

 

CHAPTER 4

 

 

"ARE YOU TWO ever going to finish?" "Just a few more minutes, Commander." "That's 'Captain.' It's an old naval tradition.

 

 

Whoever's in command of a ship, regardless of rank, is referred to as 'Captain.'" "You mean if I had to take command, I'd be called 'Captain' too?" "Cadet, by the time you took command, there wouldn't be anyone left to call you anything." The banter between Dax, Nog, and O'Brien was usually a nerve-settler, but today as Ben Sisko stepped onto the bridge of the Defiant, he was reminded by the sound of the crew's voices that he would not be here anymore to hear them or enjoy them, to share their troubles or agonize in their losses or revel in their victories. He had been relieved of command, so that he could take more pressing responsibilities at Starfleet Command without distraction.

 

 

This was his last few minutes on the ship, and they were about to embark on the mission that had been his whole reason for wheedling an inside position at Command. This was his mission, and he would not be going. The mission was phenomenally dangerous, chance of success thin, and he wouldn't be there to share the razor-edged event. Did they understand?

 

 

It would be unseemly, unofficerlike, to explain too much to them or to stand before them and wish them well while also trying to explain that he really wanted to go, that he didn't feel right that they were going without him, and that he was worried.

 

 

Negative thoughts wouldn't serve anything but his own guilts and fears, neither of which had any constructive bearing on what they were about to do.

 

 

A former captain's duty was as important, at moments like this, as a captain's duty--to be sure the crew had ultimate confidence in the ship's unit as it existed, not as it had previously existed. To imply they needed him would have been an unconscionable breach.

 

 

"Come to take a last look around?" Dax sidled up next to him, offering that quirky grin which reminded him so much of his old friend Curzon Dax, back in the days when Jadzia... oh, never mind.

 

 

Too many lingering thoughts, too much reverie. It could only hurt.

 

 

"Not a last look, I hope," Sisko responded, then counted on her to understand that he was hoping they would survive the mission, not hoping he would be backmeven though he was. "How are the repairs coming?" Dax shot a glare at O'Brien and Nog. "Almost done." O'Brien smirked and plunged back into his work.

 

 

"I wouldn't get too used to that command chair, old man," Sisko muttered. "When this war's over, I'm going to want my ship back." "Fine," she said. "When this war's over, I'm going on a honeymoon." "All done here, Captain," O'Brien called as he stood up from the auxiliary trunks.

 

 

"Very good," Sisko said, unfortunately at the same moment as Dax responded, "All right." The moment was instantly gone, but all had heard. None would forget. The embarrassment was all Sisko's, though Dax, through her smile and shrug, tried to share it. He nodded to Dax and therewith gave her the tacit approval to give her own commands.

 

 

"Plot a course to the Argolis Cluster," she told her crew, "and prepare to depart." Every bell in Sisko's head went off--get out of the command arena. Hand over the torch. Give her the ship she commanded. Give the crew their captain.

 

 

"Good luck," he simply said, trying to keep from giving a farewell speech that could just as easily be taken for a pre-eulogy.

 

 

He tried to go to the exit, but Dax followed him.

 

 

"I wish you were coming with us, Benjamin." Generous, because they both knew that and she didn't have to say it outright.

 

 

Sisko broke his stride, but his throat was closing up. He choked out a quick, "You'll do fine," and continued into the turbolift, leaving Dax behind with her gaze drilling into his spine.

 

 

He tapped his combadge. "Sisko, zero bravo, K one." There was no response.

 

 

He closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the turbolift, carrying him first off the Defiant, then back through the docking area and into the officer-only access.

 

 

When the lift doors opened, General Martok stood there, waiting for him.

 

 

"Zero bravo," Martok quipped. "I am summoned, and I am here." Not particularly comforted, Sisko stepped out of the lift. "Unfortunately, so am I." "Yes... I heard your ship is going without you.

 

 

Most disturbing. What do you want me to do?" "We're going to follow through on the tactical plan--distract those guard ships with as much trouble and mayhem as you can. Get as many of them as possible to abandon the Argolis sensor array." "I will," the general said. "But they will not all come away." "I know that. That's why I'm taking another ship and going in there to help you pull them off." Martok sat back and blinked. "The admiral's new adjutant is leaving his desk? With or against orders?" "Well... a little of both. The admiral already took me off command of Defiant and he can't undo that arbitrarily, but I can get leaves of absence at key points, and this is a key point." "How did you convince Admiral Ross of such an arrangement?" "Oh, somehow he got the idea that somebody would be ringing his emergency alarm every hour on the hour until he let me go." "I... would never blame him for such circumspection." "So I'm going." "On what ship?" "Centaur." "Captain Reynolds." "Yes." "And does the captain understand the level of our involvement?" "Not a bit. What I need from you is the identification numbers off those guard ships at the array. We have to be absolutely certain that any ships we draw to the area of distraction are in fact the very ships that would be shooting at Defiant if we weren't causing trouble nearby. As long as Dax has the element of surprise, she'll handle the sensor array." Sisko drew a deep breath after all those hopeful sentences and steadied his cold nerves. Somehow all this seemed too simple, too easy, and none of it would be either of those. The bedamned complication of being Ross's full adjutant required him to juggle too many glass balls. Despite his attraction to Dax's mission, other things couldn't be ignored. The last few days had been a scramble to reassign or retire problems and duties so he could be ready to go out with Charlie Reynolds on the Centaur and do what he had to do.

 

 

Martok had been silent for the past few seconds, but Sisko constantly felt the canny gaze of the Klingon general, who missed very little on the subtle plane. Unlike most Klingons, Martok was aware of underlying worries, motives, desires, and he had patience to see how those faculties evolved.

 

 

So he was looking at Sisko, and waiting. Sisko knew the questions Martok wanted to ask, would have to ask in order to pursue the mission effectively.

 

 

"You'll need a target for your distraction maneuver," Sisko offered without having to be asked. "We destroyed the main ketracel-white facility the Dominion had on this side of the wormhole, and that crippled them badly. They're staying crippled as long as the wormhole stays mined. That makes any repository of ketracel white very valuable to them." "You have found another facility?" Martok asked.

 

 

"Not a manufacturing plant, but a storage barge.

 

 

It's close enough to the Argolis Cluster that the ships guarding the sensor array might be drawn off if we stage an attack on the barge." Suddenly eager, Martok leaned forward and glared at him. "This is remarkable news! How have they hidden this barge?" "It's not a Dominion or Jem'Hadar barge. It's an old Federation barge they confiscated." A little embarrassed, Sisko shrugged. "We just didn't bother checking out our own ship configuration. They've never done that before." Agreeing with a nod, Martok remained silent.

 

 

"I can't give you any more information," Sisko went on, "until we're closer to the source. The barge is heavily guarded by planetary salvos from the planet it's orbiting." "Can we destroy the barge?" "We can certainly try, but I doubt we'll succeed.

 

 

That's not going to be my goal. I want the ID numbers off any ships that come in. Then we'll have to line them up and fight until we attract at least half of the guard ships from the array." "Very well, my friend. This is a strange day." "Yes, it is." Unwilling to talk about this anymore until the mission was under way, Sisko shifted gears and asked, "How are things on Rotarran, General? I understand you got a whole rank of new recruits." "Fine young Klingons," Martok said. "Including one you may know. Alexander Roshenko." Sisko snapped him a look. "Worfs son? He signed up?" "He did. There were jagged moments, but we may have a warrior someday. He has shed too little blood in his life." Those simple sentences, Sisko knew, implied much more stress than Martok would ever say.

 

 

There was some poetry in the phrase "too little blood," commenting about the fact that Alexander had been protected through much of his life from the harshness of life as a Klingon in Klingon society. He was a part human, part Klingon boy who now, apparently, wanted to live in the Klingon sphere, but like his father had been raised somewhere else and now had a great struggle ahead.

 

 

Worf had embraced Klingon ways too much, then had to pull back and find the place in his mind and soul where he was no particular cultural possession, but an individual. He was still fighting with that, Sisko knew, and also knew that Dax enjoyed teasing him about it with regard to their impending marriage ceremony. Worf wanted all the trappings of Klingon tradition, as if he were desperate to show his willingness to do the surface things if only he could reserve individuality for the times that really counted.

 

 

Sisko inwardly flinched. He was involving himself again in the lives of the crew who were no longer his to command. Worf was on Martok's ship now.

 

 

O'Brien and Nog and Bashir and the others--they were on Dax's ship now. If they died on this mission, he wouldn't know it until long after.

 

 

If they even turned up missing in space, he'd have to send somebody else on the search mission. He couldn't justify abandoning his responsibilities as Ross's adjutant to run the search himself--and the reason would be that the Defiant had gone out on a high-risk mission in hostile space and was probably destroyed. They weren't just going on a picnic and getting lost in the woods. He would be forced by convention to assign the search to a border cutter.

 

 

He couldn't justify going himself. Some strings were just too taut to pull.

 

 

"If we're not killed at the barge," Sisko said, turning to his friend and comrade in silence, 'Tll have to come back here immediately. I won't be able to stay out there and keep an eye on the Defiant.

 

 

We're going to lose contact with them when they ram through the cluster. I won't be able to stay and search for them. I'm asking you to monitor all the signals as long as you can, General. Do everything you can for them. They're more than just my friends and my crew. They're the alliance's best hope. So far we've been holding on, but we can't win a war that way. Holding on costs too much and we're slipping.

 

 

We've got to start making real progress. We've got to start hurting the enemy. We've got to start reclaiming what's ours. We've got to go out there, General.

 

 

We've got to find that barge and fight a losing battle as long as it takes. We've got to distract as we have never distracted before."

 

 

Glancing up from the crate of new glassware he was unpacking, Quark surveyed his realm. A quiet day at the bar. The place wasn't completely put back together, but at least all the new tables were finally being delivered and most of the blood had been scrubbed off the floor. Most of it.

 

 

A few patrons muddled about among the waiters who were rearranging the tables. So far, so good, except that he was beginning to prefer the place empty than crowded with the people who had been around here lately. Now, there was a dumb thought.

 

 

Prefer the place empty. He was slipping, no doubt about it.

 

 

Uch--here came Damar.

 

 

What did he want? Why was he in here so much lately? Start another fight?

 

 

"Pardon our appearance," Quark said with unshielded sarcasm. "We're renovating." Damar slung his leg over a barstool. "Kanar--not that one. The twenty-seven." "The twenty-seven?" Quark waited for a confirming nod, then fished to the back of the shelf for the gilded decanter with the fluted neck. "Expensive." "I can afford it," Damar said, "on a gul's salary." Quark halted in the middle of dusting the decanter. "Wait a minute! You start a fight in my bar and you're getting promoted? What kind of way is that to run an army{" "Dukat isn't happy about what happened. I had to find some way to make it up to him." "Mmmmlet's hope it was something big." With a prideful smirk, Damar hedged, "Let's just say, it's going to change the course of history." Quark uncorked the decanter, but was actually involved in Damar's expression and the glitter of self-satisfaction he saw there. The Cardassian was obviously up to something that could only be bad for the Federation.

 

 

So? What difference did it make?

 

 

The internal question very abruptly answered itself.

 

 

Giving the decanter a swish, he pressed up to the bar to pour Damar's glass of expensive twentyseven. "As a businessman, I'm very interested in the course of history... this one's on me." Damar smiled, leering at Quark in a way that suggested he knew Quark was trying to snitch information. "That's very kind of you, Quark," he said, "but I can't talk about it." Quark shrugged. "Of course. I understand. Enjoy your drink." Leaving well enough alone, he topped off the drink after Damar's first sip, then turned to rearrange the bottles on the bar.

 

 

"Let me share that with you." Quark poured himself a glass from the decanter. "It's not every day somebody comes in here who can appreciate a bottle of twenty-seven kanar." "I thought bartenders didn't drink," the Cardassian claimed.

 

 

"Oh, that's just a legend. Us bartenders, we're the ones who really know how to discriminate. We're experts in our field. How else could we become experts if we didn't sample our wares? Does the scientist never experiment? Does the clergy never pray? Here, let me fill yours up again. Ah... mine tOO..." The potent brew instantly sent fumes racing through his sinuses, directly into his cranial structure. Good, good stuff. It worked a little faster on Ferengi than Cardassian, but soon it would soak into Damar's thick hide and he'd start to feel the ett~cts.

 

 

He smiled and nodded companionably at Damar, who was savoring the kanar. Damar's kanar. That was funny. Damar's twenty-seven kanars. Pretty soon, with a little luck, Quark would see twentyseven Damars drinking twenty-seven kanars. That was funny too.

 

 

Another drink to wash down that picture.

 

 

Oh, too late. The Damars were replicating.

 

 

Another drink to blur his eyes.

 

 

"I'm leaving now," he said to the three Damars who were already sitting there. "You fellas enjoy your kanars. You just keep on drinking. And just tell me later what you owe me." "You trust me for that?" Damar asked.

 

 

"Of course I trust you! We're at war, we're not uncivilized! You're a Cardassian officer! I mean, I wouldn't want my daughter to... but trust? Sure!

 

 

You Damars keep enjoying your kanars and I'll be back in a while. Damars and kanars... y'know, it really is funny." "You know what, Quark?" Damar rolled his unfocused eyes. "I think... I trust you too." "Well, that's no surprise," Quark snipped. "It's amazing what a little encouragement can do. I'm a very trustable guy." "You are..." Damar gazed at him in pure wonderment. "I never noticed before... you're like a doctor or a... a father." "That's right. I'm your father. You can tell me anything. Anything at all. In fact, you know what?

 

 

You have to tell me your innermost secrets. You must tell me... or trust is nothing between us and I'll have to just... never speak to you again." "No? Almost coming off his stool, Damar grasped Quark's arm. "No... stay, please stay. Stay and I'll tell you how history will change." "Okay." Pour two more glasses full, blink, clear the throat, tilt the best ear forward. "Have a little more. That's right. Savor it... swallow it... good boy. Now... tell me... how are you going to get that promotion we both know you so richly deserve?" Damar glanced around, pretending he could see through his blue-rimmed drunken eyes, clutched his glass, and turned to the new savior of his universe, the holy high Quark.

 

 

"I... have figured out a way... to bring down the moan feld." Quark stood back. "The moan feld?" "That's right. The mean fold." "Mean fold... oh... are you sure?" "Absolutely. I had to do something, so this is what I did. I went around and gathered up all the deflector energy ratios on those moans, and I... thought of something. It can work. Dukat's ordered the engineers to start field tests." Quark shook his head and filled Damar's glass.

 

 

"Defecting. That's a serious business. I mean, running out on people who've been counting on you.

 

 

"That's right, and we can use the station's array to do it, too." "Now, this impresses me. I always had faith in you. Now, and only now, I understand why Gul Dukat relies on you so much, Damar. If you weren't a malleable sot right now, why, I'd get down on six of my knees and worship the slime you crawled out of. But, listen, I gotta go." Disappointment creased Damar's scales. "So soon?" "Oh, I'll be back. And this decanter of twentyseven... I'm going to put it right over there, on a special shelf. Nobody but me ever touches that shelf.

 

 

That'll be the Damar bottle. The Damar kanar.

 

 

After you're finished with your drink, you go have a nice nap and forget you ever talked to me." "That's what I'm going to do." "Oh, I know you will. Have a nice afternoon, Damar, you dirty gray snake." "You too, Cork." Ah, the Promenade. What a wonderful place. The walk around the ring cleared Quark's head a little, but by the time he found Kira's quarters--when had this door been moved?--he felt as if somebody were behind him, pushing. Ding ding. "Come in." Quark melted through the door, thinking he was very upright indeed for a person with a slug of the good stuff smarming around his sinuses.

 

 

Oh, good. The whole team. Kira, Odo, Jake, and Rom. What an adorable ugly bunch of life-forms.

 

 

"Brother!" Rom looked surprised. "Are you all right?" "No," Quark admitted. "I'm not all right. I just shared a bottle of kanar with Damar. That rhymes." "You're drunk." Who was that? Three Jake Siskos.

 

 

"Of course I'm drunk," Quark told them. "I wouldn't risk coming here and associating myself with your little 'Resistance cell' if I wasn't drunk!" The two Kiras over there gave him a scolding glare. "Maybe you should leave before someone sees you." Right. Leave. Good. He sat down.

 

 

"I've tried," he sighed, and shook his swimming head. "I've tried my best to run my establishment under this occupation. But y'know what? It's no fun!" They stared at him, the whole roomful of them, and he lowered his voice so none of the Cardassians flapping around the ceiling would be able to hear. "I don't like Cardassians... they're mean and they're arrogant... and I can't stand the Jem'Hadar!

 

 

They're creepy! They just stand there like statues, staring at you." The memory brought a shiver, and he blinked. "I've had it. I don't want to spend the rest of my life doing business with these people. I want the Federation back." Raising his hands to the gods of barkeeping, he wailed, "I want to sell root beer again!" "All right," one of the Kiras said. "You've made your point." "How can I relax when thousands of Jem'Hadar ships are sitting on the other side of the wormhole, waiting to come through?" "Don't worry about it," Jake number two said.

 

 

"They're stuck there." "Not if what Damar told me is true." Ah, they were amazed! They wondered how he got Damar to talk to him, to trust him. He couldn't tell them, of course, about the vial of red powder, but that didn't matter anyway.

 

 

"What are you talking about?" Kira demanded.

 

 

Quark turned to her. Where was she, anyway? Oh, right there.

 

 

"He said he came up with a way to deactivate the mines. Dukat wants him to start field tests right away." They thought he was brilliant. He could tell because the whole crowd was just gawking at him with their eyes big and their mouths open and they were too stunned to applaud.

 

 

"Well?" he prodded. "Are you just going to sit there? Or are you going to do something about it?" The crowd went wild. Cheering and whooping and patting him on the back. Then somebody shoved a hot mug into his hand. What was this stuff.

 

 

Coffee?

 

 

"Drink it!" "Okay, don't push..." "Come on, Quark, think!" Kira hovered a couple of inches from his face. "It's important! Did Damar say anything about how he was planning to deactivate the mines?" "Yes. He said something about the station's defector." Kira looked at Odo, who leaned forward and repeated, "A defector?" "That's impossible," Kira said. "The only person on the station who knows anything about how the mines work is..." "Me," Rom confirmed. Then he paused, as everybody suddenly looked at him.

 

 

But something was moving around inside the fumes in Quark's head and he held up a hand.

 

 

"Defector... that doesn't sound right. Maybe he said deflector. Yeah, that's it! He's going to use the station's deflector array." Kira turned. "What do you think, Rom?" Quark's brother looked troubled. "I'm glad it wasn't me--" "About the deflector array! Is there any way to use it to deactivate the mines!" "No." Rom sounded confident. "I designed the mines to be self-replicating. The only way to keep them from replacing themselves is to isolate them in an antigraviton beam. The deflector array can't do that." Good. Problem solved. Quark took another suck on the coffeemdisgusting stuff, but something about it made him keep drinking. Kind of like the kanar with the red stuff in itm "Unless..." He looked up. Had Rom said something else?

 

 

Rom was staring at the chair Quark was sitting in.

 

 

"Unless you reconfigured the field generators.

 

 

and refocused the emitters... which would turn the deflector array into one big antigraviton beam..." Quark reacted to a surge of clear-headed frustration. "Why didn't you think of that when you set up the mine field!" "I don't know..." "He doesn't know/" "Quark." Kira cut him off, still looking at Rom.

 

 

"How can we disable the deflector array?" With a flicker of hope, Rom said, "All you have to do is access the EPS feed and overload the waveguide." "Let's do it!" "But there's no way to get to the EPS feed. It's in a secured conduit rigged with alarms." "Odo." Kira turned quickly. "Can you disable those alarms?" "I can take them off-line for about five minutes ifI run a security diagnostic." "Rom, will that give you enough time?" "I think sore" "All right, you and I will meet here. Odo, at exactly 0800, you'll begin the diagnostic. Any questions?" Sensitive to the urgency in her voice, Quark put down his coffee cup. "Yes. When will Rom be back at work? I have ten crates ofyamok sauce that need to be unpacked. I have to keep that bar open, you know! It's critical to the future of the alliance! Well?

 

 

What are you looking at me like that for?" "Odo should be on his way to his office by now.

 

 

Remember, he's going to interrupt the sensor alarms at exactly eight hundred hours." 'TII be ready." "I'11 contact you if there's a problem." Kira pulled the hatch cover off the access conduit in the second habitat ring corridor. This was as close as she and Rom could get to the deflector array controls without anyone's becoming suspicious or going into an obviously restricted area. Bad enough they were carrying a basket of fruit to disguise Rom's tools, but that was apparently the best Rom could think off An engineer, yes. A master of deception... not really.

 

 

Rom climbed into the conduit, taking the fruit basket with him.

 

 

"Good luck with your delivery," Kira told him, and shoved the hatch cover back into place.

 

 

She tapped her cornbadge. "Computer, give me the time." "Seven hundred hours, fifty-eight minutes." That gave Rom two minutes to get to the deflectors. Hurrying back down the corridor, Kira made her way quicklywbut not too quickly--toward the security office. She tried to keep any emotion out of her face that might imply she was happy--yes, she was. Happy that her little Resistance could do something to slow down the Dominion's takeover of this quadrant. Happy that Odo seemed to be still with them, despite his involvement with the female shapeshifter, whom Kira trusted no farther than she could spit.

 

 

Seven hundred fifty-nine... so far, so good.

 

 

Without bothering to chime the security office door and interrupt Odo from doing what they had agreed he would do, she strode straight in and parted her lips to tell him that everything was going as planned.

 

 

Except there was no one to tell. The room was quiet, as usual, but held a lonely chill. Odo wasn't here.

 

 

"Odo?" Quickly she slapped her combadge. "Kira to Odo." She waited--only a few seconds to go. Rom would be getting close to.

 

 

The combadge was silent.

 

 

"Kira to Odo! Please respond!" Silence. Deadly silence.

 

 

"Odo!"

 

 

Cannon to the left of them, Cannon to the right of them, Cannon in front of them, Volley'd and thunder'd.

 

 

CHAPTER 5

 

 

"COMPUTER, TIME!" "Seven hundred hours, fifty-nine minutes." "Kira to Rom--" "Hello, Major." She swung around, cutting off her own call to Rom, and it was a good thing, for here was Damar, glaring down at her.

 

 

"Just the person I was looking for," he said.

 

 

Now what? Less than thirty seconds to go--Rom had to be warned.

 

 

"Congratulations on your promotion," Kira shot out, "but we'll have to discuss the personnel report some other time." She tried to slip past him, but he stopped her.

 

 

"We'll discuss it now," he insisted.

 

 

Did he know already?

 

 

Fiercely, she shook off his grip and snarled, "I don't think so!" Perhaps he would take it as a signal, as a clue, but she didn't care. She didn't have time for caution and Damar already knew she couldn't stand him.

 

 

She rushed out into the corridor and barely possessed the self-control to wait the extra second for the office door to close behind her.

 

 

"Kira to Rom! Don't open that hatch!" '7 already did " "Get out of there!" She almost shouted again, but Damar shot out of the office, stepped past her, and signaled to two passing Cardassian guards.

 

 

"Intruder alert! Come with me!"

 

 

"When we destroyed the processing station, the Dominion suddenly had something to protect-- their last storage of ketracel white. We attacked that processing station for two reasons--one, to deprive them of the white, and two, to get them to protect the barge. The Dominion counts on the Jem'Hadar, and therefore they must have white." "Yes," General Martok agreed, rather uselessly, as he and Sisko stood in the privacy of Martok's quarters on Rotarran. "They have made a grave mistake, placing the barge in orbit so near the Argolis Cluster, where they have their precious sensor array." "I don't think they realized any problem," Sisko said, "luckily for us. They just used the barge because it was already there. I suppose they might've thought Starfleet would notice it if they moved it. A good bet, but not good enough. We've got an edge." "What kind of edge are you meaning, Captain?" "A psychological one. The Dominion has suffered a great loss in that processing facility. Now they have to put most of their stock in their storage bank of white. They need the white as much as the Jem'Hadar need it, because the Dominion needs the Jem'Hadar. You know, General, there's a constant threat hanging over the Dominion. The shapeshifters themselves aren't fighters. Neither are the Vorta.

 

 

They all need the Jem'Hadar to do their heavy lifting for them. The Jem'Hadar haven't really figured that out yet because they're at the mercy of the Vorta and the shapeshifters, who control the ketracel-white supply." Sisko drew a long breath, tried to relax--more and more rare these days--and to think clearly.

 

 

"If the day ever comes," he went on, "when the Jem'Hadar control a major portion of ketracel white, there's the looming chance that they'll turn on the Dominion and negotiate for more power, or even for independence. The Dominion must know that's a possibility." "Even more possible in this time of war," Martok added, "would be the Federation's control of a portion of white, and therefore Federation control of Jem'Hadar. That, surely, must frighten the Dominion, and even more the Vorta." With a musing smile, Sisko agreed. "It'd scare me if I were them. It's very hard to design a creature intelligent enough to fight battles, make choices, repair ships, and plan strategy without also giving it enough independent thought that it might not be completely subservient. The Jem'Hadar are in thrall to the Dominion, but they're independent enough to be turned if somebody else controls the white or if they get control of it themselves. That's our trump card, General... I want to make the Dominion think we're trying to capture that storage facility, not just destroy it. If they believe the Federation actually might get a grip on the Jem'Hadar, that'll frighten them more than just a shortage of white. We have to go in and stage some kind of capturing maneuver on that barge, without appearing that we're trying to destroy it. That's the illusion." Martok frowned. "An illusion that will leave us without the barge." "No, we won't have the barge. We'll come out of that assault looking like losers. But if the Dominion thinks we're grabbing their last repository of leverage, they're going to pull guard ships off that sensor array. The storage barge loaded with ketracel white will suddenly be a lot more valuable at the immediate moment. I want control over that immediate moment, General." Still seeming unconvinced, Martok tilted his massive head. "They will not leave the array unprotected, Captain, you know that. We may draw off some of the ships, but hardly all. Perhaps not enough to help Dax." "I know it's a chance. But if you create a big enough stir, we can keep Dax from having to face an overwhelming force. You said you have the ID information for those ships?" "Gained at great cost." Martok opened a safe near his bunk and pulled out a spy's gadget--a coded pill about the size of a fingernail infused with information on a chip that could be fed into almost any computer. He immediately handed the pill to Sisko.

 

 

"The prize of the day. We had to fight them for nearly an hour, then escape with our lives. Two Klingon fighters did not escape at all. For my crew, it was very hard to run away." Turning the precious pill in his hands, Sisko assured, "You ran for good reason, Martok. Keep the bigger picture in mind." "I can, but a Klingon crew is an impatient animal with too much pride. How will Dax kill an array of a hundred sensor dishes with one ship?" Until that question came up, Ben Sisko had been pleased enough with explaining his plan to General Martok in the privacy of the general's own quarters on the Klingon bird of prey he had continued to fly for years despite promotions and senior status. That choice made Sisko admire Martok, and miss the Defiant. Guess that was no mystery.

 

 

Now for the hard part.

 

 

"We came up with a rough plan. It was O'Brien's idea." Sisko dropped into Martok's desk chair. The general was sitting on his bunk, as if he knew that Sisko would not sit there and he wanted him to sit down. Fine, sit. "I'll admit, I don't like it much, but... this is war. The sensor array is made up of over a hundred antenna dishes situated on asteroids and planets all over the Argolis system, flanking the cluster itself. To take each one out--" "Would take a year of ground assault missions," Martok said with a nod.

 

 

Sisko shrugged. "Or a hell of a lot of lucky hits from space. We could never get even half of them from space. Our tidy little alternative is to hit the main broadcast station on a planet near the middle of the array. That station controls the hundred individual dishes." Cranking around to the replicator, Martok keyed up a couple of hot drinks. "How will you do it?" "We'll pretend to do the insane and impractical obvious thing--attack a bunch of these dishes, take all the potshots we want, while surreptitiously dropping one commando--" Martok's brows shot up. "One man?" "Yes, one man, right into the area of the main broadcast station. This man, then, with stealth and brilliance and, I hope, good luck, exacts a singular destructive assault on the station." "Blows it up." "Yes, blows it up. Meanwhile, the Defiant continues hit-and-running the individual dishes, distracting any ships left defending them and hopefully keeping them from knowing that there's a man infiltrating the source." "And for us, you and I..." "You and I stage our attack on the ketracel-white barge. We'll try not to take withering losses, General.

 

 

I'm afraid your crew is going to have to swallow another retreat. The mission isn't to destroy the station--" "It is rather to attract and distract the Jem'Hadar guarding the Argolis array for as long as possible." "Yes. We won't even attempt to sneak in. We'll make a lot of noise. Circle and posture long enough to confirm the identity of any ships that show up and hope the numbers match up with the ones on this list. That way, Dax'11 only have to deal with the picket ships left behind." Martok sipped his drink and slowly nodded, designing the whole scheme in his mind. "One question." Somehow this was a relief for Sisko. He'd tried to think of everything, tried to make this mission something he liked, but no matter what he did or how he twisted mentally, he couldn't enjoy sending the Defiant into enemy space by itself, then subdividing one person away from the ship to exact an assault on a planet that probably had enemy troops on the surface. What hadn't he thought of.

 

 

"Please," he invited, "ask your question." "Why can you not just attack the broadcast base from space? Why drop someone in on a suicide mission when you can hit from space?" This was the thing that hurt most, that made Sisko's stomach kick against the hot drink he clutched. Suicide mission.

 

 

"Intelligence sent in cloaked probes and have brought back some detailed analyses of how the array works. It must've taken the Dominion months to set up the sensor dishes. Starfleet has figured out that the broadcast base can't be destroyed from outside without triggering independent dishes to run themselves. If the main base shuts down from an outside attack, the dishes take over their own programming. We have to prevent that signal from being sent." "Waitwthis confuses me. If the broadcast base is destroyed, the sensor dishes take over for themselves?" "Yes, for a certain amount of time, until the main broadcast can be rebuilt, they can run themselves.

 

 

They'll do that if they're cut off from the broadcast base by an outside strike." "An outside strike. So you mean that your commando can somehow obliterate the base from inside, without triggering the dishes to go off and run themselves independently. You need an internal strike. You need this suicide mission." "That's... that's right. The last thing the Dominion wants is for those dishes to fall into enemy hands. We could just as easily use the array against them. If the base is destroyed from outside, the dishes assume the Dominion hasn't yet lost the planet and can take control again. However, if the base is destroyed from inside, the dishes assume the planet is lost, the base is about to fall into enemy hands, and is being controlled from inside. It sends a signal to the dishes that fries them instead of turning them on independently. They'll all self-destruct. But we have to send the right kind of signal to get them to do that." "So there must be technical wizardry from your commando." "As Chief O'Brien explains it, the infiltrator has to go inside and adjust the signals to trick the array into thinking it's in enemy hands or that the Jem'Hadar have destroyed the base themselves. Then, all the dishes will self-immolate instead of taking over programming." "Your commando must land upon this planet and go inside the building, which is likely guarded by many Jem'Hadar soldiers and probably a forcefield and probably mines. He must trigger this destruct signal to a hundred dishes on a hundred asteroids and planets and somehow get out alive by being picked up by the Defiant, which will be under attack in space. This is your plan." An unbidden groan rose in Sisko's throat. His hands fell into his lap. "That's just about... the whole picture." Martok gazed at him for several seconds. Then he raised his mug.

 

 

"Everyone must die sometime," he said, "and the fortunate die in battle. Congratulate your commando for me, Captain. He is on the way to an excellent death."

 

 

Miles O'Brien made his way from his cramped quarters aboard Defiant to Dax's quarters. They were both off duty, which was almost a silly concept under these conditions, but they had to sleep sometime. And the voyage was long. And sticking to a watch schedule did the crew good. Felt right. Felt ready. One more day to the edge of Argolis, where they would then be awake for days longer. There, they would have to punch through the stormy core of the Argolis Cluster's heart.

 

 

The shields were reinforced, but the cluster would take its toll and there might not be enough deflector power to defend against the picket ships which came to fight them. He had held back on the reinforcement. That balance between what they needed now, what they would need for something they could only half measure, and what they would need for a fight they couldn't judge at all--he'd played through all the equations and done his best, but it came down to guessing.

 

 

Now he carried a duffel of gear down to Dax's quarters, things that would be necessary for the oneman raid on the broadcast base. He chimed the door, and she instantly called for him to enter, proving that she wasn't asleep.

 

 

"Good--you're still up." O'Brien slipped inside with the duffel.

 

 

"Can't sleep," Dax told him as she joined him at the small desk. "Are you finished?" He grimaced. "Oh, bad, bad choice of words." "Sorry." She smiled at him. "Are you all done mounting our little surprise for the Jem'Hadar?" With a shrug, he sighed. "We removed six bulkheads and packed sections five, nine, and ten with torpedo caskets, all fully armed, rigged in rapid-fire racks. The racks were the hardest part. Wait'11 you see 'em! We're fairly bristling with torpedoes. It's a good thing we reduced the crew complement, or we'd never have gotten all the photons on board. We had to pull out a whole deck of crew quarters!" "No sense taking anything more than a skeleton crew on a mission like this anyway," Dax commented. She seemed tired, but O'Brien knew it was something else.

 

 

"Now I know," he went on, "why it's against regulations to load this many photons onto a ship.

 

 

One hull breach in those sections, and foooom. But they'll fire like crazy when you punch in the sequence. They can't even be aimed, so no sense trying. It's a punching technique, no more and no less." "One ship against many. We need the edge, regulations or not." Dax opened the duffel he'd put on her desk and looked inside. "Is this the gear for the raid?" "Right. Specially adjusted tricorder... phaser with two power packs... five grenades... survival kit, hydrator, desalinator, lights... and the firecrackers that'll do the job. Ten quantum explosives, and twelve detonators. That's about all one person can carry and move fast." Dax pawed lightly through the gear, nodding in satisfaction. "It's just right." "Well, we hope it is," O'Brien said. "That planet is shielded against sensor penetration by some Jem'Hadar satellites, probably to keep us from counting how many Jem'Hadar soldiers are guarding the place on the surface. So, we haven't been able to learn much about the planet or the base's surrounding area, give or take schematics of the mechanical interior of the base itself. The planet, we can't even tell climate very well. We know there are rocks and trees, but otherwise we've got no idea what we're beaming down into." "What's this blue pack?" "Compact field jacket. Might get cold at night." She looked at him. "You anticipating a campout?" "Have to," he told her. "Can't assume the Defiant will be able to double back. We don't know how many picket ships we'll be forced to face down.

 

 

Might have to stay on the planet for days or weeks.

 

 

Who knows? Years, maybe, if the war lasts that long." "Or a lifetime if the Dominion wins," she confirmed and picked up the airtight pack which had the thermal jacket inside. "I take a long torso. This isn't my size." "Why should it be? I'm the one it's got to fit." That was it. They locked glares.

 

 

"What do you mean, 'you'?" she challenged.

 

 

He shrugged and put a possessive hand on the duffel. "Well, who else could possibly go? Sure, most of our engineers could handle the mission if it were a textbook case, but we can't count on that. There's going to be a lot of improvising. If there's a problem, it'll take a senior engineer with some jury-rigging experience. There's nobody better on board than little me." Dax's black eyes flashed. "Oh, yes, there is.

 

 

There's little me." Though he wasn't entirely surprised, O'Brien deliberately stepped back, cocked his hip, tipped his head, and let his jaw drop as if in shock. "You! Now, look--" Instantly Dax interrupted, "You're not going to argue with your captain, are you, Miles?" His saucy Irish temper flared. Usually he kept it leashed up, but this was time for a bite.

 

 

"Oh, damned right I am! You can't do everything yourself. You're not just Captain Sisko's majordomo anymore, Jadzia. You're not a unit leader. You're a ship's commander on a wide-ranging mission.

 

 

You're in charge of more than the ground assault, y'know." "Miles, I'm not sending anybody down into a pit like that on a suicide mission--no, we both know it is. There's no sense coloring the truth, at least not between us." Her openness moved him so much that his innards clutched. She was trusting him with thoughts she usually kept to herself or reserved for Captain Sisko. He doubted she had ever voiced such reservations even to Worf, whom she would, hopefully, soon marry. And he knew what she meantmdying in space together was one thing, but to just drop a shipmate on a planet, behind enemy lines, where there's almost no chance of a successful pickup.

 

 

pretty distasteful.

 

 

She was the captain. What could he do if she insisted on going herself?. Orders were still orders, even behind the lines and even going into a mission they might never get out of. In fact orders were more orders than ever, now. He couldn't just flex a muscle and insist. He had to make a good case.

 

 

Fortunately, he thought he had one.

 

 

Seeing a reflection of himself and her in the little vanity mirror beside the bunk, he straightened his posture a little and wished he'd had time for a haircut. Right now his buff curls looked a bit too boyish. And Jadzia Dax was her flawless, postured self, elegant and queenly in her simple shipboard jumpsuit. Oh, well, he couldn't out-regal her. He'd have to do something else.

 

 

"What do you think Captain Sisko felt like, sending us out on this mission without him?" Apparently surprised by the abrupt change of subject, Dax seemed troubled. "As if his heart had been cut out, I imagine." "I imagine that too," O'Brien said, "but he did it.

 

 

He wanted to come, you can bet, but when he was needed to do bigger things, he stayed to do them." Suddenly Dax turned away from him. Her shoulders flexed and her long black hair, tied at the nape of her neck, rolled between her shoulderblades. "All right, Miles, I know where you're going with that." She didn't look at him. Somehow that was harder than speaking to her face-to-face.

 

 

"I can't run the ship as well as you can," he said, "and you're not an engineering specialist. No matter what kind of image we Starfleeters try to put across, we're not interchangeable. We can't do each other's jobs as well as we pretend. You're in command of this mission--the whole mission, not just one part of it. You've got a hard job and I'm glad it's not mine. You've got to choose which people are best to do which tasks. The broadcast base... that's mine and you know it." She still didn't turn to face him. He did empathize with her. In fact he was bothered--her composure didn't crack very often. Usually Dax didn't need anybody's empathy. She always had her ducks in a row, always floated behind somebody else who had bigger problems, providing support and answers and steadiness. But now she was in command. The problems had been shifted onto her narrow shoulders and for the first time since O'Brien could remember, she seemed unsure of herself and deeply troubled.

 

 

The sight shook him to his bones.

 

 

Jadzia Dax wasn't what she appeared to be on any level. She appeared to be a young woman, subdued and intelligent, accepting of whatever came along.

 

 

But that was a false image. Really, she was a blend of alien manners of survival, a merging of two lifeforms--a young woman and a very old alien. In body, she was young. In mind, she had lived hundreds of years, loved and lost, seen and learned. It was hard most of the time to remember she wasn't human, but she wasn't. To Dax, a human being lived such a short life and was snuffed out so early... she had lived hundreds of years among creatures who only lived a few decades. What must they seem like to her? O'Brien knew that, for Dax, sending him to that planet was almost like sending a child to die.

 

 

But O'Brien, too, was defending his wife and children. He knew the Federation was losing. If the Dominion won, humanity would bear the brunt of reprisal as the race that had led the charge. They'd be lucky if the Dominion let them live at all, never mind live well. Chattel slaves had a better idea of the future than he did for his family right now.

 

 

"If I get in trouble," he began again, tentatively, "who's best to get me out of there?" Several seconds went by. She still didn't turn.

 

 

"I am..." "If I fail, who's best to launch a second attempt?" As ridiculous as they both knew that was--there were no second chances in this kind of game--but there was no harm in hope.

 

 

She didn't answer. They both knew.

 

 

"We're not that sure of what's inside that base, technically speaking." O'Brien paused. This was all wrong. They were pretending. He had to do better.

 

 

"I'm the best to go down there and deal with it, and you're the best to dodge about and pretend to target those dishes. Look, I know what I'm getting into. You needn't... you don't have to make any promises you can't keep. Once you drop me, just distract those ships until I can send the destruct signal. You'll know I've done it when the dishes in the array start blowing up. If I don't make it, they just won't blow. Either way, wait as long as you think is right, then use the torpedoes to plow your way out of Argolis." He lowered his voice now, and added, "I understand if you don't come back for me.

 

 

It's a habitable planet... I'll find a way to live." Live, he knew, contingent upon the big "if' of whether or not he could possibly survive the assault on the broadcast base at all. He knew also, and so did she, that even if he succeeded, the enraged Jem'Hadar certainly would find him. He knew. They both knew.

 

 

"The array has to come down, Dax," he finished.

 

 

"I've done all I can here. Your job's just starting. So let's each do what we're best at. Go on, now... be a captain. Give the right order." Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory there is no survival.

 

 

Lord Winston Churchill

 

 

0

 

 

CHAPTER 6

 

 

"THAT'S A suicide maneuver!" "Only if we get killed." "Ben!" "Mind your helm, Charlie. I'm sorry." Well, that was a lousy answer. Captain Charlie Reynolds easily stayed on his feet despite the pitching and yawing of Centaur, which made Ben Sisko tip and grab for balance against the helm where the other captain--now the commodore of this assault team--was standing. Centaur was smaller than Defiant and the maneuvers were like suction in a wind tunnel as the snarling little ship wheeled tightly before five Jem'Hadar ships in attack formation.

 

 

Now Sisko had asked Reynolds to turn about--a sanity-straining maneuver while being pursued-- and roll back into that formation and strafe those ships and make them follow off in another direction.

 

 

Why?

 

 

"Rotarran, veer toward the barge," Sisko called clearly over the bridge noises, "Traynor, break toward the cluster and open fire... K'lashm ~z, follow them halfway and break right." Reynolds watched the action as it was being directed, and knew he was right. This was a good way to get killed while gaining nothing at all. A patchwork task force of five Starfleet and Klingon ships, racing in about as subtle as bulls, staging this assault but not really concentrating on the target. So what were they doing?

 

 

"Full burn on all weapons," Sisko went on, as his orders were instantly funneled from Centaur to the other task force ships. "Don't save anything.

 

 

Lyric, angle ten degrees! Good... good... broad formation, everyone, stay away from each other.

 

 

good..." Reynolds listened to what Sisko was saying with great curiosity and annoyance as he also fed orders to his own crew, more specific than Sisko's, so the Centaur could make its moves at its own most efficient manner. There were subtle differences between styles of ship, different methods of getting each individual vessel to do its personal best.

 

 

As Sisko gave orders to the task force ships and Charlie Reynolds gave order after order to his own crew, Reynolds kept glancing and leering and angling at Sisko until he finally started to get reactions out of his old acquaintance. A twinge--was it guilt?--crimped Sisko's eyes as Reynolds divided his attention between Sisko and the action on the screen. Sisko had asked a lot of the Centaur's crew today. A lot of silence, a lot of vagueness, a lot of loaded glares that explained nothing. Go over the border into the Argolis area, stage a losing attack on an orbiting barge with Federation configuration, probably get killed here, but don't ask any questions and don't try to destroy the barge or its store of ketracel? Who could figure that?

 

 

Even in times of war, such quirkish behavior was a lump to swallow. When men and women went out to fight and die, they needed an idea of what they were fighting and dying for. But the maneuvers Sisko had ordered for Centaur and for Rotarran-- out there somewhere, firing on the barge--were silly actions geared to confuse the linear-minded Jem'Hadar and stall the duration of this battle as long as possible.

 

 

"You're just mad at me because I didn't recognize you last time I saw you," Reynolds complained as they dodged between two crossing enemy fighters.

 

 

Sisko glanced at him. "My fault. I wasn't wearing my usual ship." By now, after half an hour of fighting, damage, and casualties, Charlie knew the assault on the barge was half-assed and staged. He knew the other ships' attacks and Centaur's ridiculous maneuvers were going to get them nowhere when it came to capturing that barge. And it was aggravating--Reynolds and his entire crew would happily do something ridiculous if only they had some clue why they were doing it.

 

 

"Keep shields moving on all vessels," Sisko ordered to the communications network. "Flash through any anticipated movements to all our ships.

 

 

Tell Martok to change superior assault position with the Traynor, then to Lyric after three minutes. Keep the Jem'Hadar from knowing which ship is in charge. I don't want them focusing attention." "Helm, use your lateral stabilizers more," Reynolds said, pretty much speaking at the same time.

 

 

"Come on, Randy, you know better than that!" "Sorry, Charlie." "Weapons on pinpoint. Aryl, shut down any noncritical systems. Life support on nominal--save whatever we've got. Double shields now, Fitz. We're outmatched four to one. Eyes open. Fire, fire, fire, keep it up, fire as you bear, don't stop--" "We're burning ourselves out in two rounds," Roger Buick snarled, "and it's a twelve-round match." Gerrie twisted around from her science panel, still keeping her hands on the board. "They've got another half-dozen ships coming in. At least five, sir." "From which direction?" Sisko asked.

 

 

"Several different directions, sir." "Pick the tightest cluster and head right at them, full shields--Charlie, you do it." At the last second, Sisko had remembered he wasn't the captain here, and while Reynolds appreciated that, he still didn't understand such a goofy series of actions. Head at them? Why?

 

 

"Track their residual trails," Sisko added, glancing at Gerrie Ruddy. "See where they came from." Irritated now and feeling as if his uniform were shrinking, Reynolds snapped around to him and demanded, "Why in blazes is that important?" Drenched with perspiration that matted his wispy blond hair, Reynolds finally felt his teeth grate one too many times. He shoved his way through his sweating crew and the cloud of smoke puffing from damaged boards to come to Sisko's side. Ignoring the twisting action on the screen and the ram of incoming shots, he let his crew do the hard stuff, and fixed his eyes on Sisko.

 

 

"Okay, flag on the play." He faced Sisko, gathered the shreds of shipboard diplomacy and kept his voice between them. "Assuming Ben Sisko isn't insane, which I doubt, assuming he's not stupid, which I know, then he's got to have a reason for all this silliness. It's pretty clear now we're not here to destroy or even capture that barge." "But the Jem'Hadar only analyze behavior, not motivations," Sisko told him, "and that means they can be fooled by silly actions." "Yeah, but there's a shipload of people right here who are risking their lives to be silly and right now it's not going over too great. I know how my people work best--" "Too many questions, Charlie," Ben Sisko chided as he moved his big shoulders in empathic echo of the dodging ships out there and kept one grip on the edge of the helm.

 

 

"Too bad," Reynolds persisted. He took a step closer and folded his arms, flagrantly showing off that he didn't need to hold on to anything to keep his feet under him. "If you won't talk to me, then I'll talk to myself. What could possibly be bigger than destroying most of the ketracel white in this quadrant? Well, it couM be capturing the ketracel white, but we're not trying to do that very well, are we? I know, I know... questions. Okay, I'll just talk and when I'm wrong you tell me. The only thing bigger than the white is that damned wormhole which I wish to hell had never opened up its fat mouth in the first place. The only thing keeping us from taking back DS9 is the fact that we move our fleet and nobody can move a whole fleet without everybody else knowing all about it. Am I getting warm?" Sisko pressed his lips. "You're giving me a tan." "We're gonna take on more and more Jem'Hadar ships and still win?" Reynolds plowed on. "Even if all five of our ships strafe that barge, it won't be enough. These aren't assault maneuvers. These are stalling maneuvers. You're buying time. Are we throwing ourselves on a grenade here?" Sacrificing themselves--that was a noble but distasteful concept and he just wanted to know.

 

 

Noticing Sisko's unease, Reynolds refused to back off, though he whittled the untimely conversation down to its most simple denominator.

 

 

"Why don't you just tell me what you want?" he asked.

 

 

Stalling on another plane, Sisko heaved a few breaths of frustration, but Reynolds tightened his folded arms and made clear he wasn't moving till he got an answer. Mentally he vibrated the image of a rotting skeleton still standing here ten thousand years from now, waiting for a grunt from a mummified stationmaster.

 

 

"All right," the commodore ultimately relented.

 

 

"I want... you're going to hate this." "I hate it already. Give." "I want the ID numbers off all the enemy ships that show up here." "ID numbers," Reynolds repeated, tasting the words. Yes, a nutty answer, but he was suddenly curious now. "For reference or comparison?" "Both." Sisko reached into his boot and pulled out a little chip, about so big and not very thick, and handed it to him. "There's the list. Line up the numbers, Charlie." Turning the chip in his fingers, Reynolds narrowed his eyes. "Mmm... both... uh-huh... hmmm.

 

 

Okay. All hands, listen up]" As Sisko smiled at him in spite of the crashing, the banging, the whining, and billows of sparking smoke, Reynolds turned to his overworked crew and waved the smoke away from his eyes.

 

 

"Apparently," he began, with a sly glance back at Sisko, "our job is to get the ID information off any Jem'Hadar ship that comes into this area, got it? Use weapons to defend and divert. Don't pump energy into destruction unless you've got a shot nobody in his right mind could refuse. Since none of you losers are in your right minds, none of this should be-- Randy, veer right]" The Centaur's worn deck carpet dropped from beneath their feet as the ship pressed hard to starboard and elevatored upward a few degrees to clear a vicious-looking Jem'Hadar ship that launched from behind a lingering detonation cloud and now took a good shot at them.

 

 

The shot missed, but the residual energy wave kicked Centaur in the left warp nacelle. Reynolds noticed that Sisko grasped the helm and almost went down on one knee, but Reynolds himself managed to keep both feet under him. He was more familiar with the tugs and pulls of this vessel, and at the moment proud of that.

 

 

But that one had been an almost fatal mistake--at the helm Randy Lang had been looking at Reynolds instead of the screen. Only for an instant, but that one mistake had almost gotten them killed.

 

 

Randy's face was flushed with shock of that lesson and now his eyes were fixed on the screen. "Where'd that bastard come from?" he gasped.

 

 

"Two more new ones coming in from someplace!" Roger Buick called over the scream of compensators in the engineering trunks. He was juggling both navigation and weapons--then again, who needed to navigate this kind of nonsense?

 

 

"Evasive," Reynolds ordered, "but keep tight.

 

 

Roger, get those numbers! Gerrie, feed this into the computer!" He tossed the little nugget with the list of ship identification up to the science deck, where his science officer grabbed it.

 

 

"You've gotta be kidding," Science Officer Geraldine Ruddy grumbled, but she shoved the pill into an all-purpose fitting and worked her sensors, scanning and focusing and pinpointing like crazy.

 

 

"Buick," Sisko interrupted, "if you target their engine exhaust ports, instead of their drive systems, and fuse them shut, they'll have to fall back for a few minutes. All we have to do is disable them. Don't waste time trying to go for the kill." "Understood, sir," Buick responded tightly, though he actually glanced at Sisko as if to remind himself he was taking orders from both his captain and his commodore.

 

 

For a brief instant Reynolds let himself be grateful to Sisko for bothering to learn the names of the Centaur's bridge crew.

 

 

More rightly, his words to Buick had been a suggestion, not an order, that could be countermanded by Reynolds if the captain saw some flaw the brilliant commodore hadn't thought of.

 

 

"What's the Rotarran's position?" Sisko asked, possibly a means of reminding both this crew and himself that he wasn't trying to overshadow their own captain and that he knew his job here. Reynolds was grateful again, though not inclined to thank Sisko just yet for a darned thing.

 

 

"They're on the underside of the barge, sir," Ensign Aryl reported. "Strafing aft, with three Jem'Hadar on them!" "Maintain surveillance. If they get into trouble, we'll have to veer back and help." "We're all in trouble," Reynolds muttered. "Two ships against all these--" "Try to keep track of which ones were here when we arrived and which are just showing up," Sisko said. "Go after the IDs on the new ships and compare them to the IDs on the list I gave you." Reynolds tried to control his expression, but a sneer popped out anyway; IDs off Jem'Hadar ships rushing by at high impulse, shooting the whole time.

 

 

Yeah. As if it were that easy to read the encoded Jem'Hadar markings.

 

 

"I'11 get the numbers for you," he muttered, pressing forward with both hands on Roger Buick's thick shoulders. "After this is over, you're gonna tell me all about it." Ben Sisko narrowed his black eyes and in the midst of rocking and rolling, stirred up a snakelike smile.

 

 

"That's a deal, Charlie," he said. "That's the best deal I've ever made." 0

 

 

CHAPTER 7

 

 

RouoH RIDE. Damned rough ride through that cluster. The ship had almost melted in the heavy radiation and storms, but the double shielding brought them through. If any were left to get back again.

 

 

that remained to be seen.

 

 

For now, and possibly for always, it was no longer Miles O'Brien's problem. He had drilled and redrilled the engineers on the Deftant to deal with any problems he could wildly imagine to keep the ship from peeling apart, but he couldn't possibly anticipate their actions after facing down a bunch of Jem'Hadar ships and whatever damage they might also have to deal with. He stopped short of calculating the ship's chances of ever seeing Federation space again. That was too much for a man's soul to hold.

 

 

A strange fatalism overtook him as he felt himself rematerialize and knew he was on the planet where the broadcast station was nestled. In fact, as his eyes cleared, he saw that he was inside a vestibule of some sort, a constructed tunnel.

 

 

"Good shooting, Dax," he muttered. Best aim with transporters he'd seen in a year, and they'd dropped him off without even reducing speed. He was warmed by Dax's insistence to work the transporter herself, even in the midst of onrushing Jem'Hadar picket ships.

 

 

They'd counted six ships racing in from the outlying regions of the Argolis system. So that fight was on. And he was down here.

 

 

And after days of silent running, minutes suddenly counted. He had to send the destruct signal to those dishes, so they would blow themselves up and Dax would see it. Then he had to take out this whole facility with his little concussion-incendiaries.

 

 

"Or die trying." Tricorder clicked in his hands, scanning the immediate area. Four... seven... at least ten Jem'Hadar readings close by. But he didn't see any of them.

 

 

So far, so good--no intruder alert alarms going off. Nothing was reading his presence, at least not yet. That gave him a few seconds.

 

 

Slipping his pack off his shoulder, he held it in front of him at the ready, kept his hand on his phaser without taking the weapon off his belt yet, because he would need his hands, and stood up straight.

 

 

Here in the shadows, if he didn't crouch, he might look like just another Jem'Hadar to someone looking this way. Trying to appear confident and in place to any peripheral glances, he strode into the broadcast complex.

 

 

The base comprised three buildings, one main and two auxiliary. He was at what they guessed was the back door of the main building. Ahead of him was a series of cubiclelike openings that actually were corridors. The walls of each corridor were encrusted with technology--panels, monitors, access links, and everything necessary to run the hundred sensor dishes in the systemwide array.

 

 

With his skin crawling, O'Brien strode into the dim complex, doing his best Jem'Hadar clunky stagger. Keeping to the shadows, he held the short duffel up against his chest to hide the tricorder.

 

 

Emissions... long-range emissions... there!

 

 

Perfect... he knew just what to look for... now he just had to track the signals... Luckily most of the Jem'Hadar technology wasn't a mystery. The Vorta were secretive, but not very technical. The Jem'Hadar they ordered around were technical, but not very imaginative. They didn't understand about tricks and secrets, decoys and false leads. They knew what worked and why, and they just made things work.

 

 

That left tiny openings for O'Brien and others who were learning that cleverness and trickery were things the Jem'Hadar didn't understand.

 

 

A hard chill ran up his spine as a movement to his left attracted his attention. Deep in the dim corridor, three Jem'Hadar soldiers crossed his path.

 

 

Not moving too fast, he turned sharply and stepped into one of the cubicle openings that led to the computer and mechanical panels running the complex. If those soldiers came this way, they would be able to see right in here, and this place had a worklight shining in it. There was no place to hidew and the corridor was a dead end.

 

 

Frustration set in. The tricorder provided him with a neat map to the array signal source. Three cubicles down to his right, then a hundred meters northeast. That would lead into the center of this building, the way it was situated in the landscape.

 

 

Cold in here... the hastily poured concrete floor was uneven and grainy and sucked the heat out of his body right through the soles of his boots and into the ground. In spite of that he was sweating and his black-on-black infiltration suit was clammy against his arms and chest. Why hadn't he just brought a Jem'Hadar Halloween mask? He could've walked around here all day.

 

 

Funny what they hadn't thought of. Wouldn't have been so harda Footsteps!

 

 

He pressed his back against the nearest wall.

 

 

Would they just walk by? Or would they look in here? No shadow, no desk, nothing to hide behind.

 

 

O'Brien flattened himself as much as possible, held the duffel bag behind his thigh, and leveled his phaser at the cubicle opening.

 

 

The mutter of Jem'Hadar voices gnawed at him.

 

 

He couldn't hear what they were saying, couldn't quite make out the words--more shuffling footsteps... were they armed? Probably.

 

 

He was ready... he had a specially programmed computer cartridge that would send the destruct signal to the dishes. It was all ready, right here in his duffel's side pocket. All he had to do was get to the broadcast point and plug it in, then ignite the signal.

 

 

The whole thing would only take seven to ten seconds.

 

 

If he could just get there.

 

 

The Jem'Hadar shuffling was right here now, just opposite the entry to this cubicle. Were they passing by? Please, pass by, pass by.

 

 

His phaser was set to kill. No sense taking chances. If only he could've set it on wide-angle-- but that would be too risky in here. Too much mechanics that could shatter and blow back on O'Brien himself. There were places where a phaser could be wide-ranged and places where it shouldn't be.

 

 

They were here--he could hear them muttering, much closer now--only steps away. If only it weren't so bright here!

 

 

The footsteps began to fade. Were they leaving?

 

 

Going outside, maybe? That would be so-- Then a face appeared beside him, a horny face like an open jawbone. One of the Jem'Hadar!

 

 

The soldier strode into the cubicle and reached for a panel, then caught O'Brien in the corner of his eye and swung around, gaping at the intrusion. The soldier opened his mouth to call the others, but O'Brien clutched the phaser.

 

 

Unfortunately, the phaser did the soldier's screaming for him. The soldier was blasted backward to crash his heavy body into the panel behind him, smashing several lighted readouts. By the time the sparks rose, that soldier was dead and sizzling against the lower trunk.

 

 

O'Brien didn't wait for the others. He ducked out of the cubicle with the phaser announcing him the whole way. Two... three down! Three dead Jem'Hadar and no more in sight right now. Had they alerted anybody when his phaser first went off.

 

 

The hall was cleared now, but he didn't fool himself into thinking that was the end of it.

 

 

Clutching his duffel under one arm and holding the phaser out before him, he broke into a full-out run in the direction the tricorder had indicated.

 

 

The place where the signal computer was housed--would it be defensible? Would he have seven to ten seconds before they came in and killed him? Could he hold them off that long?

 

 

That would mean he only got half the job done.

 

 

Destroying the dishes would give the Federation a little time, but wouldn't cripple the Dominion for long. This base had to come downmand he was going to die in here before he could make that happen. If only he could contact Dax, tell her to blast the complex from space after the dishes blew up... he should've told her to do that anyway.

 

 

Irritated that they hadn't just accepted that this was a suicide mission and dealt with it as such, he plowed his way past crates of equipment and locked cabinets, blasting the cabinets and crates into shards as he ran past them. The crates blew to smithereens, and the padlocked cabinets cracked open like eggs, spilling precious ketracel white in a hundred little tubes that crashed to the ground and left a spreading slick of milky liquid behind him.

 

 

A loud bell-ringing alarm went off all around him, almost driving him down with sheer loudness. What had triggered it? Those soldiers must've hit a switch or an alert before he came out and blew them away.

 

 

Couldn't exactly blame them. It was part of the game.

 

 

He ran like a fool straight down the middle of the corridor, with such plowboy willfulness that he ran right past the cubicle opening to the corridor with the broadcast signal housing. Twenty paces down, he skidded around, almost slipping in the slick of ketracel white, then skidded his way back to the right opening-- And now he could see at least a dozen troops of

 

 

Jem'Hadar surging into the dimness from the wedge of light from the main tunnel!

 

 

They opened fire as soon as they saw him, but he ducked and zigzagged out of their sights. Their distruptor fire tore apart the walls around him and clawed at the floor beneath his running feet, but finally he zagged hard to his left and plunged into the cubicle. Was it the right one this time? If not, it was all over. There was no going back.

 

 

The wall just ahead of him opened up with disruptor fire, cracking as if an earthquake had gouged it, and half the stony wall caved in on him.

 

 

He tried to jump over it, but tripped and went down hard on the point of his left knee. Grimacing in pain, he forced himself to continue without missing a step.

 

 

Slinging the duffel's strap over his shoulder, still firing back the way he'd come with one hand, he used the other hand to dig into the side pocket and pull out the computer cartridge that meant everything. Well, half of everything.

 

 

He stopped shooting and concentrated on ducking the shots from the Jem'Hadar who were chasing him. He was faster, a pretty good sprinter in his day, and put half the complex behind him while the Jem'Hadar fell behind. Every pace drove a stab of pain from his knee up to his pelvis. If he hadn't fallen he might've been able to run even faster, but there was no getting that back. Seconds, he needed seconds.

 

 

There it was! He recognized the alien computer broadcast-signal access as if he'd designed it himself! It was so obvious in its purpose it might as well have been marked "HERE!" Ducking behind a transverse wall, he turned and opened fire in a blanketing manner that forced the pursuing Jem'Hadar to stop chasing him and take cover. Streaks of disruptor energy bit into the thing he was hiding behind and took off the top half of it.

 

 

Another shot like that, and he would be completely exposed.

 

 

He fired wildly a few more times, then swung to the computer terminal and searched for the card insert. There had to be something heretothe Jem'Hadar had built all their equipment to be compatible with whatever they might find in the Alpha Quadrant. That was their idea of being ready to take over whatever they found.

 

 

Today, their prudence was in O'Brien's favor. The access was in an abnormal place, but he did find it and the cartridge fit just right. The computer came to life and started asking for instructions. He took the time for two more blanketing shots, then tapped in an override order. He gave it the answer--You've fallen into enemy hands. Detonate all dishes.

 

 

The computer distilled his order, took it as an enemy takeover of the base, and started sending destruct signals to the dishes far away in space.

 

 

"I hope," he muttered. "I hope that's what you're doing. No second chances... come on, give me confirmation..." But none came. He had no way to know if the signal had actually been sent. It had been processed, but had it been segmented and broadcast to the dishes? Were they blowing up now? Was Dax seeing them sparkle in deep space as she fought off the Jem'Hadar pickets?

 

 

Or was there nothing? Was space still dark and hopeless? Did she think he was already dead? That he'd failed?

 

 

Out of time, he swung around on his raging knee and kept low, hiding behind what was left of the jagged wall. There was dust in his eyes and mouth as he tried to see down the dim aisle. There they were!

 

 

A dozen Jem'Hadar peeking out at him, their disruptors raised toward him.

 

 

Well, at least he could take a few of them down with him.

 

 

No, there was more he could do! He could set a couple of those incendiary charges and at least blow up part of this computer rack. If he couldn't take out the whole building, at least he could mess it up a little!

 

 

Clutching for the duffel bag, he dragged it to his side and tried to dig through it, but his fingers were numb. Why weren't his fingers moving?

 

 

A shuffle down the aisle snapped his attention back to the Jem'Hadar. They were coming!

 

 

Quickly O'Brien peeked out to get aim, trained his phaser on the clutch of white-faced soldiers lumbering toward him, and squeezed the trigger.

 

 

Nothing happened.

 

 

He spat an oath and twisted the readjustment on the phaser. Still nothing! His phaser had shut down!

 

 

And they were coming!

 

 

The power pack still read charged--what was wrong with it?

 

 

He hooked the duffel bag on his numb arm and stumbled over the pile of rubble, heading northeast again, but he didn't make it ten steps before the low ceiling over his head blew to spatters and drove him down to the scratchy concrete floor. The concrete ripped his clothing and chewed at his skin.

 

 

His leg was throbbing and weak now, his right arm still numb. Behind him he heard the shift-shift of Jem'Hadar boots scratching through the rubble.

 

 

He was done for. Half a job, and he was finished.

 

 

The muscles in his back cramped in anticipation of disruptor fire. What would it feel like to die that way?

 

 

BOOM. t A deafening roar shocked him to a stupor and he covered his head with his arms. Click--BOOM. t What the hell was that?

 

 

"Get up! On your feet!" ClickwBOOM. t Gathering his splattered wits, O'Brien twisted and looked up into a cloud of dust and smoke. There, standing above him, looking back the way he'd come, was a man. Nobody special, just a man, except that from this angle the newcomer seemed like a redwood tree at dawn, rising out of the rocks and rubble to tower over the insect at its base.

 

 

"Get up!" BOOM!

 

 

Some kind of concussion rifle stretched from the man's grip and spat black fire at the scattering Jem'Hadar.

 

 

O'Brien twisted over on his back and looked at the enemy troops. The nearest Jem'Hadar's head was cracked in two and opened up like a melon hit with a hammer. Exposed brains were blown free and splattered the wall with blue matter and white liquid. The body lay less than a meter away from him. That was close.

 

 

Down the aisle were more slaughtered Jem'Hadar, each with a hole in him the size of a worklight. Guts and white spilled down the fronts of their smashed torsos. And of those left from the original dozen pursuers, disruptors flew out of their hands and their ranks opened before O'Brien and the intruder like petals flying off an old rose in high wind. In puddles of gore the Jem'Hadar hit the walls, leaving streaks of guts and shattered bone as they slid to the cold floor.

 

 

The man called over the noise of his own weapon.

 

 

"Can you shoot?" O'Brien shook himself and forced his voice out, "My phaser's jammed or--or seized!" "Your what is what?" Desperately he plucked at the inert weapon's setting panel. "This place has some kind of energy damping field! I can't shoot!" "That's all right," the intruder said. "I can." And he started walking forward, down the aisle O'Brien had just marathoned, dealing death faster than the Jem'Hadar could even take aim. O'Brien scratched to his feet, slung the duffel's strap back over his shoulder, and stumbled after him.

 

 

Suddenly the man shoved his heavy weapon into O'Brien's hand, along with some kind of metal clip, and shouted, "Reload this!" While O'Brien fumbled with the rifle-type weapon, the man yanked a handheld weapon out of his vest and kept shooting, hardly missing a second.

 

 

BAM./ BAM!

 

 

That hand weapon had a different tenor of report but did a terrible thing to the faces of the oncoming Jem'Hadar.

 

 

"Come on!" the man called back to O'Brien.

 

 

"Follow me!"

 

 

0

 

 

CHAPTER 8

 

 

"MORE ^t4OLE! Are the torpedo racks on line?" "Ready to fire when you are. If just one of those jams on the slide-out, they'll chain-ignite." "I know. Nog, fire phasers!" "Rigging a ship with something this dangerous is a court-martial offense, you know, Captain." "Let's hope we're all alive to be court-martialed, Julian. Lieutenant Haj, continue evasive. Don't let them work our stern. Starboard, faster! Julian, take over the sensors. Keep focused on those dishes. Let me know as soon as you see anything." Jadzia Dax was out of the command chair, working the Ops and engineering stations herself.

 

 

Everybody on board was doing two jobs, except that she was also the commanding officer and that meant she was doing a lot more than two jobs.

 

 

They were in a hot chase with five Jem'Hadar vessels on their tail. Since dropping off O'Brien they had raced around the system in a flurry of uncoordinated hits, taking potshots at various sensor dishes and even managing to take out a handful of them, but such maneuvers would never make a dent in the hundred units out there. All they had to do was make the Jem'Hadar believe they were after the dishes. O'Brien only needed a few minutes... if he were still alive.

 

 

"Fire!" Dax called again when the fourth enemy ship tried to take their beam. "Don't let them get in front of us!" "I'm trying," Nog ground out.

 

 

"Nog, take over the Ops! I'll take tactical and weapons." "Good!" They switched positions, and that cut out the rigmarole of Dax having to handle two consoles and also watch the enemy ships and also give specific firing orders. Now she could fire at will and cut seconds off the process of keeping alive. "Dax!" Bashir was calling, but Dax didn't pay attention to him. There were two ships in range... if she could only hit their weapons magazines-- "Dax!" Bashir shouted louder. "Sensors indicate wide-range full-spectrum meltdown in the dish units! Miles did it! He did it! The dishes are blowing up all over the system?

 

 

Through the plasma smoke, she cast him a glowing smile. "Did we ever have a doubt?" Sheeted in sweat, Bashir was too frightened to return the smile. "Well, actually, yes!" She turned back to her weapons, wishing she could take the time to look out into space, see the sparkle of detonations from here to eternity. "Haj, lay in a course for the cluster!" She continued firing, and though Defiant sustained ghastly damage in most sections, she managed to detonate any critical incomings and thus protect the sections where the torpedoes were tightly packed; and at the same time she took out three more Jem'Hadar ships. Now they were being pursued by two ships.

 

 

"Good shooting!" Bashir gagged, then coughed on the streaming gases erupting from the shattered bridge consoles. "A few more minutes and we won't even be able to breathe in here. Dax? Did you hear me?" "I heard you. Do what you can about it. Get us masks if you have to." "Understood! Did you say we're heading for the cluster?" Bashir left his post and stumbled across the shattered deck to her side. "We're not leaving him... we're not, are we?" Her hands cold, she fired the stern phasers again and again. "Those are our orders." "You're not serious..." Even his whisper was like a gong in her ear. "Did he know that?" "I was supposed to be the one to go," she told him.

 

 

"I was the only one who knew. I was under command restriction. It's too dangerous to go back for one person. We owe the Federation the opportunity to use this ship again. That means leaving right now." "Dax," he protested, but he apparently couldn't think of any way to make one man's life worth more than an entire battleship in the middle of a war.

 

 

Dax gave him a sorry glance. "We're supposed to use those photon torpedoes to plow our way back into the cluster and clear out of here." He gripped her tactical console. "Is it worth one pass? An emergency beam-out?" "We can't slow down enough to pick up just one person. We won't be able to focus the beam that well." "Listen," Bashir gasped, "I can isolate his combadge signal and we can do a wide-scan transporter beam. It's risky and we might pick up a couple of Jem'Hadar along with him, but at least we can try.

 

 

You're not leaving without at least trying to get Miles back... you wouldn't do that, would you?" She hit the firing button again, and behind them another Jem'Hadar ship splintered and spun out of control. "No, I'm not leaving without at least trying."

 

 

Julian seemed suddenly weak. He pressed his hands on the edge of her console. "Thank God..." "Get back to your post." "Thank you--" "Go on. Haj, evasive subport, ten degrees!" "Captain!" Ensign Nog peered through the gout of smoke, before anyone could move at all. "Ten more Jem'Hadar ships just appeared on our forward screens! They're blocking our way!" Bashir swung around, obviously frightened that Dax would change her mind. Ten ships, blocking the way between them and O'Brien-- Just then a hard hit from aft blew half the helm console away at the deck level. The flash of electrical impact drove Lieutenant Haj straight backward to crash to the deck with his legs virtually on fire.

 

 

"Julian," Dax called, "take over the conn station!" His complexion dusky with fear, Bashir rushed to the helm and put his hands on the snapping controls.

 

 

Dax was worried--asking him to steer in these conditions was a risk. He knew the basics, but he was no combat pilot.

 

 

"Just head directly into those oncoming ships, Julian," she told him in her steadiest voice.

 

 

"Directly into him? No evasive?" "No evasive." Dax twisted around briefly. "All right, everyone, this is it! Nog, ready all torpedo racks!" "All racks armed and ready!" "Wait until they're in range... closer.

 

 

closer... let's plow our way through! All torpedoes, rapid-fire!"

 

 

Blast after blast blew Jem'Hadar soldiers out of their way. O'Brien limped behind the lanky and dangerous stranger.

 

 

"Why aren't you shooting?" the man cast back.

 

 

"Oh--don't know. Guess I should..." Fumbling with the weapon, he did a quicky diagnostic and figured out where the clip went, clapped it into place, turned the wide-mouthed barrel forward toward one of the Jem'Hadar, and pulled the trigger.

 

 

Click--BOOM!

 

 

And O'Brien was suddenly flat on his backside in the rubble.

 

 

He stared at the weapon in his aching arms. "Well, what the hell..." "Get up, keep moving! Follow me! Keep shooting, now." He crawled up at the urging of the other man, whose voice was unremitting and gave him strength with its confidence.

 

 

The weapon was warm in his hands. What a kick this monster had!

 

 

With a modicum of experience now, he aimed and fired again. BOOM/ He stayed on his feet this time, but the weapon bucked up in his arms and hit him in the nose. Well, he killed a Jem'Hadar. Not the one he'd been aiming at, but a score was a score.

 

 

The other man, though, shattered his way through the storming troops, pausing every few steps to stand, brace-legged like some kind of Texas Ranger, firing again and again in a withering barrage.

 

 

Together they boomed and bammed their way haltingly forward. O'Brien was astonished at the reaction of the Jem'Hadar who could still move. They were running! The enemy soldiers were running away!

 

 

Disruptor fire had all but suspended, and the soldiers were ducking down the corridors and hobbling in a Jem'Hadar version of rushing.

 

 

A wedge of golden brightness crossed O'Brien's eyes and made him squint. Daylight!

 

 

No, not exactly daylight, but a setting sun angling straight down the entry tunnel.

 

 

"Go out first," the Texas Ranger ordered, and turned to face the inside of the complex while O'Brien did as he was told and hustled down the tunnel.

 

 

"Aren't you coming?" he called back over his shoulder.

 

 

"In a minute." Behind him as he ran, he heard the relentless BAM BAM BAM of that iron hand weapon. His own arms trembled from the adrenaline rush and the lingering kick of the weapon he was still carrying.

 

 

He broke out into the lowering sunlight, hesitated a moment, then angled toward the nearest stand of rocks and high ground. There were trees up there, bushes, places to hide.

 

 

But he'd left that man inside--he could still hear the bang of that handgun, so his friend was alive, at least. O'Brien was about to double back and shout for the other man to get out now, when suddenly his companion jogged out of the tunnel and ran to meet him, taking O'Brien's arm and pulling him up the steep escarpment.

 

 

"They'll be flocking here any minute," the man said, "but they don't know how to search very well. I know where we can hide. This way." They climbed almost straight up, except that Texas knew the rocks so well that he led O'Brien up a craggy natural stairway that twisted and jabbed into the rock formations, negotiating the almost invisible path with the skill of someone who had grown up here. Must be a native of the planet, O'Brien's foggy mind decided.

 

 

His chest thudded and constricted--atmosphere must be a little thinner here than he was used to.

 

 

"High enough," his companion finally allowed.

 

 

O'Brien slid to his knees, shuddering. His eyes fogged over and he gratefully closed them, then sank sideways and collapsed against a rock. Were the Jem'Hadar following? It didn't matter. He couldn't run or climb anymore... his knee throbbed furiously. His right arm was numb. He had to rest, just for a minute.

 

 

A careful grip took him by one arm and pulled him to a sitting position. Dazed, he shook his head--what a mistake--and blinked his eyes.

 

 

They were wedged into the rocky terrain under a shading clutch of trees and it was almost dark.

 

 

Enough light remained in the gray sky that he blinked up into the eyes of a pale-skinned man with fairly ordinary eyes and shoulder-length hair the color of the dirt under them.

 

 

"You all right?" his new friend asked. He set O'Brien upright and leaned him against an angled rock slab.

 

 

O'Brien shook his head--he could barely hear the man's voice. He spat out a crumb of concrete and garbled, "Bedamned... phaser... neutralized on me!" Texas held up his own weapon, a harsh-looking ironbound antique rifle with a stumpy body and a wide-mouthed barrel. It looked as if it canhe out of some amalgamated version of Earth's 1800s.

 

 

O'Brien had seen pictures of old-style guns, but this one he didn't recognize specifically.

 

 

But what a noise it had made! He'd never heard a concussion weapon go off in real life. On the holodeck, sure, but the automatic program muted any potentially damaging element, and that included noise. This was... this was loud!

 

 

"Nice shootin', Tex," he drawled as he appreciated the heavy gun and its owner. "Tex?" "It's your new nickname." "Oh." The man sat down beside him and plucked at O'Brien's torn sleeve. "Shoulder's bleeding, did you know that?" "Ah... right. Must've been why my fingers went numb." "Who are you?" "What's that? Oh, sorry--somebody's beating my eardrum. I'm Chief Engineer Miles O'Brien, Starfleet, United Federation of Planets." "Federation," the man repeated. "Been a long time since I heard that word." Then he tipped his head back the way they'd come. "So we're at war?" "No doubt. What's your name?" "I'm Cregger Lot Mowlanish Dot Crixa Tel." "Ah... mind if I just keep calling you 'Tex'?" "Fine with me. What should I call you?" "Miles. That's some weapon. It drove those soldiers back ten feet each and left a mighty hole.

 

 

Where'd you get it?" "We use these to defend our ranches and herds." O'Brien glanced down into the valley, but saw neither of those. "You live on this planet?" "Yes," Tex told him. "Lived just fine, until the shellheads came." Sympathizing, O'Brien understood. "That's not much against phasers." Tex shook his head, then brushed crumbling dust out of his hair. "Phasers didn't do you a lot of good just now."

 

 

With a grunt of empathy, O'Brien said, "You're right about that. Guess you got a shock, didn't you, when the Dominion dropped by?" "Overnight," Tex confirmed, "they were here, blasting away." O'Brien held up his phaser. "They had some kind of damping field in there that shut mine down. I should've expected they'd be ready." Tex leaned back and held up his own enormous boomer. "Can't shut this down." "No, I suppose not! Just a simple chemical reaction... expanding gases propelling a heavy little weight at incredible speed! No way to short that out, for sure! The only way to absorb the energy is into the chest of a Jem'Hadar. And, of course, they wouldn't know how to fight this! They're just programmed drones, raised in tubes and made to fight in space with energy weapons. They've got no sense of history, no idea of chemistry, and they're completely unprepared for a hot, fast pellet that blows their heads offi Why didn't I think of that?" Realizing he was raving a bit, he paused and regarded Tex in the fading light.

 

 

"You... have a family here?" he asked.

 

 

Tex peered over a rock, making sure they weren't being tracked. "So tell me about the war." "They're trying to take over the whole quadrant." "Let 'era try." He patted his boomer.

 

 

"Why did you get me out?" O'Brien asked.

 

 

"Because they were shooting at you. We've been hiding out, waiting for a chance to fight back, but we didn't know how to hurt them most. Then I saw you." He smiled and muttered, "I've been wanting to do that for months. I should've thought to bring a couple of my friends. We could've gotten them all." Exhausted, O'Brien shook his head. "I've teamed up with John Wayne... how many people are in this colony?" Tex shrugged. "I don't know, exactly. We never thought about it much until they showed up. They haven't even asked us anything. They just came here and started building that complex." "They didn't hurt your people?" "They shuffled most of the men and children into camps, then put the women under house arrest and forced them to do the cooking and cleaning for the men and kids in the camps." "Pretty damned effective." "Some of us were in the mountains when they came. Me, some of my friends... we hid out all this time. They kept looking, but they never found us." "They're bred for life in space. Bit awkward anyplace else." "We noticed that. Until today, they didn't know we'd been missed." "Oh... sorry... I blew your cover." "It's all right," Tex said. "We've been planning to move against them. We just weren't sure where to start or what to do. We didn't know how we could hurt them most. Can you tell me what those buildings do?" "That's a broadcast complex. It maintains a whole range of scanning posts in space that tell them where our ships are and what strengths we've got. Except, i'm hoping I just spat out a signal that blew up the dishes before it could flash-transmit a... oh, never mind that part. The second half of my job was to blow up the base. Unfortunately, I wasn't sneaky enough. I didn't even get confirmation that the dishes went to self-destruct mode. Didn't have time... guess I'll just have to hope they did... if I blow up that base without the dishes going first, the whole mission's worthless." "You have no way to know?" "None at all." "Then do your best with what's here. What're you got in that bag?" "Enough explosives to wipe that complex off your planet. Problem is, they're chain-reaction incendiaries. They have to be planted inside, and now I'm outside. I've got to get back in there!" "Why? If you blew up the dishes--" "If I don't demolish the base," O'Brien explained again patiently, "all they have to do is replace the dishes. This complex is the important part." Pressing a dry cloth to the wound in O'Brien's shoulder, Tex nodded slowly. "Bad wound." "I can't feel it much." "You will." "Oh... yes." "You want to get back inside?" O'Brien snapped a glare at him. "Can you get me in? How?" "Know what mines are.*" "I certainly do!" "Those shellheads, they don't realize they built their complex right on top of a network of our mines. They never even looked." A shock of relief and hope drenched O'Brien beneath his sweat-damp suit. "Would you think it was odd if I shook your hand till it fell off, man!" His sudden companion smiled, then spat out a bit of the wreckage they'd just caused. "How soon do you want to go, Miles?" Reinvigorated, O'Brien swung around onto his knees and peered over the crest and down at the complex, at flocks of Jem'Hadar who were combing the grounds. "Right now! While they're all out patrolling around and looking for us here. My ship's dodging around space, giving us time. Let's not waste it." Grinning broadly, Tex brushed back a lock of his dust-brown hair. "Your weapons or mine?" Enheartened such as he never imagined he would be by today's story, Miles O'Brien clapped his new friend on the shoulder, ignored the puff of dust the gesture raised, and shouldered the wonderful, dependable concussive weapon that had saved his life.

 

 

"Tex," he said, "let's go turn that place to taffy!"

 

 

In one of the most dangerous maneuvers Dax had ever seen aboard a ship, the Defiant began freely spewing photon torpedoes, plowing the way before her with machine-gun deadly force. The ten Jem'Hadar ships before them were fiddled with explosions in such rapid succession that they never even had time to angle away from the head-on collision.

 

 

The torpedoes spilled off their racks and into the firing chambers and self-launched furiously, faster than anyone could've manually fired them. Dax squinted with tensions--if even one jammed, the explosion would be right here, right now, and it would light up the solar system.

 

 

"Approaching the planet," Bashir tensely reported.

 

 

"Just graze past it, Julian, don't reduce speed." "Are you working the sensors yourself?. Are you scanning for him?" "Yes, just steer the ship. Transporter chamber, this is the captain. Ensign Morrison, are you standing by?" "Yes, Captain, I'm ready when you are." "This is it, kiddo, you get to prove why you graduated top of your class in transporter technology." "I'm ready." "Stand by..." Closer, closer, the Defiant blasted right through the spinning remains and splinters of the Jem'Hadar ships they'd blown out of the way.

 

 

"Nog, take over what's left of the phasers and maintain fire on the two ships chasing us." "Captain, they're veering offl. They saw what we did to their pals!" "Good riddance. Pilot us two degrees closer, Julian." "Two degrees... aye." "Come on, Chief, where are you?" Dax leered at her scanners, searching for the one tiny blip on a whole planet. Dax hoped she sounded more in control to the crew than she sounded to herself. But there was only one chance at this. They'd come swooping in like an albatross with hawks on its tail, trying to isolate the single Starfleet combadge blip in that whole planetary region.

 

 

"I've got him! He's there!" Her own voice surprised her.

 

 

"Morrison, energize! Right now, right now!" Now she had to wait. A deck below, the transporter specialist was beaming up the life-form attached to that cornbadge, and any other life-forms within five meters of him.

 

 

She couldn't shake the feeling that they might be beaming up a corpse.

 

 

"I'11 take over the helm, Julian," she said on a whim. "You go down there and check." Bashir's eyes flashed with hope and worry.

 

 

"Thank you," he gasped, and he rushed off the bridge. Dax took over the helm and punched the comm. "Ensign Richardson to the bridge. I need you for the helm. And find somebody with experience and bring them with you for tactical and scanners." "Richardson, aye. On my way, Captain." Had O'Brien detonated the broadcast base? Yes, all the dishes had chain-detonated. If the base weren't destroyed too, the Jem'Hadar could reestablish the sensor array in a couple of weeks.

 

 

And the ship and crew weren't exactly out of hot water yet. Shredding her orders, she had doubled back for O'Brien on the thin chance that he had survived a one-man assault on an enemy-packed installation. Oh, well, why not?

 

 

Had the transport process finished?

 

 

No time to wait. If they didn't have him by now, it was all over. Ensign Richardson and a new lieutenant whose name she couldn't remember right now appeared on the bridge and Dax was able to leave the helm. She wanted to keep steering, but she knew that if she was doing that job, she wasn't doing her job--command.

 

 

"Full impulse," she ordered. "Prepare for warp speed. Head directly back into the core of the cluster." "Understood," Richardson said, without bothering to repeat the details.

 

 

On the screens all around the command area, various visions played--the planet falling away astern of them, the churning Argolis Cluster which they would have to survive a second time when once had been enough.

 

 

"Phaser banks are nearly exhausted," Nog reported.

 

 

"Knew that was coming," Dax muttered, but she was distracted by the hiss of the door panel and turned to look. "With any luck, we won't need them.

 

 

How many of the torpedoes did we fire?" "Every last one of them." "That's how it was supposed to work." Nog sighed roughly. "It worked, all right." Suddenly Julian Bashir piled out of the lift, his greasy, dirty, sweaty face bright with a smile. "We got him!" On closer look, Dax saw O'Brien limping out of the lift, with Bashir's attentive support.

 

 

"Chief--" she gasped. "You'll be ashamed of me when you find out how much I had bet against you!" "S'all right," O'Brien drawled as Bashir led him to her. "I can send the kids to college with the winnings I get from betting against myselfi" "Well? Give me a report!" "Oh, mission accomplished. It took two assaults, but we set all the grenades and they behaved like champs. The whole base is shattered. Did the dishes go up?" "Just like fireworks." O'Brien paled with relief and pressed a supportive hand on the command chair. Apparently he really hadn't known until now whether he completely succeeded.

 

 

"Are you all right, Miles?" Bashir asked. "Look at your shoulderre" "It's all yours now, Julian," the chief told him.

 

 

"Oh, Dax, there's one thing. Tex! Come here. Right over here. Don't trip on that wreckage." Firing the last shots allowed by the exhausted phaser banks, Dax glanced over her shoulder and saw a lanky stranger picking his way toward them.

 

 

Longish brown hair, dirty, humanoid. "From the planet?" she asked.

 

 

"Couldn't have done it without him. You should see these weapons he's got?' "Chief," Dax said quietly, "the Prime Directire..." O'Brien cocked his hip, winced, and drawled, "Not a problem. Lost Earth colony. I'll explain later." As the ship streaked away from the planet, still pursued, still in trouble, Dax reached to clasp Tex's hand. "Welcome to Starfleet. Doctor, show this man to a post in the security team." Bashir beamed with relief and even delight. "Yes, Captain!"

 

 

0

 

 

CHAPTER 9

 

 

"THERE WERE several casualties, Captain. General Martok lost his second officer and two senior engineers. Eight of our lower-deck crew were killed in the ship's outer areas. Thank you for asking about Alexander." "How many Jem'Hadar ships did you manage to draw away, Worf?" Sisko leaned forward and peered at the communications screen, at Worfs dogged face with its constant scowl.

 

 

On the screen, the cross between the Empire and Starfleet looked as drawn as Sisko had seen him in weeks.

 

 

"We engaged at least five Jem 'Hadar," Worf told him, "but we have no way of knowing how many guard ships were left for Dax to face in the cluster." Sisko started to mention that they didn't even know yet whether or not the Defiant had survived the dangerous travel through the erupting core of the cluster to engage any Jem'Hadar ships that might be left behind. He would've voiced his concern, except that the captain of that ship was engaged to the man he was speaking to and Sisko was sensitive to reminding Worf that his fiancee might now be dead.

 

 

Besides, they both knew all the hard truths as well as their own names. There was no comfort either would take, or would attempt to give.

 

 

Worf waited through their mutual discomfort, then found a nonemotional question to ask. "Has there been any news, sir?" Sisko almost winced. It was emotional anyway.

 

 

"None." "The Defiant has been gone over sixteen hours." Finally Sisko had to offer something, anything. "I know this is difficult for you, Worf." "Yes, sir," Worf accepted, "but I sense it is more difficult for you. The Defiant is your ship." Of course, he wasn't just talking about the ship, Sisko knew. Worf was offering some kind of sympathy for Sisko's having to stay here, in this office, unable to share the pains or problems of his crew, and a simple order or change of position couldn't stop those people out there from being his crew.

 

 

"Dax'11 bring her home," he said, mustering a hint of confidence. "There's no way she's going to miss her own wedding." "No," Worf said. "I suppose not." For a moment longer they regarded each other, neither willing to forfeit the stronger position in a relationship that now, though rarely, needed somebody to be the comforting one.

 

 

"As soon as I hear something," Sisko offered, 'Tll let you know." "Thank you, sir. Captain, you shouM get some rest." Sisko almost straightened in the chair, but trying to pretend he wasn't exhausted would look just as silly as pretending he wasn't worried. "Not tonight." Without further amenities, Worf simply clicked off the communication. Neither of them wanted to hear any good-byes or over-and-outs.

 

 

"I've got to get out of here somehow," he murmured. "I've got to get back in command..." Only the whispering hum of the hardworking tactical computer and the bubble of the replicator making him another cup of coffee provided any answer for his horrible mumble.

 

 

Get out. Get back command. Big talk from a selfish man. How many other Starfleet officers were hungering right now, as he was, for command? To get back their chance, their dignity, their grip on the twisting and turning of this war?

 

 

Strange--so often the image of people in a war was one of disgust, turning their backs, resisting the terrible occurrences, wishing to blind themselves from the sights and deafen the noises, but that wasn't the reality. War, yes--a thousand ugly images, but the great halo was enthusiasm and devotion, the fire with which so many quiet people stood up and asked to fight. There were many, many individuals out there right now who wanted a chance to strike, as did Ben Sisko. Why should he, instead of anyone else, get that chance? Unlike many, he hadn't lost crewmates or a ship yet. He had only lost a command. Even the station was not gone, not destroyed. It was still out there, intact, functioning somehow under the tricky pact he had forged between the Dominion and Bajor in order to keep the planet and station from being decimated.

 

 

He'd had an evacuation. Some embarrassment.

 

 

Other than that, why was he feeling sorry for himself.

 

 

Ah--this jumble of mental blades! War could strip down a man's sense of solidity. He didn't know anymore what he used to know for sure. Where he belonged, who was his to worry about, where his son was, and the focus of his existence. Now everything was out of focus. Worf with Martok, Dax and the ship and crew off on a deadly mission without him, the station shrouded in silence, Jake unaccounted for, and Ben Sisko himself here giving advice to an admiral about tactical situations he had no experience with, in places he'd never even passed through.

 

 

He wanted focus. He wanted a victory, so he could shrug off this promotion.

 

 

How often could an officer say that?

 

 

Whatever happened, from now on he would be searching for a plan, a route, a plot, a chance to make a great stride and somehow keep Admiral Ross from making him a permanent fixture here at the nest, while eagles soared elsewhere.

 

 

"What the hell happened? Why didn't you disable the alarm!" Kira Nerys was barely inside Odo's quarters when the question bolted from her lips.

 

 

He was here--in a cloudy sense of the wordm regarding her with a glazed expression, a cold Founder-like serenity.

 

 

Would he have a reason for this? Could a shapeshifter get drunk? Hypnotized?

 

 

She didn't even have to ask what stopped him from tripping the alarm. She already knew that. The female shapeshifter had been in here again and they'd done that melting thing. The mystery was what had happened to Odo's sense of responsibility and loyalty to people who were risking their lives and depending on him to do his part in a plan he agreed with.

 

 

"It's difficult to explain," he murmured.

 

 

"Rom is sitting in a holding cell, being interrogated!" she charged without waiting for any explanation.

 

 

"I know..." "You know? Do you realize you handed the Alpha Quadrant to the Dominion?" "I was in the link..." "Are you telling me you forgot?" Seeming to glaze more deeply with every passing second, Odo blinked slowly. "I didn't forget... it just... didn't seem to matter..." "A lot of people are going to die! Don't you care?" Never in a decade would Kira have expected the answer that burbled from her old friend in the next seconds. He paused, searched for a way to say what he was thinking, or dreaming.

 

 

"It has nothing to do with me." Stunned and willing to show it, Kira gaped at him.

 

 

Was it really Odo sitting here or was this some kind of cruel game by the female shapeshifter? Was this a Founder's idea of a joke?

 

 

Suddenly cold all over, she gasped, "How can you say that?" "If you could experience the link," he attempted weakly, "you'd know why nothing else matters..." The room turned colder, darker somehow. Kira felt as if her feet were anchored to the deck, her arms transforming to iron blocks. She waited, but he made no change, no punch line, no excuses.

 

 

Destroying the antigraviton beam and preventing the Dominion from pulling down the minefield was a simple gesture upon which the lives of uncounted billions of people rested, and Odo was casting off its importance as a general nothing. The fate of the Alpha Quadrant had been his to implement, and he had let it slough away like runoff after rain.

 

 

On top of that, he had also cast off all the personal investments they had made in each other, and their friends had made in them. And the captain and the station--everything.

 

 

"The last five years," she rasped, "your life here... our friendship... none of that matters?" He hesitated. He seemed almost to be having trouble even remembering. "It did... once..." Kira tried to come up with something to say. But what was left? Had everything she thought had bonded them to each other over these years now become simply a forgettable lie?

 

 

"I wish I could make you understand," Odo said sadly, almost pityingly. "But you can't... you're not a changeling." So now they were on different sides. The line was drawn. With the full measure of what she believed was happening here, Kira took a defining step backward.

 

 

"That's right," she said. "I'm a 'solid.'" As the dividing line between them dropped to the floor and took a set in the mud of disappointment, Kira gave one last second's pitiful hope a moment to dissolve, then turned and left him behind, where he chose to be.

 

 

"I'm going to die." Strange how much Rom ~ voice can sound like mine when he's whining.

 

 

Quark shook away the realization of familiar suffering techniques and flinched uneasily as, beside him, Leeta fought back tears at the sight of Rom inside the holding cell. The soft buzz of the forcefield was a constant reminder that there would be no reaching out, no hugs, no hopes for mercy, especially not from the Jem'Hadar guard standing right over there.

 

 

"Stop saying that," Leeta gasped at her precious other.