Star Trek - TNG - Dominion War 1 - Behind Enemy Lines

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

Ro LAREN LOOKED UP at the yellowing clouds, which rested uneasily upon the jagged teeth of the olivehued mountains in the distance. She didn't see the beauty of the twilit sky or the flowering land with harvesting season upon it; all she saw were the vapor trails of shuttlecraft and small transports streaking away from the planet Gallon. The former Starfleet officer knew that most of those vessels were little more than junk and had no warp drive. Where did they think they were going?

 

 

Her hands paused over the lush sprawl of tomato vines and plump red fruit in her small vegetable patch. Who would have thought she could have gotten so much pleasure from coaxing food from the ground?

 

 

Emotions gripped her throat like the teeth of a vole, and she wanted to lash out with her fists. This isn't just! No sooner had they found a semblance of peace than another war was engulfing them with its acrid stink. Ro knew well the stench of war. Burning rubble, bloated bodies, wretched refugee camps--those were her childhood memories. This war was less her fight than any of those other conflicts, yet it threatened to dwarf them all.

 

 

She heard a door slam inside the corrugated shed that served as their home. Ro took a deep breath and rose from her muddy knees. Lean, hardened by manual labor, her brown hair cropped short, she was more striking than beautiful. Her nose ridges were prominent, and she wore the traditional chains and bands on her right ear, proclaiming her Bajoran heritage in this mostly human Maquis community.

 

 

Ro wiped her hands on the apron that covered her frayed jumpsuit, and she listened to his footsteps creaking on the thin floor of the prefabricated shed.

 

 

Derek sounded unusually tense; he was probably working up the nerve to face her.

 

 

The door banged open again, and she heard his footsteps on the black volcanic gravel that served as their soil. Only a combination of hydroponic techniques, chemical fertilization, and constant irrigation had rendered it fit for growing. Ro wasn't keen on leaving this soil just yetwshe had poured too much sweat into it.

 

 

The human walked around the comer of the shed and stopped when he saw her. She could tell everything she needed to know from the slouch of his shoulders and his tired blue eyes; even his mustache drooped wearily. He was gray-haired and many years her senior, but he had a rakish charm that kept him youthful. Today that charm could not disguise the weathered, worried lines in his face. Derek had been a freelance smuggler and weapons runner, but she had won him over to the Maquis cause. He still dealt weapons, but for his people, not profit.

 

 

She ran to him, and he wrapped his wiry arms around her slender frame. A strand of his gray hair brushed her cheek, and Derek lifted her chin and gazed at her. "They didn't take the deal," he said softly. "We have to go." "Again?" she muttered, pulling away from him.

 

 

"I've been forced to run too many times--I'm not sure I can do it again. We stood up to the Cardassians and the Federation; can't we stand up to them?" He gave her a melancholy smile. "These aren't the Cardies or the Feds. This is the Dominion. We can't fight them; nobody can. The Federation, the Klingons--they're getting crushed right and left, and the Jem'Hadar warships look like they're invincible. Plus they've rebuilt the entire Cardassian fleet, and they're eager for conquest. Believe it or not, our envoys saw two ships full of Federation prisoners come in while they were docked at Tral Kliban for the negotiations." Ro snorted derisively. "Some negotiations. What did you expect, trying to convince the Cardassians that we're neutral? Once an enemy of the Cardassians, always an enemy." "Not so," answered Derek softly. "We may have failed, but the Bajorans accepted a nonaggression treaty. They are neutral." "Bajor?" scoffed Ro. "I don't believe it." He gave her a sad smile that insisted it was true. "I don't think Bajor had much choice, and the Dominion probably did it just to annoy the Cardassians, to let them know who's boss. Deep Space Nine fell, and it's all going to fall--the whole Federation. Only the cloaked mines they stuck in front of the wormhole have saved them so far.

 

 

"We're small potatoes, but the Dominion will get around to us. Our spies say they want to clear out this sector, because they're building something big on the other side of the Badlands, near Sector 283." "What?" "An artificial wormhole," answered Derek with awe in his voice. "They may be using slave labor-- Federation prisoners." Ro stared at him, stunned by the implications.

 

 

With an artificial wormhole deep in Cardassian space, Dominion forces could travel back and forth between the Alpha and Gamma quadrants without using the Bajoran wormhole. They could even destroy it, along with everything the Bajorans held dear.

 

 

"Some of our cells have already returned to the Federation," declared Ro. "We've got to swallow our pride and do the same thing. With the Federation's help, maybe we can defend this system instead of running." Now it was Derek's turn to snort. "The Federation will be lucky if they can defend Earth. We're unimportant, forgotten. About all we can do is find some quiet place to hide until it's all over." His attempt at a smile looked more like a wince.

 

 

"So the proud Maquis just run for their lives, giving up years of struggle?" asked Ro disdainfully.

 

 

Derek kicked a black pebble. "Our envoys got one promise from the Cardassians--they'11 give us time to evacuate, as long as we don't try to enter the hostilities." Ro stared at him in disbelief. "Evacuate to where?

 

 

There's no running from a war like this. We can fight, or we can surrender and be at their mercy." "Bajor's always an option," answered Derek, calmly ignoring her tirade as he often did.

 

 

"Remember, Bajor is neutral. In fact, the committee is assembling a crew for you, and you're going to captain the Orb of Peace and take as many people as we can fit in.

 

 

Traveling as Bajorans--with you in command--you stand a good chance of getting through Dominion space." "I wasn't even at the meeting!" snapped Ro. "Who decided this for me?" He gave her a weary smile and gripped her shoulders. "Laren, you're the only one who can pull off a mission like this. We've got to gain control of the evacuation, so we don't just have people scattering to the four winds. We'll never find each other again. The Maquis are a community, even if we keep getting chased off our land. I'll feel better knowing you're on Bajor. I'll come as soon as possible." Ro's nose ridges compressed like a bellows. "You're not coming with me?" "No. Someone has got to move our weapons stores, and I'm the only one who knows where everything is.

 

 

I mean, we're not total pacifists, are we?" For an instant, the roguish grin was back.

 

 

She gripped him desperately, and he hugged her, his fingers digging into her flesh. When their lips met, it was a bittersweet kiss with a taste of tears. In a vegetable patch behind a corrugated shed on a littleknown planet in what was formerly the Cardassian Demilitarized Zone, now the Dominion, they clung to each other. They knew it could be the last time.

 

 

"How long do we have?" she asked hoarsely.

 

 

"An hour, maybe. Your ship is en route." "They may have to wait," said Ro, taking his arm and pulling him toward the shed.

 

 

Ro materialized in the small but elegant transporter chamber of the Orb of Peace. In her gray cap and jumpsuit, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, she looked like a common crew member. But she was the captain on this ship, as testified to by the importance of her welcoming committee. Crunched into the dimly lit chamber were three provisional admirals, two of the envoys who had returned empty-handed, and a cadre of dignitaries that spilled out into the corridor.

 

 

I might have known, thought Ro. I'm ferrying the brass to safety, not the common folk.

 

 

Although these men and women outranked her in the Maquis hierarchy, they looked upon her with awe.

 

 

Ro was a legend to the Maquis--a reclusive figure who had deserted Starfleet to join their hopeless cause, only to become one of their greatest heroes.

 

 

Time and time again, she had distinguished herself in guerrilla attacks against both the Cardassians and the Federation. Yet when the Cardassian-Klingon War brought them relative peace, she had spurned Maquis offers of higher rank. A small cell of well-trained fighters was all she had ever commanded, until now.

 

 

Ro knew she was an enigma to these people, an outsider whom they both respected and feared.

 

 

"Citizen Ro," said Shin Watanabe, one of the recently returned envoys, "we are pleased that you have undertaken this mission." Ro stepped off the transporter platform, and the sea of people parted respectfully for her.

 

 

"You know our objective," said one admiral brusquely. "Do you think we can make it to Bajor?" With her jaw set determinedly, Ro studied the faces confronting her. Most of what she saw was fear, uncertainty, and anger, emotions she could well understand. These people were close to falling apart, and she had to make sure they held together.

 

 

"I know you're all afraid," she began, "and so am I. But we have to get one thing straight before we start this journey. I am now Captain Ro--by your choice--and I am in total command of this vessel.

 

 

Bajor is a considerable distance, and a lot can happen between here and there. I want your promise that nobody will overrule my orders and decisions." Watanabe laughed nervously. "Well, naturally, we will have some input and advice--" Ro jumped back onto the transporter platform, then turned to face them. "Transport me back. I'd rather take my chances with the Cardassians than have you questioning my orders." A female admiral charged forward. "Laren, we've known each other a long time. Don't start playing hierarchical mind games." "We all know a ship can have only one captain," said Ro evenly. "We have no world, no homeland-- only this vessel flying under a false flag. When you elected me captain, you chose to put your lives into my hands. It was your decision. If I'm in charge of this ship, then we're going to be a crew, not a rabble.

 

 

It's that simple--take it or leave it." The second admiral, a older man named Shaffer, saluted her. "Aye, Captain. You have my word on it, and I'll throw anyone into the brig who argues with you." The others stared at him in shock; then they lowered their heads in resignation, shame, and fear. Ro hadn't meant to come down on them so harshly, but it was best to settle this matter here and now. The journey would be difficult enough without endlessly debating every decision. Besides, Ro wasn't in a very charitable mood today. The good-bye with Derek had been painful.

 

 

"Admiral Shaffer," she said, "have I been assigned a first officer?" "Not yet. For the past year, this ship has only had a maintenance crew. We've staffed it as best we could on short notice." "Then would you be willing to serve as first officer?" asked Ro.

 

 

He nodded solemnly, and the Bajoran jumped off the platform and knifed through the crowd. She ushered Shaffer out the door into the corridor, ignoring the stares of the others. After walking past a spiral staircase that led to the lower deck, Ro got her bearings and strode toward the bridge, with the admiral walking beside her.

 

 

"What's the ship's status?" she asked Shaffer.

 

 

"As you know, the Orb of Peace was in bad shape when we bought her on the black market. We refitted her, leaving enough original technology to show a Bajoran warp signature." "So she's slow," said Ro, "and underarmed." Shaffer smiled. "Well, we boosted her armaments with six photon torpedoes, and she is capable of warp three--but she's still just a midrange transport." "What's our complement?" "Crew of twenty, plus eighty passengers." Ro scowled. "They must really be crammed in." "They are. But she was meant to carry clergy, so it didn't take much to refit her as a troop transport.

 

 

There's one good thing--she has a working food replicator." "That makes her a rarity in the Maquis fleet," said Ro dryly. "See if the replicatot can make some Bajoran uniforms for the bridge crew. Are there any other Bajorans on board?" "Only one, a junior engineer named Shon Navo." "He's no longer an engineer. Promote him to the bridge crew--he's to be on duty every moment when I'm not, which won't be often. If we get hailed by Dominion ships, they must see a Bajoran in command on the bridge." "Understood," said Shaffer.

 

 

A door slid open at their approach, and they swept onto the bridge. The small bridge of the Orb of Peace was more tasteful than practical. It was appointed in red with austere control consoles that looked like prayer booths, and the main viewscreen was framed with sayings of the Prophets. "The ways of the Prophets lead to peace" was the first word of advice to catch her eye. Ro hid her scowl, having never been as religious or aesthetic as most of her people.

 

 

The three-person crew, which included a young pilot at the conn, an operations officer, and a tactical officer, jumped to their feet. "Captain on the bridge!" piped one.

 

 

"At ease," she told them. "I'll learn your names as we go. First dim running lights by sixty percent.

 

 

That'll help to hide the fact that most of us aren't Bajorans." The young crew sat stiffly in their seats, and the ops officer dimmed the lights as ordered.

 

 

There was no official captain's chair on the Bajoran craft, and Ro took a seat at an auxiliary console. "Set course for Bajor." "Direct course?" asked the conn. "No evasion?" "Ensign, obey my orders as I give them," said Ro testily. "We're not going to be evasive--we have nothing to hide. We're a Bajoran trade delegation to the Dominion, and now we're headed home. I only wish that we had time to surgically alter everyone to look Bajoran; but we don't--so we'll have to fake it.

 

 

Set course for Bajor, maximum warp." "Yes, sir." The young blond woman worked her ornate controls. "Course laid in." "Take us out of orbit, one-third impulse." "Aye, sir." Admiral Sharfer moved toward the doorway. "I'll get to work on those uniforms, and I'll have Mr. Shon assigned to the bridge." Ro nodded. The reality of their departure from Galion had left an unexpected lump in her throat, and she didn't trust herself to say much.

 

 

"We're clear of orbit," reported the conn o~cer.

 

 

"Warp engines on-line." Ro pointed her finger exactly as she had seen a certain Starfleet captain do it. "Engage." Phaser blasts from two Galor-class Cardassian warships crackled across space and rocked the sleek form of the Enterprise-E. The Sovereign-class vessel shuddered before it veered into a desperate dive, with the yellow, fish-shaped warships in quick pursuit.

 

 

On the bridge, Captain Jean-Luc Picard gripped the armrests of his command chair. "Evasive maneuvers, pattern Zeta-nine-two!" "Yes, sir," answered Will Riker at the auxiliary conn controls. The regular conn officer sat dazedly on the deck beside his burned-out console, and Dr.

 

 

Beverly Crusher ministered to a wound on his forearm. Everywhere on the bridge was the acrid smell of burnt and overloaded circuits, caused by high-density electromagnetic pulses sweeping the ship.

 

 

"Shields down to forty percent," reported Data at the ops console. The android spoke in a calm, businesslike tone that belied the urgency of the situation.

 

 

"Target aft torpedoes on the lead craft," ordered Picard.

 

 

"Targeting quantum torpedoes," reported Ensign Craycroft on tactical. She was a young woman with nerves of titanium, and she reminded Picard of another young woman who had manned that station ten years ago on another vessel called the Enterprise.

 

 

It seemed like a lifetime since they had grieved the loss of Tasha Yar, because now Starfleet lost a thousand Tasha Yars every day.

 

 

"They're lined up," Riker reported urgently.

 

 

"Lower shields," ordered Picard. "Fire!" Ensign Craycroft plied her console. "Torpedoes away!" A brace of torpedoes shot from the tail of the Enterprise, and they looked like shooting stars as they streaked across the blackness of space. The torpedoes swerved into the lead Cardassian ship like hungry piranhas, and it exploded in a blaze of gas, flames, and imploding antimatter which engulfed the second ship behind it. The second ship veered off, sparkling like a Christmas tree before it went dark and began to drift. The Enterprise kept going, steady on course.

 

 

Riker looked back at Picard and gave him a boyish grin. "Works every time." "It works on Cardassians in any case," said the captain cautiously. He didn't like being reduced to tricks, but when they were outnumbered by superior forces, they needed all the help they could get. The Cardassians were arrogant and eager to make a kill on big game such as the Enterprise. That made them careless, something the Jem'Hadar were not.

 

 

"Damage report," ordered Riker.

 

 

"There are energy fluctuations on the starboard nacelle, bridge, and decks fifteen through twenty-six," reported Data. "Plasma couplings and EPS conduits on deck seventeen require immediate repair.

 

 

Recovery systems are compensating, and repair crews have been dispatched. Shields are holding steady at forty percent, and I am rerouting power from the main reactor. Five casualties reported, none serious." Beverly Crusher rose wearily to her feet and brushed back a strand of blonde hair that had escaped from her hair band. Her lab coat was stained, and her face looked gaunt--a doctor at war. "I'm on my way to sickbay," she said.

 

 

The doctor looked down at her patient and gave him a professional smile. "Ensign Charles is stabilized, but I want him to sit still for a while. I'll send somebody for him as soon as I can. Just keep him comfortable." Picard gave her a wan smile. "Still shorthanded down there?" "No, I just come up here in case both you and Will get knocked out, and I can finally take over. I want to be on hand when it happens." "Good thinking," said Riker, who appreciated gallows humor more than Picard. "But we could have the computer notify you." "I'm sure I'll know." The doctor put her head down and walked across the spacious bridge, past two empty science stations, unused since the war started.

 

 

Her shoulders stiflened as she entered the turbolift, but she didn't look back.

 

 

Picard swallowed dryly. He was having a hard time adjusting to a war in which they were being overwhelmed on all fronts, in which every department was shorthanded and shell-shocked. Many of his most experienced crew members were now chief engineers, doctors, and captains on their own vessels. Only by calling in personal favors had he managed to hang on to his core staff of officers. Defeats and surrenders had taken their toll, but Starfleet could build more ships faster than they could build good crew to fly them.

 

 

"What's the fleet situation?" he asked Data.

 

 

Theoretically, they were in the middle of a major offensive against Dominion forces, but Starfleet had stopped massing their ships in close formation. The Dominion fleets simply outgunned them, and they couldn't stand toe-to-toe against them. Instead the new tactic was to spread the battle in three dimensions, so that the enemy had to break off and pursue.

 

 

With good luck and a good crew, a captain might face only two or three Cardassian warships instead of one Jem'Hadar battle cruiser, and he might live to fight another hit-and-run skirmish another day.

 

 

Data shook his head. "Captain, I cannot make an accurate assessment without breaking subspace silence, although long-range scans should indicate possible hostilities." The android's fingers swiftly worked his console.

 

 

"Search for distress signals," said Picard, rubbing his eyes. "Let's go to our secondary mission-- rescue." "Setting predetermined course for secondary mission," reported Riker. "Warp three?" "Full impulse, until we make repairs," replied the captain. "I want to coddle this ship--she's all we've got." Riker nodded and tapped his comm badge. "Riker to Engineering. How are we doing, Geordi?" "Fine," came a curt reply. "I know I owe you a repair crew--they're on their way. Is the war over yet?" "Not quite," said Riker with a half smile.

 

 

Captain Picard settled back into his chair. By all rights, they had destroyed one enemy ship and had crippled another, and they should be finished for the day. But somebody out there needed help--a great many somebodies.

 

 

On the Orb of Peace, the bridge was not as spacious and as efficiently laid out as the circular bridge of the Enterprise. The dimly lit chamber reminded Ro of a small Bajoran chapel, facing the viewscreen instead of the shrine. To complete the impression, there were all those religious homilies decorating the frame around the viewscreen. However, the elegant Bajoran instrument panels lent a soothing reddish and turquoise glow to the surroundings.

 

 

Ro looked back at Shon Navo, a teenager who ought to be in school instead of fighting a war. The two of them were wearing the rust-brown uniforms of Bajor, and they were wearing their most ostentatious ear apparel. As the only Bajorans on this Bajoran ship, they had to play every part. For two hours, their journey had been totally uneventful, and they were chewing up the parsecs as fast as the transport would go. Ro felt she could take a few moments to coach the boy in his duties.

 

 

"Mr. Shon," she began, "stay close to me." "Yes, Captain," he said eagerly, as he shuffled up to her right shoulder blade. She judged him to be slightly shorter than herself.

 

 

"If anybody hails us for any reason, you are to position yourself in a similar position, very close to me. We'll go on visual and let them know we're Bajoran." "Yes, sir." "I will address remarks to you as if you were my first officer, and we will speak in Bajoran. They'll be able to translate it, so keep the remarks pertinent." He cleared his throat nervously.

 

 

"Yes?" "I... I don't speak Bajoran. I used to know it as a kid, I think, but I've forgotten it." "War orphan?" He nodded. "And my new parents took me with them to the Fellowship Colony. Boy, that was nice. for a while. Then the Federation betrayed us and handed us over to the Cardassians." "Let's keep personal opinions to a minimum," said Ro. "We're going to Bajor. Despite being officially neutral, Bajorans hold the Federation in high regard.

 

 

After all, the Emissary is a human." The boy's face hardened. "Thus far, the Cardassians have killed all four of my parents and have tried to kill me several times. Anyone who appeases them is a coward." "I'm not telling you you can't hate," said Ro. "Just keep it to yourself." "Yes, sir." "You might be forced to answer a hail when I'm not here. Don't delayreit looks suspicious. Simply identify yourself as the first officer and send for me. This isn't a big ship--I'U get here quickly. Time permitting, I'll teach you a few Bajoran words. You can start with--" "Captain," said the operations officer, his back stiffening, "there's a fleet of ships passing within four parsecs of us. Two of them have dropped out of warp and are breaking off. They're headed our way." "Where are the other ones going?" asked Ro urgently. "Plot their course." "The two Jem'Hadar ships have gone back into warp and will catch up with us in a few minutes!" said the nervous pilot.

 

 

"We'll talk our way out of it," declared Ro. "We're lucky they're Jem'Hadar, not Cardassians. Get Admiral Sharfer to the bridge. And I want to know where the rest of that fleet is going." "Oh, no," groaned the tactical officer. "They're. they're headed toward Galion! What are we going to do?" Ro could tell she was a Maquis-trained officer, not Starfleet, and she tried to have patience with her.

 

 

"First of all, get control of yourself." "Yes, sir," responded the woman, straightening her shoulders. "Should I arm torpedoes?" "No, don't make any aggressive moves without my command. By the way, we all have people back on Galion." The woman smiled gratefully at her, then gulped.

 

 

"Should we warn them?" "If we send a message right now," said Ro, "we probably won't get to finish it." Ro turned to gaze at Shon Navo. The fresh-faced Bajoran looked so innocent, even though his life had been steeped in tragedy and hatred. "Shon, I want you to be the first thing they see. Just identify our vessel, say we're Bajoran, and that you have sent for the captain. With any luck, they'll be in a hurry." She paced behind her unfamiliar crew. "Lower the lights another ten percent. Put the ships on screen." The viewscreen revealed two silvery shapes in the distance, dwarfed by the vastness of space. The Jem'Hadar attack ships looked unprepossessing-- they were smaller than the Orb of Peace--but Ro knew they were tremendously swift, maneuverable, and destructive. She had never seen the Jem'Hadar, but she had heard reports of their single-minded ruthlessness and devotion to their masters, the Founders.

 

 

"They're at warp six and gaining on us," said the pilot.

 

 

"Steady as she goes," ordered Ro. "Don't come out of warp unless they force us to. Don't change speed." On the viewscreen, the Dominion ships were larger now--two puglike fighters with twin nacelles, all spit and chrome. Ro imagined that her ship was being scanned and their warp signature was being verified.

 

 

Even though she was expecting it, the sudden beep of the communications panel made her pulse quicken.

 

 

"They're hailing us," said the tactical officer with a quavering voice. "And they're demanding that we come out of warp." "Answer the hail first." Ro motioned to Shon Navo to step in front of the viewscreen as she retreated to the shadows at the rear of the bridge.

 

 

Spine erect, trying to look like his idea of a first officer, the young Bajoran stepped into the pool of light in front of the viewscreen. He cleared his throat and nodded.

 

 

At once, the frightening aspect of a Jem'Hadar warrior appeared on the screen. His face was gnarled with prickly ridges like a cactus, and his skin was gray and lifeless. His eyes appeared to be red and vivid, yet they were darkly hooded like a lizard's eyes. A strange mechanical appendage seemed to grow out of his collarbone and hover in front of his left eye, and a tube pumped a white liquid into an orifice in the side of his neck. Behind the Jem'Hadar stood another less imposing figure. Like her, he was hovering in the shadows.

 

 

"We are the Orb of Peace, a Bajoran transport," said the young Bajoran in a confident yet respectful tone of voice.

 

 

"Come out of warp," ordered the Jem'Hadar in a gruff voice. "This is Dominion space." "I'm only the first officer," answered Shon, his voice cracking. "The captain has been summoned." "This is Dominion space," repeated the craggy face on the viewscreen.

 

 

"And we are friends of the Dominion," replied Ro, marching to the front of the bridge. Shon Navo fell into line behind her, nearly leaning on her back for support. She could feel him shivering.

 

 

"Captain Tilo at your service," she added.

 

 

"Come out of warp," ordered the Jem'Hadar.

 

 

Ro nodded to the conn and said loudly, "Full impulse. Maintain course for Bajor." On the Dominion attack ship, the shadowy figure at the rear of the cockpit leaned over the shoulder of the pilot. This one was a different species than the Jem'Hadar, although he certainly wasn't Cardassian.

 

 

He had huge ears, pale violet eyes, and an obsequious expression, like a professional politician. A Vorta, she thought, the midlevel managers of the Dominion.

 

 

"What is your business in this sector?" he asked pleasantly enough.

 

 

"We are a Bajoran trade delegation," she answered.

 

 

"In the past, we have traded with many worlds in this sector, and we hope that we can continue to do so." "We're in a state of war," answered the little man with the big ears, "as we aid our allies in their battle against the unscrupulous practices of the Federation.

 

 

You might be wise to continue on your way home without further interruption." "That is our intention," answered Ro. "Thanks to the benevolence of the Dominion." The Vorta nodded in appreciation of the compliment, then he added, "We had noticed a large number of passengers on your vessel--most of them human." "Carrying passengers is a sideline," answered Ro evenly, "especially on our return voyage. We are headed straight home." "Make certain of that." The Vorta nodded to the Jem'Hadar pilot, and the screen went blank as the link ended. A moment later, they watched the two Dominion vessels zoom off into warp.

 

 

Ro scowled. "What's their course?" "The same course we traveled," replied tactical.

 

 

"They're headed toward Galion and the Maquis settlements." "Do we resume warp speed for Bajor?" asked the helmsman, his voice quavering.

 

 

Ro gazed from the expectant faces of her young crew members to the wizened face of Admiral Sharfer. None of them ventured an opinion; none of them offered to make the decision for her. This is what she had said she wanted--total control over this vessel and the lives of a hundred people--and she had it.

 

 

Her eyes rested on the young blond woman at the tactical station: her face was tight with fear, but she kept her tears at bay. Ro knew the fear wasn't for herself but for those left behind, unaware that an enemy fleet was streaking toward them. Her moist eyes seemed to say that only an animal flees without any concern for loved ones left behind. They couldn't beat the Dominion ships to Galion, but they could try to rescue survivors.

 

 

"Alert Gallon Central," she ordered. "Tell them about the Dominion fleet. Reverse course, maximum warp." "Aye, Captain," said the conn officer with a mixture of awe and apprehension.

 

 

The boxy little transport executed a 180-degree turn and elongated into a streak of golden light before vanishing entirely.

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

THE ONCE LUSH PLANET OF GALLON floated in space like a charred tree stump, with only patches of moss left alive. The great forests and groves of olive trees were blackened swamps, and the lakes were dark with silt and mud. The cities and towns were nothing but blasted craters, still burning like hellish volcanoes.

 

 

Half a million dead, at the very least. There was open weeping on the bridge of the Orb of Peace, and Ro said nothing to discourage it. The sight was so horrible that she almost ordered it to be taken off the viewscreen, but it demanded to be witnessed.

 

 

She walked over to the navigation console and asked softly, "Any life signs?" The young man shook his head. "No, none, sir. although the extreme radiation could be affecting our sensors." "They were so much faster than us," said Admiral Shaffer in shock. "They got here in minutes, and it took us two hours." Ro strode behind her crew and admonished them, "Keep scanning for life signsmtarget the cities." In her eyes and her heart, she knew it was hopeless.

 

 

Galion was nothing but a funeral pyre, and Derek was dead, along with scores of friends and comrades.

 

 

The bridge continued to fill with passengers and their families, and the anquished cries became too great for her to bear. Ro turned to face them, holding up her hands to quiet their gasps and sobs. "You are witnesses. Without provocation, the Dominion has destroyed our homeworld, our last refuge. I submit that we are no longer innocent bystanders in this war--we're part of it." She strode to the conn and gazed over the young man's shoulder at the readouts. "It will take four days to reach Bajor, and they could destroy us anywhere along the way. On Bajor, Shon and I could fit in, but the rest of you would have to be in hiding, right under the nose of the Cardassians on Deep Space Nine. I don't think you can hide from this war--I think you have to stand up and be counted." She tapped her finger on the panel. "I say we cut straight across the DMZ to the Federation lines and offer them our help. We can be there in a few hours." "Yeah, kill the lying bastards!" cried the envoy who had spent days begging the Dominion to leave the remnants of the Maquis alone.

 

 

"Our safety--" began another man.

 

 

"Safety is illusory," answered Admiral Shaffer.

 

 

"The enemy has shown us that. We must return to the Federation." "That will mean prison for a lot of us," muttered the other admiral. A resolute yet pained shadow played across her face.

 

 

"I'm higher on their list than any of you," replied Ro, "but we have to stand by the Federation, no matter the personal risk. We certainly can't depend upon the mercy of the Dominion. Are there any life signs down there?" "No, sir," came the answer.

 

 

"Set course for Federation space, best guess," she ordered. "And turn up the lights in here." On the viewscreen of the Enterprise was a heartrending sight--a Federation starship floating in space, dark and lifeless, with several jagged rifts in her hull. The Gallant was a Nebula-class vessel, more compact than the Enterprise, with her twin nacelles located directly beneath the saucer section and a large stabilizer atop the craft. Not a light shone on the derelict vessel, and debris stretched behind it like a trail of blood.

 

 

"Life signs?" asked Captain Picard, already dreading the answer.

 

 

Data shook his head. "None, sir. There are fourteen separate breaches in the hull, and it is unlikely that any section of the ship maintained sufficient integrity to support life. The distress signal is on automatic and is fading in strength." "It looks like they used her for target practice," muttered Riker through clenched teeth.

 

 

"Log her position," ordered Picard glumly.

 

 

"Someone can tow her in later. Alert sickbay and the transporter rooms to stand down--there's no one to save here." Data frowned at his readouts. "I am receiving two new distress signals in the same vicinity at a distance of six parsecs. One is Starfleet; the other is.

 

 

Bajoran." "Set course, maximum warp," ordered Picard.

 

 

"With all this killing, it would be nice to save even one life today." Within minutes, the Enterprise was closing in on another pocket of death and destruction in the unforgiving bleakness of space. Picard could only hope that this time they would arrive soon enough to help.

 

 

"Long-range scans show hostilities in progress," reported Data. "An Ambassador-class starship, the Aurora, and an unknown Bajoran transport are engaged with a Jem'Hadar cruiser." "Shields up," ordered Picard. "As soon as we come out of warp, fire phasers and keep firing. Don't give the Jem'Hadar time to react." "Yes, sir," snapped Ensign Craycroft on tactical.

 

 

"Phasers ready." "Coming out of warp in thirty seconds," said Riker from the auxilary console. "I thought the Bajorans were neutral." "This war doesn't play favorites," replied Picard.

 

 

"On screen." The Jem'Hadar battle cruiser looked like a bullet with short fins and a vibrant blue glow along her hull.

 

 

She was chasing the Aurora through a thin, purplish gas cloud, exchanging fire with the crippled ship.

 

 

Above the fray, a rectangular transport fired a photon torpedo at the Jem'Hadar cruiser, rocking it slightly.

 

 

But the enemy had its sights set on the bigger ship, and was ignoring everything else.

 

 

The captain tapped the comm panel on his chair.

 

 

"Sickbay and transporter rooms, stand by for casualties." With skillful piloting, the Enterprise dropped out of warp matching the speed and course of the enemy, and they bombarded the cruiser with phaser fire.

 

 

Suddenly, the Dominion warship was caught in a three-way cross fire, yet the single-minded Jem'Hadar continued to pound the fleeing Aurora. To her captain's credit, Aurora never stopped firing, even as a brace of torpedoes dissolved her port nacelle. The once-proud Starfleet ship fizzled like a dud firecracker before it lurched into a fatal spin.

 

 

Picard wanted to commence rescue efforts, but they were too far away to use transporters. Unless they eliminated the Jem'Hadar cruiser, they would all suffer the same fate as the Aurora.

 

 

"Target quantum torpedoes," he ordered. "Ready to lower shields." "Torpedoes targeted," reported Ensign Craycroft.

 

 

"Shields down. Fire!" Picard could only hope that the cruiser's shields had been sutficiently softened during the battle.

 

 

Nobody breathed on the bridge of the Enterprise as the torpedoes slammed into the Jem'Hadar craft. The first two shots blistered off the enemy's shields, but the second two found their mark, chewing up the aft fins on the sleek craft. Even as explosions racked the Jem'Hadar ship, she came about and unleashed a withering blast of phaser fire that engulfed both the Enterprise and the plucky Bajoran transport.

 

 

As the bridge rocked, the captain hung on to the arms of his chair. "Keep firing!" he shouted.

 

 

Craycroft staggered back to her feet and pounded her console. At once, another bracket of torpedoes streaked from the saucer of the Enterprise into the Dominion ship. Energy rippled along the hull of the doomed cruiser, finally reaching her antimatter core, and she exploded in a violent shower of gas, flame, and debris.

 

 

"Captain," said Data. "The Bajoran craft is severely damaged. They are losing life-support." "All transporter rooms, lock on to the Bajoran craft and begin transporting," ordered Picard. "Med teams, report to transporter rooms." He turned to Data. "The Aurora--" As if in answer to his unfinished question, the Ambassador-class starship erupted in an explosion greater than that which had claimed the Jem'Hadar ship. All of space seemed torn apart by the blast, which sent waves of sparkling confetti swirling into space.

 

 

Picard's shoulders slumped, and he turned away from the tragic sight on the viewscreen. "No survivors," said Riker glumly.

 

 

"Log it." Picard turned back to the viewscreen, half-expecting the Bajoran transport to explode as well. But the small, unassuming vessel just hung there in space, still intact.

 

 

"Captain," said Data with a trace of puzzlement, "we have transported ninety-five wounded people off the Bajoran ship, and most of them are human." "Human?" asked Picard. "Not Bajoran?" "Two of them are Bajoran," replied the android.

 

 

Riker frowned. "Maybe that explains why they were fighting the Dominion." "Is the transport salvageable?" asked Picard.

 

 

Data nodded. "Yes, sir. Except for the failure of life-support and artificial-gravity systems, it is relatively undamaged." "If they're civilians, they'll need their ship," suggested Riker. "She's small enough that she won't slow us down." "Ready tractor beam," ordered Picard. "Let's be thankful that we were in time to save a few lives. Set course for the Kreel system. Maintain subspace silence." The captain wasn't anxious to find out how the battle had fared. From what he had seen today, he hardly expected victory. No doubt they had widened the front and won a few skirmishes here and there, but he couldn't be optimistic that they had dealt a serious blow to the Dominion and Cardassian forces.

 

 

They were fighting now to keep from being overrun, nothing more.

 

 

"Tractor beam locked on," reported the conn.

 

 

"Course laid in." "Maximum warp," said the captain. "Engage." The crew of the Enterprise were as brave as they come, yet there was a palpable sense of relief on the bridge once they were headed back to Federation space. Picard knew they could keep fighting--there was no shortage of Dominion ships along the ragged frontwbut his crew was exhausted. Sickbay was full of wounded civilians, and the Enterprise still had damage to repair. Despite a gnawing sense of guilt over having survived when so many other brave captains and crews hadn't, Picard knew it was time to call it a day.

 

 

He was rubbing his eyes and wondering if he had the energy to get up and get himself a cup of tea, when the comm panel beeped. "Picard here," he answered wearily.

 

 

"Jean-Luc," said the familiar voice of Beverly Crusher. "I think you should come to sickbay." "Is there a problem?" "We've got gurneys spilling out into the corridor, but that's normal these days." She paused. "We beamed over somebody you know from the transport.

 

 

I've sent for a security team." That piqued his interest, and Picard rose to his feet.

 

 

"I'11 be right there. Number One, you have the bridge." Ro Laren/Picard stared in amazement at the unconscious figure stretched out on the observation table in sickbay. As if it wasn't crowded enough, four gold-collared security officers stood guard around her table and the beds of several prominent Maquis officers. The captain never thought he would see his former lieutenant again, not in this lifetime, but here she was.

 

 

Unbidden, a host of memories came cascading back to Captain Picard. He remembered when young Ensign Ro had first come aboard the Enterprise-D--she was already under a cloud and barely hanging on to her Starfleet commission. With her independent attitude and spotty record, Ro had instantly earned the distrust of Will Riker and half the crew, but they needed her to infiltrate a cadre of Bajoran terrorists.

 

 

She had succeeded in that difficult task as she had in so many others, until she had finally become one of his most trusted officers.

 

 

Then she had betrayed him and Starfleet.

 

 

Or was it Starfleet that had betrayed Ro? After promoting her and training her in antiterrorist tactics, Admiral Nechayev had thrust her into a volatile situation in the Cardassian Demilitarized Zone.

 

 

Perhaps it was inevitable that a renegade and underdog like Ro would sympathize with the ultimate underdogs--the Maquis. At any rate, she had refused to betray them, opting instead to betray Starfleet.

 

 

Fighting Federation colonists and former comrades had been the most painful duty of Picard's career. But like so many other chapters of his life, it paled in comparison with the awful conflict that now engulfed them.

 

 

He turned to Beverly Crusher. "Will she be all right?" "She'll recover," answered the doctor. "Another few seconds without air, and none of them would have survived. I can bring most of them back to consciousness, but do you think they'll be a security risk?" Picard shook his head. "They were fighting the Dominion when we rescued them. I'm inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt." He turned to the security officers. "Wait outside, on alert." After the security detail had cleared out, it was a bit easier to move in sickbay, and Picard stationed himself at Ro's bedside. He nodded to Beverly, and she administered a hypospray to the Bajoran's neck.

 

 

Slowly, wincing with fear and confusion, Ro Laren opened her eyes and struggled to sit up. When her vision focused on the concerned face of Captain Picard, she smiled weakly.

 

 

"Then it's true," she said in amazement, "this really is the Enterprise. Am I under arrest?" "At the moment, you're under my care," said Beverly. "But I wouldn't worry too much about Captain Picard went to considerable trouble to rescue you and your shipmates." "Thank you." Ro sat up and looked around. "How are my passengers?" "We saved all but five," answered Beverly. "Should I log you down as captain?" "Yes," she answered hoarsely. "Can we talk somewhere?" "Of course," said Captain Picard. "We have a lounge on this ship, much like the old Ten-Forward room. It's not the same as it used to be--with the war and all--but we could still go there." The captain looked at Crusher, who nodded her assent.

 

 

He tapped his comm badge. "Picard to Troi." "Yes, Captain?" answered a lilting feminine voice.

 

 

"Counselor, meet me in the lounge right away." "Yes, sir." Ro swung her long legs over the side of the table and stood uneasily, holding the table for support. "Don't trust me, Captain? Have to make sure I'm telling the truth?" "We are at war," said Picard gravely.

 

 

"Understood. Do you mind if I hold your arm? I'm a little wobbly." "Of course." Like the gentleman he was, Picard offered a steady arm to his former foe.

 

 

It sure isn't like it used to be, thought Ro Laren as she surveyed the deserted lounge. Only a small corner of the cavernous room was lit, with only a handful of tables open for business. Even so, there was nobody in the lounge but herself, Captain Picard, and Deanna Troi, who looked as confident and beautiful as always.

 

 

Like Picard, Troi was dressed in a different Starfleet uniform than the ones she recalled. Evidently Starfleet's sartorial requirements had changed since Ro's departure.

 

 

Captain Picard returned to their table with a tray full of beverages, dispensed from a replicator. "It's self-service, I'm afraid," said the captain apologetically. "Table service is a luxury we don't have anymore. Nor do we have much time to sit and chat." "I never thought I would say that it was good to see someone from Starfleet," said Ro, grabbing her glass of tomato juice. "But it's awfully good to see someone from Starfleet." Deanna folded her hands and smiled pleasantly.

 

 

"Suppose you tell us, in your own words, what happened to you?" Ro set her jaw and nodded. "To keep from incriminating myself, I won't tell you what I was doing while we were still fighting the Federation. But life became peaceful for us after the Klingons went to war with the Cardassians, and Starfleet was fighting the Borg and others. Everyone forgot about us--we were even able to return to some of our old settlements." She took a sip of tomato juice and smiled wistfully.

 

 

~'I used to grow my own tomatoes--they were much better than this." Ro paused and took a deep breath before continuing. "You can guess what happened to us. When the Dominion came, they rearmed the Cardassians and turned them loose on their old enemies. We tried to be neutral, like the Bajorans, because we were all tired of fighting. It didn't work.

 

 

They destroyed our settlements and massacred us by the thousands." "I'm sorry," said Deanna with heartfelt sympathy.

 

 

Ro shrugged. "It's happening everywhere, isn't it?

 

 

The Maquis are nothing special anymore--just a bunch of pathetic refugees. Fortunately, I'm experienced at being a refugee--I know there's a time to run and a time to fight. We set out to run to Bajor, but we decided to fight instead. When we came upon that starship in trouble, we joined in." "That was either very brave, or very foolish," said Picard.

 

 

"That's the story of my life," answered Ro, leaning back in her chair. "So... am I under arrest?" "No," answered Picard resolutely. "We haven't got the luxury of holding grudges. I don't need to tell you that the war is going badly." Ro scowled. "I'm afraid I have some more bad news for you, Captain. The Dominion is building an artificial wormhole deep in Cardassian space." "What?" asked Picard, a stricken look in his face.

 

 

"Are you certain about this?" "I'm certain." She looked at Deanna Troi. "Tell him I'm certain." Deanna sighed. "She's certain." "They may be using Federation prisoners to build it," added Ro. "Slave labor." Picard rose to his feet, his cup of tea untouched.

 

 

"Could you repeat this for my staff?. They may have questions." The Bajoran nodded solemnly. "I will, but I want clemency for all my passengers." "That's not mine to grant," answered the captain.

 

 

"But we have your transport in tow, and Data says it can be repaired. Excuse me." He strode from the lounge, his back stiff with resolve. Ro watched him leave, then shook her head in amazement. "Still the same Captain Picard." "Yes," agreed Deanna. "Still the best there is." Ro Laren finished her report and dropped her hands to her sides, gazing expectantly at the officers gathered in the observation lounge. In her face was that odd mixture of intensity and indifference which Picard had come to expect from her. She hadn't given them any more than a secondhand account, hadn't furnished any proof, yet her statement was chilling, especially the account of ships full of Federation prisoners. They all knew that to be a tragic fact.

 

 

Still the captain could see doubt in the eyes of some of his staff, especially Will Riker's. Or perhaps Will's troubled expression was due to the disastrous implications of Ro's story. If the Dominion possessed an artificial wormhole in Cardassian space, then the mines in front of the Bajoran wormhole would be worthless. In fact, the Bajoran wormhole itself would be worthless, and ripe for destruction. The Dominion could stop protecting Deep Space Nine and move on to other objectives, such as Earth.

 

 

"Any questions?" concluded Ro.

 

 

"Why would they build this thing so close to the Badlands?" asked Riker suspiciously.

 

 

"I would guess that they assumed the Badlands would obscure it from your long-range sensors." "That would do it," agreed Geordi La Forge.

 

 

"Could you locate this artificial wormhole on a chart?" asked Riker.

 

 

"Approximately," answered Ro. "I've never seen it, but I know Sector 283 fairly well." Riker scowled. "You're sure of the reliability of the person who told you this?" Ro's jaw stiflened, and her eyes became flint-cold.

 

 

"I'm sure of everything that man told me. He never lied, had no reason to. He was certain that the Federation was going to lose this war, which is why he wanted to make friends with the Dominion." After an uncomfortable silence, Picard managed a smile. "Thank you, Captain Ro. Ensign Craycroft will escort you back to sickbay. I believe that most of your passengers have recovered." The lean Bajoran glanced at the gleaming models encased on the wall of the observation lounge--all ships named Enterprise--and she smiled wistfully.

 

 

"Many times I thought about how I was such a fool to throw all of this away. And what happens? I find you--the Enterprise--in the same condition as me; we're all fighting for our lives. It's funny how time reduces everything to the essentials." "I don't see anything funny about it," muttered Riker. His scowl softened slightly. "But I'm very glad that we were able to rescue you, and thank you for coming to the aid of the Aurora." "We can't choose where to die, only how to die." Ro Laren glanced at the security officer at her side. "I'm ready to go." Ensign Craycroft touched a panel. The door opened, and she escorted the Bajoran out.

 

 

As soon as the door snapped shut again, Riker declared, "She's still a traitor. On top of that, we have absolutely no proof of her story. It could be a trap." "Counselor Troi detected no prevarication." Troi nodded in confirmation. Captain Picard paced the length of the gleaming conference table. "We knew they were taking prisoners, but we didn't know why.

 

 

Ro is the first person we've interviewed who has actually been living behind enemy lines." "Judging by her general health," said Beverly Crusher, "she hasn't been living in luxury." "I believe she is telling the truth," added Deanna Troi. "At least as far as she knows it." "That's the catch," said Picard. "Is this fact or rumor? Either way, we can't ignore it. Data, is an artificial wormhole even possible?" "In theory, yes," answered the android. "Three years ago, a team of Trill scientists, led by Doctor Lenara Kahn, set out to answer that very question.

 

 

Using the Bajoran wormhole as a model, they determined that constructing an artificial wormhole would be possible, although there are many problems to be overcome. Without any working prototypes, one would have to construct a verteron collider of at least eight kilometers in length. I could give you a more exact estimate, if you wish." "Perhaps later," said Picard. Geordi was leaning forward, anxious to say something. "Mr. La Forge?" "In my opinion," said the chief engineer, "the biggest problem is not the size of the thing but the exotic construction material you would need to establish a permanent site. At the mouth of an artificial wormhole, the outward radial pressure would be tremendous--like the tension at the center of the most massive neutron star. We haven't got a building material that would stand up to that kind of pressure." "Geordi, are you forgetting Corzanium?" asked the android.

 

 

The engineer grinned, his pale artificial retinas glowing with mirth. "Come on, Data, there isn't more than a teaspoonful of Corzanium in the whole Federation. It has to be quantum-stepped out of a black hole with a tractor beam run through a metaphasic shield enhancer. But if you had enough Corzanium, I suppose, it would do the trick." "The Dominion has considerable resources," muttered Picard. "I'm afraid they also have the personnel, some of it ours. So this artificial wormhole could be a reality?" "Yes, sir," answered Data. "I believe we should take Captain Ro's report seriously." That simple declaration dropped a pall over the meeting in the observation lounge. No one had to reiterate what a disaster it would be if the Dominion could bring through more Jem'Hadar warships, more unctuous Vorta, and more shapeshifting Changelings.

 

 

"We've got to go there and see for ourselves," declared Picard. "If it exists, we have to destroy it." "Captain," said Riker, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "I feel I should point out that what you're proposing is... a suicide mission." The captain sighed. "And if we fail to go, and she's right? That would be suicide for the entire Federation.

 

 

I'm sending a message to Starfleet, asking them for permission to investigate Ro's report. Thank you for your opinions--you are dismissed." Ro Laren sat in a small therapy room with Shon Navo, helping the young Bajoran exercise the repaired tendons in his right elbow and right knee. Of the injuries her crew had received, his were fairly mild, but the youth felt ostracized on this ship full of humans flying under the despised Starfleet insignia.

 

 

Shon had known nothing but hatred for Starfleet for most of his life, and now he was being forced to depend upon their protection.

 

 

He bent and straightened his elbow as Ro monitored his progress on a medical tricorder. "Very good," she said. "Ten more times, and we'll work on your knee." Shon let his arm flop onto the table. "What's the point? We're all going to be killed, anyway--or put in prison." "We don't know that. In our case, there's a good chance we could be repatriated to Bajor." "If we could ever get close to it," muttered Shon.

 

 

Ro frowned, unable to refute the fact that they were a long way from home, if indeed they could call anyplace "home." Being homeless had taken its toll, and Shon was much like her--cynical, disillusioned, with no respect for authority. Now there would be more refugees, more prisoners, more damaged and neglected lives.

 

 

She took a sip from her glass of tomato juice and replied slowly, "The humans and their allies are not bad people. In fact, they trust too much, always looking for the best, even in Cardassians. If they survive this war, perhaps they won't take so much for granted. The important thing is to realize that we're all on the same side now." Shon's bravado slipped for a moment, and he looked like the frightened youth he was. "But won't they send us to a camp or a prison... just to wait until the Dominion finally gets us? Everybody says they're losing the war!" "Then look out for yourself. Fight if you have to, save people if you can, but survive. For once, it's a good time to be Bajoran." She rubbed his shoulder in a friendly gesture.

 

 

The door slid open, and Ro turned to see Captain Picard standing in the corridor, a concerned look on his face. Out of habit, Ro stiflened, tempted to bolt to her feet and stand at attention. Then she relaxed as she realized that they were now both captains of their own ships, a respect he had shown her in front of his crew. If she could only be sure that the rest of Starfleet would be as forgiving as Captain Picard, she would feel more comfortable about this new alliance.

 

 

He smiled at the boy as he entered. "I'm sorry to intrude, but it's rather urgent that I speak to Captain Ro. I'm sure one of the orderlies would be happy to help you with your therapy." Ro gazed at the young Bajoran and nodded. With barely concealed hatred, the boy glared at Picard as he left, but the stalwart captain was too absorbed by more pressing concerns to notice.

 

 

"What's going to become of my passengers and crew?" asked Ro.

 

 

"They'll be protected, but if we lose the war--" Picard's glower finished his sentence. "All I know is, if you're correct about the Dominion building an artificial wormhole, then all is lost. Unless we destroy it. I've asked Starfleet for permission to investigate your report, and their response was... not entirely to my liking." He sighed. "They refuse to allow us to risk the Enterprise on such a mission. That leaves us the option of using another ship, preferably one which isn't Starfleet and won't arouse suspicion." Ro cocked her head and smiled. "Such as the Orb of Peace?" "Precisely. Mr. La Forge says it can be repaired in thirty hours; that includes adding several improvements. A small, handpicked crew could slip into Cardassian space and deal with this threat, being careful not to endanger Federation prisoners." Ro's smile grew larger. "Now you're talking about a dangerous spy mission, followed by a major act of sabotage. If we're captured, do you know how long the Cardassians will torture us? We'll be begging for death." "I'm well versed in Cardassian torture," answered Picard grimly. "If you're worried about your crew and passengers, I'll make sure they're treated fairly; they'll be compensated for the Orb of Peace. I'm only asking for the ship, not your participation--although I would welcome it." "I go with the ship. Besides, none of you know the Badlands like I do." Hesitantly, Ro asked, "What will be our chain of command?" "You'll be captain of the ship, as you are," answered Picard. 'TII be in charge of the mission. I often find myself in your position with somebody else in charge of the mission, so this will be a nice change of pace for me." "Do you have any Bajorans on board?" "No, but Dr. Crusher has gotten remarkably good at disguises over the years. She can alter humans to pass for Bajorans, even on scans. We'll have a crew of fifteen, which is all I can spare. You know this mission has to succeed, don't you?" The smile faded from Ro's gaunt face, and she looked like a soldier once again. "Yes. But you're asking for too much if you think we can sneak into Cardassian space, find this thing, blow it up, and save all the prisoners. We have to be realistic--the prisoners are lost." "The mission comes first," agreed Picard somberly.

 

 

"All we can do for the prisoners is to scout the situation. Only by defeating the Dominion can we avenge the suffering of our comrades." Ro lifted her glass of tomato juice and gazed into the disheartened but determined eyes of Captain Picard. "Here's to vengeance."

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

SAM LAVELLE FLOATED WEIGHTLESSLY through the void, his tethered space suit feeling like a gown of the finest silk against his chapped, grimy skin. The umbilical cord brought him air, security, and close scrutiny.

 

 

Only when he tried to lift his arms too far above his head did he feel the restrictions of the cumbersome suit. Then he would relax and let himself float until he had found a better position in which to work on the exposed metal joint. He avoided using the jets on his suit, because they often caused him to overshoot his mark, losing precious seconds.

 

 

The large spanner in his hand had no weight--it felt like a feather--but it would make a formidable weapon, if he could only plant his feet. For the hundredth time that day, Sam fantasized about bringing the wrench crashing upon the head of his Jem'Hadar overseer.

 

 

"Number zero-five-nine-six," said a gruff voice in his ear. "You are falling behind the prescribed timetable. You have fourteen minutes to tighten that seal, or you will lose your privileges." Sam held up his hand and waved, wondering if they could see that his middle finger was extended above the others. Probably not, with the thick, segmented gloves covering his hands. "Privileges" was a euphemism for food, water, oxygen, and a bunk--the bare minimum that was needed to stay alive. Those who lost their privileges only did so once or twice before they were expelled into space with the garbage.

 

 

His mind still wandering, Sam Lavelle stared down the length of the massive verteron collider, a skeletal tube over ten kilometers long and two kilometers wide. It was hard to envision the entire structure when all one could see of it were a few meters of spindly supports, surrounded by the daunting blackness of space.

 

 

The sight of thousands of space-suited workers, clinging to the structure like an army of inept spiders, gave him some perspective on its incredible length.

 

 

The spectre of sleek Cardassian shuttlecrafts patrolling the center of the tube gave him some idea of its immense width. The fact that he hadn't moved since the Jem'Hadar had ordered him to do so made Sam think that he was prepared to die.

 

 

But he couldn't die, not now, when so many of his mates depended upon him. Through default and the force of his own personality, Sam had become the spokesperson for five hundred prisoners in Pod 18.

 

 

He harbored few illusions that he was any more noble than his fellow captives, or any more likely to survive his imprisonment, but he was willing to speak up for them. For some reason, his jailers hadn't been troubled enough to kill him... yet.

 

 

He latched on to the bolt with his spanner, read the digital printout on the handle, and tightened until the seal reached the prescribed tension. Two meters away, a cylindrical verteron accelerator looked down at him like a bizarre cannon, reminding him of the war. As far as he knew, the war could be over and the entire Federation enslaved. On the other hand, the frenetic pace of the work and the Dominion's single-minded adherence to its schedules made it clear that the Federation was still a threat. The Dominion needed this wormhole.

 

 

And a remarkable achievement it was--a bridge to another quadrant, tens of thousands of light-years away. The artificial wormhole was a true mixture of Dominion and Federation technology, built by Federation and Dominion hands. It should have been a symbol of peace and cooperation; instead it sounded the death knell of the Federation.

 

 

Like thousands of other men and woman drifting inside the verteron collider or slaving in the laboratories or factories of the complex, Sam wondered how he could sabotage his own labor. Unfortunately, their work was tightly supervised, then inspected by Vorta engineers. Only when they started actual tests would they know if anyone had been successful in sabotaging the artificial wormhole. Sam waited for his moment to play the hero, but each passing day only brought the Dominion closer to its goals.

 

 

Like a robot trained to labor without thinking about the consequences, Sam finished checking the seal and logging it as completed. This was the last task to be completed on this segment, and he pushed himself away and drifted in space. There was no sensation in his body except lethargy and a gnawing hunger that could have been either his stomach or his soul.

 

 

Sam straightened his umbilical tether, watching it stretched back to the maintenance pod in the junction of six supports. "Ready to come in," he reported.

 

 

"There will be a delay in retrieval," answered the gruff voice of his overseer.

 

 

Sam breathed a loud sigh, which echoed in the hollow recesses of his helmet. He had just been threatened that if he didn't finish on time he'd be punished, and now he had been told to continue drifting in space. Wondering what the delay could be, Sam twisted around to look in the opposite direction.

 

 

That's when he saw it--a Cardassian tanker moving into position at the mouth of the verteron collider. Sam was no physicist, just a decent helmsman and navigator, but he knew that the gravitational and temporal forces would be greatest at the exit point of the wormhole. Only a few prisoners, kept in isolation, had seen the plans to construct that section of the collider. He assumed that it had to be a weak point in the machine, where sabotage could be very effective. Now he was about to watch an important development--from a distance of half a kilometer.

 

 

He turned his dark brown eyes upon the figures in the distance.

 

 

Using the miniature jets on their suits, a squadron of workers maneuvered themselves into tight formation around the freight hatch at the aft of the tanker.

 

 

There had to be fifteen white-garbed prisoners and an equal number of Jem'Hadar guards in gray space suits. Something big was coming off that tanker. With thousands of workers spread across ten kilometers, it was impossible to say that one spot was the center of attention, but Sam could feel the work halt as every eye and every viewscreen focused on the activity at the tanker.

 

 

The hatch opened, and what looked like a gleaming beam of sunlight emerged from the recesses of the tanker. Sam wished he could see more, but he also had a feeling that he didn't want to be much closer than he was. When it cleared the hatch, the stack of pure energy looked to be about ten meters long and a meter wide. Like the pallbearers at a funeral, the workers took positions around the blazing object and guided it away from the tanker.

 

 

Sam guessed that the mysterious material was encased in a stasis field, or perhaps a forcefield. He didn't think even the Dominion could use antimatter as a building material, but they treated this substance with the same respect.

 

 

The Cardassian tanker suddenly fired thrusters and tried to pull away. It got only a few meters when the space between the tanker and the glowing cargo rippled like a Texas highway in the summer heat. Sam caught his breath, knowing this chain reaction couldn't be planned. Sure enough, the glowing material increased in brightness until it seared his eyes.

 

 

Squinting, Sam could see the white-suited workers firing their jets and fleeing in panic. Ignoring the danger, the gray-suited Jem'Hadar began firing on the fleeing workers. Phaser beams crisscrossed the blackness of space, and several of his colleagues exploded in their suits like helium balloons set afire. He gasped and held out his arms, unable to do anything but watch the tragedy unfold.

 

 

Those who escaped the massacre did not escape the deadly chain reaction that followed. The stasis field flickered out, and the glowing material within it expanded like a solar flare, engulfing the workers, the Jem'Hadar, the Cardassian tanker, and the collider.

 

 

The tanker exploded in a vivid burst of silver confetti and golden gas clouds, and the mouth of the collider was consumed by a monstrous fireball.

 

 

Sam braced himself as the wake of the explosion struck him and flipped him over and over like a leaf caught in the wind. He could feel a momentary warming in his suit, which worried him until he crashed hard into a metal pylon. He caromed off the structure and spun to the end of his tether, which jerked him like a puppet on a string. He watched the tether stretch to a dangerous length, and he jammed on his jets in time to compensate.

 

 

Now Sam was hurtling in the opposite direction as debris from the explosion shot past him.

 

 

Miraculously, none of it ripped his suit, and he was able to pilot himself back into a controlled drift behind a thick pylon. He finally had time to glance behind him, where it was complete chaos along the entire length of the collider.

 

 

Quickly Cardassian and Jem'Hadar ships converged on the scene of the disaster, but there was no one and nothing to be saved. People who had been his shipmates and fellow prisoners now floated in the void, little more than scraps of charred flesh and cloth. The Cardassian tanker was a quickly expanding sphere of dust.

 

 

"Stay where you are!" bellowed an angry voice in his ear. "Do not move!" Sam barked a macabre, frustrated laugh. Scores of lives had been snuffed out in an instant of Cardassian carelessness, and all his captors could think about was preventing the escape of their slaves, most of whom were floating helplessly in space. Where could they go? How far could they run in a space suit containing a few minutes' worth of breathable air, minus the cord?

 

 

If it weren't so tragic, it wouM be funny, thought Sam Lavelle. Maybe this accident was a harbinger of good luck, and the artificial wormhole would never operate as planned. That might be good news for the Federation, but thousands of Federation prisoners would then become expendable, even more so than they were already. If it failed, no doubt the Dominion would take out their anger and frustration on the prisoners.

 

 

We're all dead anyway, Sam decided as he floated aimlessly, watching a misshapen dust cloud in the distance. That massive cloud was called the Badlands, and it had once been a refuge of the Maquis. Now it was a tempting mirage, promising them escape and freedom, when there was little point in thinking about such goals.

 

 

His life had ended with the capture of the Aizawa, the cruiser on which he and his best friend, Taurik, had been serving as bridge officers. Sam couldn't help but wonder if their previous ship, the Enterprise, had survived the war so far. He hadn't met any prisoners from the Enterprise or heard of its fate, but that didn't mean much. By now, the Enterprise could be a cloud of space junk, like the Cardassian tanker which sparkled all around him.

 

 

He thought back to those days aboard the Enterprise, where his closest friends included Taurik, Sito Jaxa, and Alyssa Ogawa. With all their neurotic fretting over crew evaluations and promotions, those days couldn't be called carefree, but that group had real camaraderie. They were gung-ho. Jaxa's death on a covert mission had been their first taste of reality, and of the sacrifices they would be called upon to make.

 

 

Something twinkled in the corner of his eye, and Sam was glad to turn his attention elsewhere. He twisted around to see a squat, bronze shuttlecraft hovering over his head. "Uncouple," commanded a voice. "Prepare to be retrieved." Sam sighed and closed off the intake valve of his umbilical cord. He attached the spanner to its holder, unscrewed the valve, and watched the cord retract slowly into the maintenance pod. Sam floated free in space for a few seconds, thinking this was as close to freedom as he would ever come. A familiar tingle along his body alerted him that the transporter beam was scrambling his molecules.

 

 

He materialized inside the transporter room of the shuttlecraft, with three Jem'Hadar guards training their weapons at him. "Move!" ordered one of them, brandishing his phaser in a threatening manner.

 

 

Sam staggered off the transporter platform, suddenly clumsy and leaden in his space suit. His captors looked particularly edgy today, and usually he was met by only one or two of thein, not three. Under the cold gaze of their pinched, spiny faces, Sam quickly stripped down to nothing. He dropped his suit into a chute in the deck and stood there, shivering in his nakedness.

 

 

Modesty and decency had long been abandoned in this weightless and silent hell, and Sam was ushered into a holding cell where three male and four female prisoners huddled, all naked. They looked wild-eyed and spooked from their recent brush with disaster.

 

 

At one time, seeing young women nude would have excited the handsome lieutenant, but now they were nothing but victims, stripped of their humanity and will. They were his sisters in this dark tragedy, not objects of desire. All of them needed a bath, and there was no pretext of trying to maintain proper appearance. Like most of the males, Sam sported a dark, ragged beard. Even Taurik, who was normally as fastidious as any other Vulcan, looked unkempt as he sat stoically with his naked back resting against a cold bulkhead.

 

 

Sam nodded wearily to his fellow prisoners as he slumped down beside Taurik. Just outside the forcefield entrance of the cell, an armed Jem'Hadar stood watching them. Sam wondered if he would allow the prisoners to talk. Some Jem'Hadar guards didn't care, while others strictly forbade talking among the prisoners until they were locked safely in their pods.

 

 

Cardassian guards, who loved to be overbearing, would often beat prisoners for talking.

 

 

Deciding to test the guard, Sam turned to Taurik and asked softly, "What did you think of that explosion?" The Vulcan cocked his head thoughtfully, as if he had been asked a normal question under normal circumstances. "It appeared to result from the mishandling of a very volatile material. Possibly a stasis field was disturbed. I could only speculate on the material they are using to build the mouth of the wormhole." A loud shuffling grabbed their attention, and the prisoners looked up to see two Jem'Hadar guards dragging an injured human with burns over most of his naked body. They carried the injured man like a bag of garbage and flung his body into an open cell. If he was still alive, it couldn't possibly be for long-- unless he got treatment soon.

 

 

One of the male prisoners began to weep. They all knew the man would never get treatment, or even a funeral. He would die, alone and forgotten, in a cage.

 

 

Sam turned to the man and said, "It's all right. Stay alive, so we can remember this." "I don't want to stay alive," rasped the man in despair. "And I certainly never want to remember any of this!" "He's a collaborator," hissed a woman, glaring at Sam.

 

 

"That is inaccurate," replied Taurik. "Lieutenant Lavelie has volunteered to be Liaison Officer of Pod Eighteen, which does afford him more access to our captors than a typical prisoner has. But in no sense is he aiding and abetting the enemy as a true collaborator would do. He argues on our behalf." "Never mind, Taurik," muttered Sam. "Let them think what they want." "This one is all right," grumbled the oldest of the four women, a lean Klingon with scars over most of her body. "You want a collaborator, you take that turncoat Trill--Enrak Grofl Give me a knife, and I will slice the worm right out of him!" "I believe Professor Grof is an unjoined Trill," said Taurik. "But I agree with you--he is a collaborator in the accepted sense of the word." Sam looked at his friend, wondering if he had detected a trace of bitterness in the Vulcan's tone. He couldn't blame Taurik if he was bitter, because Enrak Grof was close to solving one of science's most elusive puzzles, unraveling the mysteries of wormholes and actually re-creating a tunnel through space and time.

 

 

In exchange for this privilege, Grof was collaborating with the enemy. His name was all over schematics and memos, and he seemed to rank in importance with the Vorta engineers. He was particularly useful in telling the Dominion what kind of work best suited their prisoners.

 

 

Come to think of it, maybe Grof did deserve to be gutted with a dull Klingon knife.

 

 

Taurik shook his head. "It is highly unlikely that any of us will get an opportunity to harm Professor Grof. To my knowledge, few prisoners have seen him since his capture on Deep Space Nine." "How was he captured?" asked the youngest woman. Swapping capture stories was a favorite pastime among the prisoners.

 

 

"He refused to abandon his experiments on the Bajoran wormhole," answered Taurik, "and was captured when the Dominion took over. This would indicate that his work is more important to him than anything else." "Even his honor," hissed the Klingon woman. "He may not have a worm inside of him, but he is a worm." "They pulled me out of an escape pod," said the youngest woman with a haunted look in her pale eyes.

 

 

Her freckles went all the way down her back.

 

 

A clank and a slight shudder informed Sam that they had docked at the pod complex. Although he had never seen it from the outside, he imagined that it looked like a giant model of a complex molecule, with long, narrow shafts connecting large, windowless spheres in which both they and their jailers lived.

 

 

The place felt decentralized, with easily defended modules instead of a central hub. At any rate, it was unheard of for anyone to escape from the pod complex. Where would they go, surrounded by freezing space?

 

 

Sam often thought about stealing a ship, but their captors never left the shuttlecraft docked for more than a few seconds. Both the Jem'Hadar and Cardassians were skilled and experienced jailers, and they considered every possibility.

 

 

"Lucky devils," muttered one of the men. "The ones who died, I mean." No one disputed the man's morbid assessment.

 

 

Some days, it did seem as if death was a preferable option to numbing, soulless labor that would only benefit the enemy. The war and imprisonment had made death a constant fixture of their lives, like the darkness of space.

 

 

Armed Jem'Hadar gathered around the cell, and one' of them turned off the forcefield. Waving their weapons, they ushered the prisoners out of the cell and into the gangway. Most of the prisoners made a point of not looking at the dying man in the adjoining cell, but Sam pointed at him.

 

 

"Can't you do something to help him?" demanded Sam.

 

 

"He is damaged," replied a Jem'Hadar. "Move along." Sam thought about arguing, but the Jem'Hadar treated their own with the same disregard. The strong survived, and the weak were best weeded out. Besides, to die in the service of the Founders was the greatest reward of all for a Jem'Hadar, and why should prisoners be any different? Did they grieve the loss of their comrades in the accident? No. Their only reaction was to increase security and cut short the work shift.

 

 

He followed the others down the gangway, through the hatch, and into the freight pod. Situated near the outer bulkhead, the hold was freezing, and the prisoners hurried to grab frayed white jumpsuits from a rack of used clothing. They gratefully covered their shivering bodies.

 

 

The woman who had accused Sam of being a collaborator gave him an embarrassed glance. He nodded, knowing the glance was as close as he would ever come to receiving an apology. In this place, distrust was easier to come by than hope. The guards motioned the females into the turbolift marked with vertical red stripes, and the men shuffled silently toward the turbolift with the horizontal blue stripes.

 

 

There was a good chance they would never see each other again.

 

 

Sam had once demanded that the women and the men be housed together, but a Jem'Hadar had informed him that pregnant women would have to be killed. That was as far as the request went.

 

 

Taurik, Sam, and the other man entered the lift and waited for the door to close. The Jem'Hadar guards were smart--they never rode the turbolifts with the prisoners, preferring to avoid tight places where their charges could jump them and take their weapons.

 

 

Come to think of it, Sam had never known the Jem'Hadar to be careless or make mistakes. They would fight to the death if ordered to do so, but it would be a controlled, measured suicide.

 

 

As the men rode in the cramped turbolift, Sam wondered for the hundredth time if there was any escape from the seamless chamber. A prisoner named Neko had once told him that he could escape from the turbolift, but Sam had never seen Neko again after that boast.

 

 

The door opened, and a gruff voice said, "Prisoner three-six-one-nine, this is Pod Fifteen. Exit now." The man who envied the dead shuffled off the lift and vanished down a narrow corridor.

 

 

When the door shut, Sam and Taurik continued their diagonal journey. The long turbolift rides were the main reason why Sam envisioned the complex as being individual pods separated by long shafts. Not that it made much difference, but it was something to think about when a person was trying to avoid thinking.

 

 

"It has been a difficult day," said Taurik in the Vulcan equivalent of small talk.

 

 

"Yes, it has been," agreed Sam. "And the most difficult days are ahead of us." Somehow, before their work was done, they would have to revolt and try to destroy the artificial wormhole. Certainly it would be the day they all died in utter futility, but the effort had to be mademor they couldn't live with themselves. But each day, if they could be called days, slithered by with lethargy and hopelessness as the prisoners' constant companions.

 

 

The door slid open, and a gruff voice said, "Prisoners zero-five-nine-six and zero-five-nine-seven, this is Pod Eighteen. Exit now." Sam and Taurik filed off the turbolift into the dimly lit corridor which led to their barracks. After a walk through a featureless hallway, they came upon a narrow metal hatch, which snapped open at their approach. Sam entered a high-ceiling room which always reminded him of the gymnasium in the basement of his church in Brooklyn. It had the same sort of Spartan, no-nonsense utility.

 

 

Five hundred bedrolls lay on the floor, and most of them were occupied with bored male prisoners representing a score of Federation species, from blueskinned Andorians to beaked Saurians. They sat staring at the observation lenses along the ceiling, from where, it was assumed, the guards stared down at them.

 

 

Half a dozen prisoners rushed Sam and Taurik as they entered. "Did you see it? We heard there was an accident! What exactly happened out there?" they demanded in a babble of voices.

 

 

Sam motioned them to be calm, then he told them what he had witnessed, not mentioining how many prisoners had been caught in the explosion.

 

 

"Were there many casualties?" asked a young ensign.

 

 

Sam shrugged. "Only a few of ours, but they lost a tanker full of Cardassians and a bunch of Jem'Hadar guards." "All right!" crowed a prisoner, thrusting his fist into the air. An excited discussion ensued.

 

 

Taurik shot Sam a look that said that he recognized the lie but wouldn't correct it. Like all of them, the Vulcan had learned to deal differently with the world since becoming a slave laborer. Taurik was willing to overlook the truth if it gave some comfort to his dispirited comrades.

 

 

A twinge of pain reminded Sam that he had crashed hard into the metal supports, and he rubbed his shoulder. "What time is it?" he muttered. "Time for chow?" "More than an hour to go, we think," answered a prisoner. They were driven by chronometers while outside working, but timepieces were not allowed inside the prison pods. There was no day or night to measure the passage of time, and the jailers never changed the lighting. Still the prisoners kept a running estimate, as best they could, based on changes of shifts and meal delivery.

 

 

A klaxon blared, causing Sam to jump nervously.

 

 

He stared up at the observation lenses in the ceiling, as did hundreds of his fellow prisoners. The excited conversation dissolved into an apprehensive whisper.

 

 

"Prisoner zero-five-nine-six, prepare to exit," said a voice.

 

 

Sam licked his lips nervously and stepped toward the door. With a jovial smile, he told the others, "I'll see you later at chow." They stared at him with a disconcerting mixture of fear, distrust, and envy.

 

 

The door flew open, and Sam stepped into the dimly lit corridor. When the door slid shut behind him, leaving him alone, he felt ostracized from his fellow prisoners. It was getting harder and harder to cap his temper and remain cordial to everyone-- when all of them expected so much of him. More than anything, Sam just wanted to keep the lines of communication open between captors and captives. They weren't animals, as long as they could communicate their needs and wants.

 

 

He heard footsteps, and he turned to see an armed Jem'Hadar marching his way. The guard was flanked by a short Vorta named Joulesh, whom Sam had met only twice before when making official requests. He was not in the habit of meeting with the Vorta; usually a Cardassian glinn was as high as he got.

 

 

"This is quite an honor," said Sam, keeping his sarcasm in check.

 

 

"You have no idea of the honor," replied Joulesh with an enthusiastic smile. "It is only the beginning." The little humanoid turned on his heel and strode briskly down the corridor. Under the stern gaze of the guard, Sam followed him. To his surprise, the Vorta stepped into the turbolift and motioned him aboard. Sam entered, expecting the Jem'Hadar guard to follow, but he remained behind in the corridor, glowering at them. The door shut, and they began to move.

 

 

Joulesh wrinkled his nose at Sam. "I wish we'd had an opportunity to clean you up somewhat, but this is an emergency. We'll make do. I advise you to behave." "That depends on what you plan to do to me," said Sam.

 

 

The Vorta's silvery eyes twinkled. "What happens to you depends entirely on your interview. You aren't the only candidate for this post. However, I have been keeping an eye on you, and I believe you are the one." "May I remind you that I'm a prisoner of war," said Sam, "not an employee of the Dominion, Incorporated." The Vorta brushed some lint off his elegant, silverbrocaded jacket. "You are an asset of the Dominion.

 

 

Whether you fulfill your potential or end up as waste is your decision. Thus far, you have proven yourself an able worker, and you have tried to improve relationships between our people. These traits could take you far in the Dominion." Sam forced himself to keep still and not argue with the popinjay. The fact that the Dominion operated under the guise of business and mutual cooperation didn't make them any less a dictatorship. He wondered how long it would take the Cardassians to realize that they were the lackeys in this operation-- temporary help until more fleets of Jem'Hadar warships arrived.

 

 

"I wish the Federation could understand that we only want to bring them under our protection and influence," said Joulesh, sounding like a used shuttlecraft salesman. "Your people don't do us any good if you are dead or imprisoned." "Then let us go," suggested Sam.

 

 

As the door slid open, the Vorta gave him an amused smirk. "We might do so, one at a time. Follow me." They walked down a well-lit corridor that actually had doorways and multiple exits... and no Jem'Hadar guards. Sam followed Joulesh into a second turbolift, which had diagonal yellow markings on it. This lift was the deluxe version, Sam decided, as he inspected the plush carpeting and tasteful instrument panel. The lifts he rode were controlled from outside, and this one was controlled by Joulesh's deft fingers.

 

 

After a trip so smooth that Sam couldn't tell they were moving, the door opened.

 

 

"Remember," warned the Vorta, "you are about to meet a god." The words didn't register until Sam stepped off the turbolift and found himself in a large observation lounge, with a spread of food and drink in one corner and a lovely window in the other. A few people were scattered about, but the scent of food commanded Sam's attention. Halfway across the room, he saw a remarkable creature--a slim figure dressed in a sparkling beige robe--standing like an angel at the head of the table. His features were hairless and oddly unformed, as if this incarnation were so simple that it didn't require much detail.

 

 

A Founder! thought Sam with alarm. It was the first Changeling he had ever seen, and he wasn't certain how to react. Joulesh was practically scraping the floor, so Sam gave his host a respectful bow. He couldn't offer his hand as he could scarcely imagine touching such an ephemeral creature. Despite his halfhearted attempt at a humanoid appearance, the Changeling looked more like an illusion than a real being.

 

 

Sam reminded himself that a handful of Changelings had nearly destroyed the Klingon Empire from within. It was disconcerting to know that the creature in front of him could morph into any object or person in the room.

 

 

There were other persons in the lounge, and Sam looked at them, wondering if they were really what they seemed. Two Jem'Hadar guards were stationed near a golden basin, and a second Vorta conferred in whispers with Joulesh. Standing by the observation window was a hulking man in a white laboratory coat; he had an uncouth brown beard and brown spots running down his forehead, temples, and neck into his collar.

 

 

Enrak Grof It has to be him, thought Sam. This was quite a meeting. If his cellmates knew he was in this company, he would never be trusted again.

 

 

Sam edged toward the food. "Excuse me," he asked the Changeling, "may I eat?" "Not until the Founder has blessed the food," cautioned Joulesh, sounding aghast at his impertinence.

 

 

"It is allowed," said the Founder in a silky voice, nodding at his minion. Bowing low, the Vorta backed away.

 

 

Sam attacked a plate of what looked like ham. He didn't care what it was, as long as it was solid food that wouldn't kill him. Assuming he would probably say no to whatever proposal they offered him, Sam figured he should eat as much as he could before they kicked him out.

 

 

"Lieutenant junior grade Samuel Lavelle, or has he been promoted?" said the Founder, relishing the unfamiliar syllables of his name. "Captured aboard the Aizawa, formerly stationed on the Enterprise, now technician and Liaison Officer for Pod Eighteen." Sam mumbled through a mouthful of wonderful food. He was afraid to say much, lest he slobber all over the plates, but he was impressed that the Founder had used his name instead of a number. He glanced toward Professor Grof, wondering if he would get a chance to speak privately with the most notorious collaborator in the complex. The Trill edged forward, looking as if he wanted to say something; but he also held his tongue. Sam guessed that a smart collaborator didn't interrupt a Founder.

 

 

He grabbed some more food. Whatever happened, he was going to try not to get kicked out of this shindig too quickly. With his determined chewing, Sam nearly choked on the next words he heard from the Founder's smooth lips: "Lieutenant Lavelle, we would like to give you a ship to command."

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

SAM LAVELLE LOWERED HIS PLATE and stared at the Changeling. What a poker face--there was no way to tell if he was the butt of a cruel joke, or they were actually trying to recruit him for some nefarious purpose. Changelings were rare in the Alpha Quadrant, and he didn't think one had summoned him only to have a laugh at his expense. Wherever this was going, it had to be dangerous and probably treasonous.

 

 

"You'll give me a ship to command?" he repeated slowly. "There's got to be a catch. Why don't I continue to eat, and you can explain to me what you want. Exactly." "First," said the Changeling, "do you know anything about the act of sabotage which occurred today?" Sam looked around the tasteful observation lounge, and he could tell from their earnest faces that they were serious. "Sabotage? Do you mean the accident? I was out there at the time, and that accident was caused entirely by the boneheaded Cardassians." From force of habit, he looked nervously around the room, but there were no Cardassians present.

 

 

Every other race of importance was represented at this meeting, but not the lackeys. So Sam decided he could speak freely.

 

 

"I don't know what you were moving out there, but they put on their thrusters too early and disturbed the stasis field." "Bumbling fools!" muttered Grof, unable to contain himself any longer. "I've warned them often enough." "You said it wasn't entirely their fault," whined Jonlesh. He looked accusingly at Grof.

 

 

The Trill folded his thick arms. "I warned you that the compound was too unstable, and that they were the wrong ones to handle it. I believe I was proven right on both counts." "But all of our models--" Sam was beginning to enjoy this bickering when the Changeling glided gracefully between the Vorta and the Trill. "Enough. Explain it to him so that he can understand it." Dumb it down for the stupid human, thought Sam, bristling at the tone of the Changeling's words. But he was willing to listen until the food ran out.

 

 

Grof pointed accusingly at the Vorta. "They chose the wrong material to reinforce the mouth of the wormhole. I'm sure you know enough physics, Lieutenant, to realize that we can't use a common building material for the opening. Unless we use the right substance, the collider will get torn apart by the extreme pressures." The scientist paced the length of the table, looking with disgust at the Vorta. "They listened to the Cardassians, who assured them they could use a material made of sub-quark particles, despite the volatility. After the stasis field was destroyed, the subquark particles recombined.

 

 

"There is a far more elegant approach. The Federation isolated the perfect substance only a few years ago--it's stable after it's extracted and recombined.

 

 

We are the only ones who have succeeded in extracting it." "Corzanium," answered Sam.

 

 

"Ah," said Grof with satisfaction, "I see you are versed on the latest research." "Not really," admitted the human. "My friend, Taurik, was telling me about it. He admires your work, but he doesn't think much of you personally." "A common sentiment," muttered the Trill, "but misguided. We are on the verge of great discoveries, great leaps forward--after our cultures merge. In the short term, Federation personnel are the best equipped to find and extract the Corzanium. We certainly can't rely on the Cardassians." "Lieutenant Lavelie, will you command the craft?" asked the Founder bluntly. Joulesh's oversized ears twitched expectantly as the Vorta awaited his answer.

 

 

"Into a black hole?" scoffed Sam. "Isn't that where this stuff comes from? I can see why you don't want Cardassians--they're probably too smart to undertake such a crazy mission." Despite the bravado, Sam was stalling for time as he tried to reason it out. Even though he might go down as the greatest traitor in Starfleet history, the chance to escape from the prison with a ship under his command was too tempting to pass up. Survival instincts that he thought were long dormant suddenly surged to the surface, and Sam envisioned himself making a break for freedom.

 

 

Besides, he knew that if he refused, he would be dead. They had told him too much to let him return to Pod 18 and the general prison population.

 

 

"Will you give us an answer," said Joulesh, "or simply continue to eat and make snide comments?" "What do I get out of it?" asked Sam.

 

 

"You will receive your freedom," answered the Founder somberly, as if this were the greatest gift he could bestow.

 

 

"I get to pick my crew," said Sam.

 

 

"Boy, don't make this difficult!" snarled Grof. "Just say yes to the Founder, and let's get on with it." Sam cautioned himself to remain as stone-faced as the Changeling and his retinue. He truly was not in a position to bargain, but maybe he was in a position to make a difference. It would appear that his patience, gift of gab, and good work habits were about to get him promoted in the prison hierarchywinto his real job. Sam wished he didn't have the spectre of Enrak Grof staring at him as he decided his fate. Either way, he doubted whether he would live to reflect on this decision.

 

 

"I'11 do it," he said. "I won't be going back to Pod Eighteen, will I?" "No," answered Joulesh. "Would you be afraid for your safety?" Sam smiled. "Around here, I'm always afraid for my safety." "Eat," said the Founder, sounding like a friendly relative. He wasn't exactly androgynous, but his masculine traits were underplayed. Sam imagined that he could just as easily present a pseudo-female facade.

 

 

The creature was fascinating to study, up close, and it was all Sam could do not to ask him to morph into a chair. He tried to imagine what it was like on their home planet, where they merged into a sea of their kind called the Great Link.

 

 

Sam fought the temptation to ask this advanced being why it was so important to conquer the Alpha Quadrant. He supposed it was the same arrogance that had driven Europeans to conquer the Americas or Cardassians to conquer Bajor--a certainty of their moral and intellectual superiority.

 

 

With the slightest nod from the Founder, the Jem'Hadar guards suddenly picked up the basin and carried it out of the room. The Founder walked after them, and the two Vorta brought up the rear of the entourage. This left Sam alone with Professor Grof, plus enough food for a barracks.

 

 

"They're not much for good-byes," remarked the human.

 

 

"I think the Founder was tired," said Grof. "He probably has to revert to his liquid form soon.

 

 

Dominion upper management is spread very thinly through the Alpha Quadrant. Besides, they got what they came for." "Me?" Sam asked incredulously.

 

 

"Yes, but you could have shown them more respect.

 

 

This is quite an honor." "So everyone tells me." Sam glanced around the room. "Can I speak freely in here? Are we being watched?" "Don't bother bawling me out," said the Trill. "You were going to tell me that I'm a traitor, a collaborator, and so on and so forth. You're going to say that we ought to escape, or sabotage the artificial wormhole.

 

 

Well, let me tell you--what we're building here will last longer than either the Dominion or the Federation. The war will be a footnote to this invention. I'm on the side of science, and what we're building is going to revolutionize the galaxy." "At what cost?" asked Sam. "You would destroy a federation of hundreds of planets for a machine?

 

 

Whose side are you on? Are you a prisoner here, or are you one of the jailers?" Grof scowled and lowered his voice. "I'm both. I want to see my work to fruition, and I'm not going to let politics stand in the way. I would like to take my findings to the Federation. In fact, I hope that this work brings both sides together, and ends this stupid war. Meanwhile, I'm still a prisoner. Would I welcome a chance to escape? Perhaps at a later date, but only if it's foolproof." Sam picked up a slice of yellow melon and took a bite. The delicious juice ran down his beard. "You're obviously doing something right to have all of this handed to you." "I'm just doing my job," snapped Grof.