Once again, they pinned themselves against the bulkhead in the corridor, expecting enemy fire to pulse through the doorway. Picard picked up a piece of nearby battle debris. He tossed the debris into the room, and it hit the deck with a loud clunk.
“Unnh!” groaned a voice with surprise, as if they had awakened him from a nap. Suddenly wild disruptor fire streaked out the door and raked the opposite bulkhead.
“Hold your fire!” shouted Picard, backing away from the door. “Your confederates are dead, and we’ve recaptured the ship! If you throw your weapon toward the door, we’ll come in and give you medical attention.”
The scattered beams stopped, and they waited in tense silence, punctuated only by their own rapid breathing. Finally, there came a skittering sound as a disruptor bounced across the deck and out the doorway. Ro instantly scooped it up.
“Mr. La Forge, see if you can find a med kit,” ordered the captain. “Let’s go.”
Still keeping his weapon leveled in front of him, Picard led the way into the hammock-filled dormitory. Ro tried to ignore the sight of more young officers, pointlessly slain in the cowardly attack; she concentrated on searching the room for the wounded Romulan.
“Here!” called Picard.
She caught up with the captain as he knelt down beside a shivering humanoid who was clutching the burned stump of his arm. Sweat and grime smeared his once-proud face, and he blinked at them with terror and shock.
“La Forge!” called Ro.
“Coming!” The engineer reached them a moment later. He popped open a white case and took out a hypospray.
After they injected the hypo into the Romulan’s neck, he calmed down considerably and stopped shivering. Ro figured that they had only a few seconds before he lost consciousness … probably forever.
She bent over him, her face inches away from his. “The Dominion is building an artificial wormhole. What do you know about it?”
“Must see if it works—” he answered dazedly.
“Why?” He was losing consciousness, and she had to shake him to get his attention. “Why?”
“If it works,” he rasped, “we become their allies … we join the Dominion.”
Then he was out, unconscious but still breathing roughly. She looked gravely at Picard and La Forge. None of them needed to say what it would mean if the Romulan Star Empire turned against them, too. They would be caught in a vise.
“It’s not going to work,” vowed Picard. “It’s never going to work.” He slumped back on his haunches, weary and shell-shocked. The raw struggle for survival had been won, leaving Ro with a sense of failure and a dread of the killing to come.
His fingers twitchy and nervous, Sam Lavelle sat at the conn of the Tag Garwal, waiting for his crewmates to finish their last-minute preparations. In the hold was a mining probe that would soon be dangled over a black hole. He didn’t know why he was so nervous, because theoretically he had the easiest job of the lot of them—to simply maintain their position. Of course, he was captain as well as helmsman, and he knew it would be up to him to take over in an emergency. At the same time, he had to look out for providential opportunities to escape.
He glanced at the viewscreen, knowing it was the Eye of Talek that made him nervous. Although small as black holes went, it looked like a stealth moon—an alien world within the endless void. In some strange way, it made space seem vulnerable. Although Grof had said that matter escaped from it, the flow of dust, debris, and gas seemed to be all one way.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Grof, settling into the seat at the ops console.
“It’s still scary to me,” answered Sam. “Maybe that’s because I don’t trust it.”
“When the Cardassians discovered it,” said Grof, “they only had telescopes, no space travel, and they didn’t know what it was. But they had a myth about a large monster with one eye which consumed everything it saw. That was Talek.”
“That makes me feel so much better,” murmured Sam. “I take it your main job is to shoot the tachyons?”
“That, and to monitor everything that goes on. I’d like to observe you, for instance, and learn your job.”
“I’m sure you would,” Sam replied snidely.
“In a positive sense,” said the Trill defensively. “We have a small crew, so the more efficiently we can relieve each other, the better off we’ll be.”
“Just do your job,” ordered Sam, “and let everybody else worry about theirs.” In truth, he would rather have had Taurik on the bridge with him, but the consensus was that Taurik was needed at the airlock with the mining probe, which was too heavy for anyone else to lift. Then Taurik would assist the material handlers in the transporter room and the recombination chambers.
Footsteps on the ladder made Sam jump, and he whirled around to see Tamla Horik, the tractor-beam specialist, emerge from the hatch. The Deltan looked contented and relaxed these days, just glad to be free. This was Sam’s first command, he thought to himself, and he couldn’t even enjoy it.
The Deltan took her seat at the tactical station and reported, “The others are all set. Commence when ready.”
“Thank you,” said Grof testily. He punched the communications panel, and his voice echoed throughout the ship. “Crew of the Tag Garwal, we are ready to begin our historic mission. Release the mining probe.”
Sam shook his head at the pomposity of the Trill. He talked as if he were running the operation when, in reality, the only one in charge was the Jem’Hadar attack ship. It continued to scrutinize from afar, with the power to destroy them at any second.
Knowing he had to forget about them and concentrate on the job, Sam put the mining probe on the viewscreen. The small unmanned craft looked ungainly with its array of robotic arms, sensors, and reflector dishes. And it looked helpless as it cruised inexorably toward the deep emptiness of the Eye of Talek.
Sam tried not to think how much was riding on all this Cardassian equipment, but he knew that Grof, Taurik, and the others had checked every piece a dozen times. He had to rely on their judgment about the equipment, as they relied on his about the ship.
“Tractor beam,” ordered Grof.
“Tractor beam on,” replied the Deltan at the tactical station.
The escaping probe was engulfed in an invisible beam that registered only on their instrument panels. Nevertheless, the probe now had a leash which, theoretically, would keep it from plunging into the black hole.
“Distance to event horizon: three hundred kilometers,” reported Horik. “Tractor beam holding steady.”
“Don’t let it cross that horizon,” warned Grof.
“Or what will happen?” asked Sam.
“If the tractor beam held, we could retrieve it,” answered the Trill, “but that’s a big ‘if.’ And I don’t know what kind of shape it would be in. More than likely, we’d be down to two probes.”
“Two hundred kilometers,” said the Deltan. “I’m slowing speed to one-quarter impulse.”
“It’s looking good,” said Grof, his eyes intent upon his readouts.
Sam looked at his own readouts to make sure they hadn’t drifted in their orbit, which was matched to the slight rotation of the black hole. It seemed odd to be orbiting nothing, but this nothing had a lot of gravity for its size.
“One hundred kilometers,” reported Horik. “Thrusters stopped. We’re now coasting into position one-half kilometer in front of the event horizon.”
“We’re sure about those calculations, are’t we?” asked Grof, sounding nervous for the first time.
“Yes,” answered the Deltan, “unless this black hole doesn’t obey the known laws of physics, which is always possible with a singularity.”
Sam didn’t like the way Grof gnawed on his lower lip as the probe completed its final approach to the black hole. He tried not to think about the incredible gravitational pull on the small probe, counteracted only by their souped-up tractor beam. Sam increased the magnification on the viewscreen to get a better loo
k at the probe … perhaps the last look at it.
“Approaching one kilometer,” said the calm, contented Deltan. She plied her console. “All right, it’s stopped.”
The three of them stared at the viewscreen, half-expecting the awkward probe to vanish forever into the gaping blackness. But the probe was stopped, hanging on the lip of the abyss.
Grof let out a loud sigh, and then he rubbed his hands together, ready for his part in the drama. First he made a shipwide announcement. “Attention, crew: the probe is in place. I’m bombarding the black hole with tachyons—stand by tractor beam, remote control, and transporter room.”
Sam hoped that soon they would get proficient enough at this operation to do it without Grof’s melodramatics; but for the moment, he was glad that someone was calling every shot. On the viewscreen, they watched an impossibly long strand of tachyons stretch from their ship, past the probe, into the blackness of the singularity. Sam knew this was a crucial step, the one that would actually quantum-step the particles and force them outward. The tractor beam would capture and guide them into the probe.
“Extend tractor beam,” ordered Grof.
“Extending,” said the Deltan.
“Start extraction.”
Leni Shonsui’s voice came over the comm. “Extraction in progress.”
Again there was a tense silence as they watched the timers and their readouts. Sam noticed that some force was slightly altering their orbit, and he compensated without comment. There would be time later to point this out to the others and make a correction for the next shot. Right now, they were all absorbed in their own tasks.
“Load full!” announced Shonsui’s voice. “Let’s reel it in.”
Now everyone breathed a sigh of relief, although they weren’t out of the woods yet. Sam knew that they had to perfectly coordinate cutting the tractor beam at the same moment that they transported the probe back to the ship.
Grof held up his finger. “Transport on my mark. Three, two, one … mark!”
The Deltan punched her board. They waited for confirmation.
“Masserelli here,” came a voice from below. “We’ve got her, and the stasis field is holding!”
“At last.” Grof slumped back in his seat and turned apologetically toward Sam. “I’ve got to go down and see it.”
“Go ahead. I wouldn’t mind seeing the next step myself.” Sam didn’t mention it, but the ship was in extreme danger at this point, with a highly volatile material in stasis.
“You two go on,” said Horik at her tactical station. “I can watch things here.”
With Grof eagerly leading the way, they tromped down the ladder to the lower level and dashed along the corridor to the transporter room. The glow of the stasis field in the center of the transporter pad captured their attention and forced them to halt in the doorway. Woil, Shonsui, and Masserelli were wearing protective gear that covered them from head to foot, and Sam and Grof sunk back from the danger.
Jozarnay Woil grabbed a flexible tube that hung from a mass of pipes in the ceiling and checked its fittings. As if he did this every day of the week, he calmly walked up to the glowing stasis field, stuck the tube in, and clamped it to the elevated mining probe. Woil stepped back, motioning to Enrique Masserelli, who manipulated the stasis field and the probe with a handheld remote. Shonsui stood at the transporter console, keeping a close watch on an array of readouts. Soon the tube was bulging as the contents of the probe were being evacuated to the recom chambers in the hold.
Grof nudged Sam with an elbow. “Come on.”
The human followed the Trill to the stern of the ship. From there, large double doors opened into the two-story-high cargo hold. As an antimatter tanker, the Tag Garwal’s hold was by far her most impressive feature. Antimatter was the most volatile cargo in the galaxy, and it had to be stored in special forcefield containers and transported in special conduits, which snaked all over the ceiling and walls of the hold.
The upright containers looked like massive African drums. Having been used strictly for storage, now their forcefields were being used to recombine particles that had, until a few moments ago, existed in another space-time continuum. Despite Sam’s misgivings, it was exciting to think that they could fill these drums with material dredged from a black hole.
They heard footsteps, and they turned to see Enrique walking toward them with his headgear and a tricorder in his hands, and a big grin on his face. “How does it look?”
“Like Corzanium!” declared Grof. “Which one is it in?”
Enrique muscled past them in his bulky suit and approached the first upright container. He opened a tricorder and took readings. “Right here. It’s all going as planned.”
Suddenly there came a loud crashing sound from directly behind them—in the transporter room. Big man though he was, Grof whirled around like a dancer and bolted down the corridor. Sam and Enrique jogged after him.
When they reached the transporter room, they were all horrified to see the mining probe lying on the transporter pad, many of its external components broken and smashed. No one needed to ask what had fallen over.
“What happened?” roared Grof, shaking his fists.
Shonsui looked at Woil, and the Antosian shrugged. “When I cut the stasis field, then it … I don’t know.”
“Cutting the stasis field had nothing to do with it,” said Chief Shonsui on the transporter controls. “I take full blame. I didn’t have it adjusted for the correct weight of the empty probe, which is something I wouldn’t have to do with a Federation transporter. I mean, you don’t expect to empty a probe and have it weigh more.”
“You idiot! Up to this point, it was going perfectly!” Grof stomped around like a little boy denied his dessert at suppertime.
Sam knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help himself. “I wouldn’t say it was perfect. I had to compensate to hold our position, and that wasn’t in any of the models.”
Now the Trill glared at him. “And you didn’t say anything? Imbeciles! I’m surrounded by imbeciles!” Grof stormed out of the transporter room, and they could hear him shouting all the way down the corridor.
Sam looked at his crew and shook his head. “I’m personally proud of you that you managed to pull that off so well. In one day, we’ve collected more Corzanium than anybody else in two quadrants, and that’s using Cardassian equipment, with a gun pointed at our heads! Screw that old goat.”
“Yeah, so we had a few minor glitches,” said Enrique. “That’s to be expected.” Still, there was no way to look at the damaged probe without thinking they had made a grave error—one that might cost them their lives.
Taurik appeared in the doorway, looking nonplussed by the mess on the transporter pad. “I will prepare another probe.”
As the Vulcan hurried off, Sam sank against the bulkhead. He was disheartened by the realization that they would have to go through that tense procedure again and again until they had collected a hoard of Corzanium. He looked around and could tell by the stark faces that his crew knew the truth: they were still slaves, even with a ship at their disposal. This tanker was nothing but a floating jail, with a lunatic as the jailer.
“Get another probe out there,” said Sam. “But don’t worry, we’re getting out.”
Chapter Thirteen
RO LAREN, GEORDI LA FORGE, AND JEAN-LUC PICARD stood in the transporter room of the Orb of Peace, with La Forge at the transporter controls. The room’s nonthreatening, welcoming atmosphere was severely tested by the sight of four bodies piled like firewood on the transporter pad. Picard tried not to think of the other three piles of corpses which had lain there in the last hour. Very badly, he wanted to wash his hands, but he wasn’t done yet.
This pile of bodies was a mixture of two of his crew and two dead Romulans. Whether they would appreciate the burial rites, he didn’t know. The captain’s face drew tight as he performed his least favorite duty.
“We commit these bodies of our comrades—a
nd our enemies—to the void of space, to which they dedicated their lives. I only wish they could have experienced more of the joyful, awe-inspiring aspect of space exploration, rather than the senseless destruction of war. But no matter how advanced the races of the galaxy, we still suffer from greed and bloodlust.”
The captain sighed, bereft of words to explain what had happened to these young people—and so many other young people who were dying at that very moment in the far-flung theater of war. He knew why they fought, and what they fought to preserve, but excuses for killing were beyond Picard at that moment.
“May their beliefs in the afterlife be fulfilled,” concluded the captain.
He nodded to La Forge, who turned the pile of corpses into a glittering funeral pyre for a few brief seconds until they disappeared entirely.
Picard strode to the door. “I wish there were time to reflect and mourn, but there’s not. Since there’s only three of us, we have to conserve our resources. One of us must be sleeping while the other two are on duty—one in the engine room and one on the bridge.”
As they followed the captain down the corridor, Ro asked, “What about the one-armed Romulan?”
Picard stopped to consider the question. Against all odds, their prisoner hadn’t died … yet. When it came to first aid, none of them were Beverly Crusher, but they had apparently done a satisfactory job of patching him up. It helped that he was a fit, young Romulan. But if he kept recovering, he would soon become a problem.
“Lock him in the captain’s quarters,” said Picard. “Whoever is stationed in Engineering will pay periodic visits and keep him sedated.”
“I volunteer—” began Ro.
“No,” answered Picard with a smile. “You steered us through the Badlands, and you must be exhausted. I’ll take the bridge, La Forge Engineering, and Ro—you get the bunk. And that’s an order.”
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