“How long to the Badlands?”
“Eleven minutes.”
“All right, we’re down to one,” said Picard. “That is certainly much better odds than I expected. Maintain course and speed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Now it was Ro’s turn to hover over the conn station. “Listen, the Badlands are a plasma dust cloud, and instruments are completely useless there. So the sooner we reach it, the better. Like most dust clouds, it has fingers and tendrils which stretch into surrounding space. If we can find a tendril, maybe we can cut our time getting there.”
Picard walked to the viewscreen and studied the octopus-like cloud that loomed in front of them. He pointed to a massive finger of dust shaped like a horse’s head. “There—that looks promising.”
“If I change course,” said the conn, “we could reach it maybe two minutes sooner. But we wouldn’t have time to scan the area before we entered.”
“We don’t have much choice.” Picard turned back to Tactical. “What’s the position of the second craft?”
“They’ve broken off pursuit of the decoy,” answered the young woman, not hiding her disappointment. “They’re on an intercept course, but they won’t reach us in time. Only the first one is a threat.”
“Change course, most direct route,” ordered Picard.
“Yes, sir. Course laid in.”
The captain tapped his comm badge. “Bridge to Engineering. Geordi, we need you to boost our warp speed—right now. Any increase would help.”
“We’re in the red zone now, Captain,” replied the engineer, “but I can shut down the safety overrides and coax a bit more out of her.”
“Make it so.”
“Captain,” interrupted the woman on tactical, “they’re sending a message, demanding that we stop and surrender. The message is repeating on all frequencies.”
“They don’t want to talk,” said Ro.
“Ignore it,” replied Picard. “How many of our torpedoes are aft-mounted?”
“Only two.”
Two or twenty, it didn’t matter, thought Ro, because the Orb of Peace wasn’t a warship. If they didn’t make the Badlands in time to hide, the Jem’Hadar would pick them apart.
“Lead ship has launched a torpedo,” cut in the tactical officer, surprise in her voice. “But they won’t be in optimal range for several minutes.”
“But their torpedo will reach us a few seconds before they do,” said Picard. “We’re both playing for seconds now. Conn, maintain course and speed, but be ready to go to evasive maneuvers.”
“We can’t use our standard patterns,” replied the officer.
“Devise something simple but effective, based on the alpha pattern, but keep us headed toward that tendril.”
They could see it clearly now on the viewscreen—the daunting cloud of dust and debris which rose over the darker body of the Badlands like a horse’s head. The colors kept shifting from a murky brown to a golden orange to a vibrant magenta, as plasma storms glimmered behind the clouds like lightning in a far-off thunderstorm.
Ro couldn’t help but to remember all the times she had made this mad dash to the Badlands, thinking each time would be her last. Unfortunately, she had never been in a vessel so ill equipped for fighting. Ro also remembered all the ships that had entered that forbidding region but had not come out. Brave comrades, deserving Cardassians, bumbling Starfleet—the plasma storms and anomalies played no favorites. Decrepit shuttlecraft or great starships, when the Badlands claimed them they were gone.
The Cardassians and Starfleet had developed a healthy fear of the massive cloud, but Ro had no idea how seriously the Jem’Hadar took the legends. With their vaunted superiority, they might think they were immune to the sinister lure of the Badlands. Perhaps they would pursue them into the heart of it, although that wouldn’t be easy once their instruments deserted them.
That’s it! thought Ro as a shiver gripped her spine. We have to fool their instruments now!
“Contact with torpedo in one minute,” reported the officer on tactical.
“Ready aft torpedoes,” said the captain grimly. “Target our first one on their torpedo and the second one on the lead ship.”
“Yes, sir.”
In the confines of the small bridge, Ro was already at Picard’s back. “Sir, if we detonate both of our torpedoes directly behind us, we can blow up the torpedo and disrupt their sensors.”
“That will only last a few seconds,” said Picard thoughtfully, “but we can go to evasive maneuvers right after.”
“Captain,” insisted tactical, “contact in thirty seconds.”
He strode toward the young woman. “Target both torpedoes on the lead craft, but detonate two seconds after launch. Conn, go to evasive maneuvers on my mark.”
“Yes, sir,” came the tense replies.
“Launch when ready.”
“Torpedoes away!” barked the tactical officer.
Silently, Ro counted to herself, one thousand one, one thousand two.
“Mark,” said Picard, pointing at the conn.
While the pilot worked his console, Ro tried to imagine the brilliant light, like a miniature nova, as the two photon torpedoes exploded inside a warp corridor. That would make a very large blip on their pursuers’ scanners, not to mention sending their torpedo haywire. For several seconds, the Orb of Peace would be invisible. When they found her again, they would have to change course, but which course? If the pilot were good, he could send them the wrong way again, buying the transport a few more seconds. She fought the temptation to hover behind him and watch what he was doing.
“They’re firing more torpedoes,” said tactical. “Phasers, too. But we’re out of phaser range.”
“They’re desperate,” said Picard. “We’re losing them.”
The viewscreen filled with an ominous cloud of debris and dust—the scene of some cosmic cataclysm and the resting place of countless ships. The twinkling of plasma storms in the swirls looked like some exotic lighting in a smoke-filled nightclub.
“I’m losing instrumentation,” said the conn.
Picard motioned for Ro to take over for the young man, who bolted to his feet. “Good flying,” said Ro as she took his seat.
“Thank you.” Beaming, the young man shuffled behind Captain Picard.
“Keep the viewscreen on as long as possible,” ordered Ro. “And keep adjusting to correct for static.”
“Aye, sir,” answered the officer on ops.
“They’re closing on us,” warned Tactical.
“That’s all right. By now, they’re losing sensors and instrumentation, too. I’m coming out of warp—to full impulse. Shields up!”
“Shields are up,” echoed the woman on tactical, “but I’ve lost the Jem’Hadar! They’re nowhere to be seen.”
“Keep looking,” said Ro, knowing it was useless; but it would keep her busy. Flying through the Badlands was not for the faint of heart, especially with the enemy hot on your tail and no reconnaissance ahead of you. If they hit a major plasma storm, nothing in the universe could save them.
The scene on the viewscreen changed very little as the boxy transport plowed into the thick of the plasma-charged cloud. She couldn’t see the sleek attack ship with its pulsing blue lights, but she knew it had followed her in.
Without slowing speed, Ro piloted them through the thickets of smoke and mist, which flowed past on the viewscreen like some psychotropically induced dream. She tried to navigate the pockets of calm, avoiding the plasma streaks, which lit up the cloud like electrical impulses shooting across a nerve ending. Ro didn’t mention to her comrades that at any moment they could get struck by plasma and evaporate—or whatever ships did when they disappeared in here. Ideally, she would pick her way through this morass at one-quarter impulse, but there wasn’t anything ideal about this mission.
The viewscreen crackled with streaks of static, and she slowed to half impulse. She had to find their pursuer while there was still a chance
.
“Ops, give me a view from aft,” she ordered.
“Want a split screen?” asked the man.
“No, give me what I ask for,” demanded Ro. “Flying like this through the Badlands requires more luck than sight.”
Stiffening his back, the ops officer changed the view to the aft lens. It was hardly any different than the view from the front, except that their wake was like a tunnel in the colorful dust. She saw a small beam of light in the distance, and at first she thought it was another bolt of plasma—until the Orb of Peace shuddered from a sudden impact.
“Torpedo,” said Tactical. “I’m not sure it hit us—no damage.”
“It was discharged by the plasma,” said Ro. “They’ll quickly figure out they’ll have to use phasers, or whatever kind of beamed weapons they have. Front view.”
The ops officer obeyed her order instantly, showing Ro the thickening, stringy fog of the Badlands, shot through with brilliant streaks of plasma. For the first time, Ro set course for the brightest storm in the area and increased speed to full impulse.
“You are aware, I take it, that we are heading into the storm?” asked Picard, controlled concern audible in his voice. Just how far does he trust me? Ro wondered.
“I’m coming about now, before we reach it.” Ro eased the transport into a steep turn, finding that the craft was surprisingly easy to handle. At least her people built simplicity and elegance into all their creations.
“You’re hoping to draw their fire,” said Picard, comprehension dawning on his face.
She squinted into the filmy swirls of dust and debris, searching for their nemesis. When she finally spotted the Jem’Hadar ship, they were almost nose to nose, streaking toward each other at speeds too fast for the limited visibility. Ro ignored the gasps behind her as she dropped the transport into a steep dive. In the same instant, the warship fired a deadly beam that streaked through the dust, barely missing the transport.
Instead the phaser beam struck a bolt of plasma in the storm that Ro had lured them into. The plasma rippled along its new path and hit the Jem’Hadar attack ship like an avenging bolt of lightning. Ro turned her ship around just in time to see the sleek vessel light up like a fluorescent bulb and then burst into a billion shards of shimmering crystal.
When the gasps quieted, Picard said hoarsely, “Well done.”
Ro sighed and brought the craft to a complete halt. She was finally able to rub her eyes and brush the hair off her clammy forehead.
“For once,” she said, “it was good to fight a Jem’Hadar ship. I couldn’t have pulled that trick on a Cardassian.”
“I can truthfully say, we would not have made it without you,” answered Picard. The faces of the young crew beamed at her with relief and respect, and they began to look Bajoran again. Maybe they would hop to when obeying her orders next time.
“So we’re here,” she declared. “What now?”
“First of all, we have to see if the artificial wormhole exists,” answered Picard. “We have to know if it’s there. Data said they need a verteron collider of large size, so we should be able to find it.”
He wrinkled his artificial nose ridges. “Of course, that means we have to cross the entire Badlands, without knowing where it is on the other side. I wish we could get some intelligence first. I understand that the Badlands are inhabited by people who like their privacy, for one reason or another, and they’re willing to risk the plasma storms.”
“There is a place—” mused Ro, turning back to her console. “I wonder if it’s still there? I’ll get an approximate fix from our last known position, and we’ll use dead reckoning from there. Settle back, and let me take you on a tour of the Badlands.”
On the shuttlecraft Cook, Data put in another day of work without relief, staring at instruments as he drifted through an asteroid belt for cover. He would not have thought to complain; in fact, Data believed his time had been remarkably well spent. He had located the Orb of Peace on long-range scanners and had followed her all the way until her disappearance in the Badlands, which was to be expected. He had also seen the transport somehow manage to shake four enemy ships, with a fifth one still in pursuit.
Had his emotion chip been turned on, the android would have been extremely apprehensive about the mad chase he had witnessed from afar. Now it was simply a successful incursion into Cardassian space, unless the fifth ship had destroyed them. But from what he knew of the Badlands, Data considered it far more likely that the plasma storms would destroy them.
His vigilance was far from over, as now he planned to vacate the asteroid belt and sneak even closer to Cardassian space. From peripheral scans, Data had concluded that the fighting had moved on from this sector, leaving him some room to maneuver. For as many days and weeks as it took, he would scan the Badlands, looking for a craft which could be the Orb of Peace. At the same time, he would be looking for the Enterprise to rendezvous with him. Since they were currently overdue, there was a very good chance they had been destroyed as well.
No, concluded Data, he had no intentions of turning on his emotion chip.
Chapter Nine
AT LONG LAST, THE Tag Garwal was cruising through space under the command of Federation prisoners, with orders to stay out until her mission was accomplished, or they were all killed. Despite the dire circumstances, Sam Lavelle felt almost giddy as he stood on the bridge and watched the endless expanse of stars stream past. He could easily forget the war, the Dominion, the artificial wormhole, and everything else in the mistaken belief that he was free to explore this dark infinity. Space was oblivious of their petty quarrels; it always looked the same—endless, vast, imponderable.
For a taste of realism, Sam put the aft view on the screen. Now he could see the Jem’Hadar attack ship keeping a respectful but watchful distance behind them. The craft was smaller than theirs, but Sam knew it superior in every other way. The tanker had decent shields but no weapons, whereas the Jem’Hadar craft was a flying arsenal with no other purpose but to destroy enemy vessels. Their shadow was friendly at the moment, but Sam had no doubts that the Jem’Hadar would destroy them with all aboard at the slightest provocation.
“Their relative distance has not changed in twelve hours,” observed Taurik, seated at the conn.
“I know,” replied Sam. “I didn’t expect them to be gone.”
“Staring at them will not change the situation.”
“I know!” groaned Sam. Vulcans! Sometimes their literal nature drove him crazy. Of course, it made no sense to stand here and watch the Jem’Hadar ship, hoping it would go away, but that was precisely the sort of thing humans did.
How could he make it go away? That was the question. Without their shadow, they were in a good position to make an escape and get back to Federation space. The Tag Garwal was a common type of supply ship found everywhere in Cardassian space, and she would typically be traveling alone. Nobody would pay any attention to them.
He looked around the bridge. As usual, only he and Taurik were on duty, with Grof and the rest of the crew below, fretting over their tractor beams, transporters, mining probes, and recombination chambers.
Sam tapped the ops console and put the starscape back on view, then he lowered his voice to ask Taurik, “How can we get away from that Jem’Hadar ship?”
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “I hope you are asking in the theoretical sense, because eluding them would be virutally impossible.”
“Impossible?” repeated Sam, not liking the taste of the word in his mouth. “Then we just carry out this operation and put them closer to victory? We don’t even try to escape?”
“I did not say that,” answered Taurik, “only that escape from that Jem’Hadar attack ship is virtually impossible. We have no weapons, and they are well armed and three times faster than us.”
Sam bent down and whispered into the Vulcan’s pointed ear, “Could we beam over to their ship? We have a larger crew—we could take them in hand-to-hand combat.” Taurik raised an
eyebrow. Sam knew the Vulcan was calculating the abysmal odds of such a fight.
“We could if only they lowered their shields and came within transporter range, neither of which they appear inclined to do.”
“Then we’ll have to make them do it,” said Sam determinedly. He heard footsteps on the ladder, and he asked loudly, “How much longer to the Eye of Talek?”
“Twelve more hours. We are approximately halfway there.”
“Excellent!” barked the voice of Enrak Grof as he lumbered out of the hatch and strode toward them. He was followed up the ladder by Enrique, the lucky material handler.
“Is the ship handling well?” asked Grof expansively, as if this were his private yacht.
“Fine,” answered Sam with false cheer. “It feels good to be out in space again.”
“I would imagine,” Grof replied. “I would hate to be separated from my work for a lengthy period.”
Sam bit his tongue and didn’t say any of the several nasty things that occurred to him. Despite everything he had seen and heard, Grof was steadfastly determined to get the Corzanium and return to the Dominion. The war, the slave-labor camps, the subjugation of the Federation—these were all annoying side issues to the important matters of Grof’s wormhole and his place in history.
Sam once again decided not to trust the Trill with any knowledge of their escape plan, when they had one. Grof’s only purpose was to provide cover until they were ready to make their move. Sam had to make sure they got a realistic opportunity to sabotage the mission and escape. He hated to think about killing Grof with his own hands, but he would if he had to.
The professor motioned toward the glimmering starscape ahead of them. “Even without this wormhole business, we are making history on our little mission. No other operation has ever succeeded in extracting more than a few cubic centimeters of Corzanium from a black hole, and we’re going to mine fifty cubic meters of the stuff.”
“If we live long enough,” added Taurik. “There are logical reasons why no one has been successful. Shall I list them?”
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