Bloodletter (star trek)

by K. W. Jeter

  “What about Hören?”

  “That is what I’m worried about.” Kira’s voice grew tense. “He’s still out there, roaming around the substation. That’s the worst of it—I don’t know where he is, but somehow he’s able to track me. Somehow . . . somehow, he’s able to pinpoint my location, no matter where I go. He was waiting for me; that’s how I got nicked by him.” Her voice paused for a moment. “You weren’t still going to try to get out here, were you? With that engine unbuffered—”

  “I couldn’t, even if I made the attempt.” Bashir’s fingertip whitened from pressing against the switch. “Our friends here in the wormhole made it clear to me that they wouldn’t allow it. Remember what you said about them crushing the shuttle like an egg? It’d be something like that—I’d never reach the exit zone.”

  “That’s one decision you don’t have to worry about making, then. If I could just figure out how he’s tracking me . . .then maybe I could lay a trap for him. . . .”

  The answer struck him. “The thermal sensors. That must be how he’s doing it.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “In the control panels for the doorways—” The explanation came rushing out. “The whole substation’s wired with them; it was supposed to be a way of monitoring patient movement through the quarantine module. There’s a microscanner right beside the door release switch on all the panels—Hören must have some way of tapping into the data grid they feed into. He just sets the readout sensitivity for your body temperature, and he can tell when you move from one sector to the next. It’s the only possible way he could do it.”

  “Great—is there any way of shutting down the system?”

  Bashir shook his head, though he knew she couldn’t see him. “Not from the command center. The data line’s bonded to the structural members; you’d have to practically disassemble the whole substation to get rid of it.” His thoughts raced ahead; they were the only way of reaching out to help her. “But you can fool the system. Now, listen carefully—he knows where you are right now, so you don’t have much time. You’re going to need some things; there’s a group of supply cabinets a couple of sectors over . . . ”

  At first, he had thought he would have to do something about his arm. He had heard the crack of bone when he had landed, his full weight impacting against his own flesh. Now, the arm dangled uselessly at his side, the wrist curled outward. A net of loose wiring that he had torn from the control of one of the biobeds would have served as a makeshift sling, but he had at last balled it up and thrown it away from him. The pain served a better purpose, the grating of the splintered ends against each other with each step he took; it honed his anger to a brighter, sharper edge. It had been sharp enough to kill before; now Hören felt as if he could slash the metal of the substation apart if need be, to reach through and grip her throat in his good hand.

  He leaned his shoulder against a bulkhead, close to a doorway, fumbling with the buttons of the small tracking device. It had taken some effort to wedge open the control panel and get the device’s wires into place. Effort, and time—Kira had already gotten away from him, more than once, and he blamed his own slow delight in her trapped situation. A weakness, for which he now bitterly lashed himself. Vengeance, the justice of the Redemptorist faith, was to have been a sword, quick and irrevocable, and he had almost dropped it. No more.

  The grid showing the substation’s layout came up on the device’s small display. Hören thumbed the button below it, scrolling through sector after sector, until a red dot blinked on. Somewhere close to the command center; that made sense. He knew that Kira had been using the comm equipment there, to link up with the other Federation officer, who had been left behind in the wormhole. Not that it would do her any good.

  He was about to pull the wires free and stow the device in his pocket, where the knife lay waiting, when another red dot appeared. The grip of his good hand tightened convulsively on the tracking device as he stared at it. At a point that would be a few meters away from the first, the thermal sensors had picked up another source of body heat.

  It can’t be—He jabbed at the buttons, but the red dots remained, blinking steadily. There couldn’t be another person on the substation; he would have felt through the frame the shudder of the docking hooks grappling onto any vessel that had approached. Unless the person had been able to beam aboard the substation—but the cargo shuttle, even if it had been able to exit the wormhole, lacked personnel transporter equipment. And there were no other vessels in the area. . . .

  A third dot appeared on the display. Then a fourth, and a few seconds later, a fifth.

  An army, a dozen or more, showed by the time a wordless cry of anger escaped from Hören’s lips. He smashed the lying device against the bulkhead, the display going blank as the microcomponents fell out of the broken case and onto the deck.

  Hören struck the control panel and rushed through the door before it had slid halfway open. With his head lowered, he drew out the knife and headed down the corridor.

  She pulled the silvery blanket closer around her, careful to keep her head covered by it. Bashir had told her that shielding her arms and legs wasn’t so important—the main sources of body heat radiation, that the doorway sensors were set to pick up, were her torso and head. A chill leaked from the thermonic blanket, raising gooseflesh across her shoulders. Its medical purpose was for the treatment of fever patients, its activated thermal-exchange circuits the equivalent of an old-fashioned ice bath, but more controllable. Now, for Kira, it served as an even more effective form of camouflage.

  The blanket’s hem trailed behind her as she hurried toward the next doorway. From within the hooded folds, she took one of the blanket’s counterparts, a catalytic heating patch. Squeezing the patch’s edge, she initiated the chemical reaction inside—she could feel it begin to warm in her palm—and set the processor-controlled temperature to match her own. She peeled away the tape guards and slapped the patch onto the doorway panel beside her. Down the length of the corridor, and into several of its branches, similar patches had already been stuck across all the sensors.

  She heard him approaching. The sound of footsteps ringing through the enclosed spaces—that was a good sign. It showed that she had managed to push him even farther over the edge. Hören’s mounting anger was washing away before it all his stealth and hunter’s cunning. The substation had been a psychological extension of his own body, both a substance and an environment that he had controlled. The fight in the other sector, when he had used the diversion of the throat-mounted microphone to sneak up on her, had been the first blow to that armored self-image. Whatever physical harm he had suffered wasn’t as important as the eroding of his self-command. And now, to effectively blind him, rendering useless the sensors by which he had as much as seen into every corner of the substation . . . This ought to be good, thought Kira, as she rushed to get one more thermal patch up.

  She ducked into the shadows of the nearest corridor branch, pulling the bottom of the silver blanket in behind her. The branch’s angle gave her a clear line of vision down the main corridor.

  Hören appeared, knife in hand, his other arm hanging at his side. His shoulders hunched bull-like, chest laboring from exertion. He stepped forward, his glaring eyes scanning across the bulkheads.

  Holding her breath, Kira watched as he stopped beside one of the doorways. He reached up, using the knife to poke at what he had spotted on the control panel. The blade slipped under the patch and lifted it away. Hören knelt down and rubbed the back of his fist across the patch lying on the deck, the heat still seeping from it. His face tautened as realization set in; the knife suddenly rose, then slashed the patch open, the chemicals spurting out.

  That was what she had wanted. Hören strode down the corridor, teeth clenched in anger at the sight of the thermal patches fastened onto each doorway panel. He ripped one loose and flung it down, then the next.

  As he came closer, Kira silently pulled the blanket from arou
nd her shoulders and held it ready before her. When her target crossed in front of the branch’s opening, she leapt forward, the blanket lifted like a net. Her momentum toppled Hören from his feet; she fell with him, the blanket’s folds billowing between them.

  Even with just one arm, his strength surprised her. The knife point tore through the blanket, nearly grazing her ribs. She was thrown clear as Hören reared up. He tossed the blanket aside with another sweeping motion of his arm. Kira scrambled to her feet, crouching with hands forward in combat position.

  Instead of coming at her, Hören scooped up the blanket and tossed it at her face. In the few seconds it took her to duck and push it away, Hören had turned and vanished into the opposite reaches of the corridor. She heard his footsteps dwindling away in the darkness.

  She breathed deep, gathering her strength around her racing pulse. She had hoped for better, but still . . .

  From this point on, it would be closer to a fair fight. She could deal with that.

  CHAPTER 16

  HE ACCEPTED ANOTHER DRINK, though he had already altered his metabolism so that it, and the ones preceding, would have no effect on him. The fresh synthale was set down in front of him, and the empty mug taken away.

  Quark slid into the seat across the table from him. “Your health, Constable.” The Ferengi had picked up the term from hearing Commander Sisko use it. “You know your patronage is always most welcome in my humble establishment.”

  “Is it, indeed?” The other’s sharp-toothed smile grated on Odo’s sensibilities to a greater degree than usual. His brooding about the situation on Ops, with everyone tensely waiting for any communication from the wormhole or the Gamma Quadrant, was not lightened by Quark’s impersonation of a charming host. “Don’t get ideas about what it means. I only come here because it makes a convenient vantage point for the comings and goings on the Promenade.”

  “You’re too kind.” Nothing fazed Quark. “I seek to provide every amenity for my customers.” He leaned forward, the smile replaced by an expression of heartfelt solicitude. “Really too bad, isn’t it, about Major Kira and Doctor Bashir? I’d like to be counted among the many friends who are concerned about them.”

  “What do you know about that?”

  “My dear Odo. One hears things. As you yourself just indicated—this is a wonderful location for keeping an eye on things.” Quark gestured toward the other booths and tables, and the multi-species clientele lined up at the bar. “Really . . . it’s like the heart of DS Nine, don’t you agree?”

  He made no reply. Once again, he was reluctantly impressed by the Ferengi’s network of informants, gossips, and other data conduits—a network that rivaled his own. A total security clampdown had been put in effect on the mission to the Gamma Quadrant, even before things had gone wrong. And here was Quark, making it a point to show that he was aware of the details. I should deputize him—the thought had occurred to Odo before. If I could trust him. At least, Quark wouldn’t be privy to any more sensitive material than he already was.

  Odo took a drink and set the mug back down. “I hope I can rely on your discretion.”

  “Oh, but of course.” Quark made a little bow where he sat. “And more than that, Constable. I want to help.”

  “You’ll help by keeping your mouth shut.” He looked around to see if anyone else in the bar could overhear their conversation.

  A sigh came from Quark. “I always encounter such hostility from you . . . and I don’t know why. Oh, well—” He started to slide from the booth. “Perhaps you’re just not interested. . . .”

  Odo grabbed the Ferengi’s wrist and drew him back. “Do you think you have something to tell me that I don’t already know?”

  “Your problem is that you think you know everything.” Quark adjusted his cuff. “Just because you can pass yourself off as a fly on the wall, if you want to. But you can’t be everywhere at once, can you? You certainly weren’t here on the Promenade when that Redemptorist Deyreth Elt was purchasing certain interesting items.”

  “Those recording chips?” Odo shook his head in disgust; Quark was obviously beginning to slip. “You already gave me that tape.”

  “Not the chips—anyone can buy those legally. I’m referring to a transaction that occurred right here in my bar, between Deyreth Elt and a pair of tech smugglers.”

  “I see.” Odo’s interest had been aroused. “And were these smugglers friends of yours?”

  “Well, they weren’t Ferengi, but they were certainly smart enough to make a little extra money by telling me what the Redemptorist had bought from them.” A smug expression settled on Quark’s face. “Most intriguing; lots of possibilities.”

  “And these items were . . . ?”

  “Constable. We’re both men of the universe.” Quark looked across the bar, then turned back to Odo. “If I satisfy your curiosity—what’s in it for me?”

  “I thought you were so concerned about Kira and Bashir.”

  “Oh, I am. Nearly as much as I am about myself.”

  “Very well, then.” Odo shrugged. “You could expect a measure of forbearance on my part when it comes time to relicense your establishment. I’d be willing to overlook certain problems that have come to my attention, concerning the adulteration of beverages and irregularities in the operation of your dabo tables.”

  “Thank you. I like a security chief I can do business with.” Quark drew a set of folded papers from inside his jacket. “Here’s the complete technical data on the items Deyreth Elt purchased. I don’t mean to insult you, but the information is somewhat specialized; it may be a little bit outside your realm of expertise. I suggest you consult with Chief Engineer O’Brien on this matter.”

  He glanced through the sheets before refolding them. The Ferengi was right. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.” He drained the last of the synthale and stood up, then leaned over Quark. “If nothing else, he’ll be able to tell me whether or not you just pushed some worthless trash on me.”

  “Constable!” Quark feigned shock. “I would never—”

  “I know. Not unless there was a profit to be made from it.” Odo turned and headed for the exit.

  “Have you changed your minds?”

  The image regarded him with its eyes of blackness and stars. “That is not the correct word of your language. Our kind does not have minds as you would know them. It is something different.”

  “Whatever.” Bashir resisted the temptation of getting into another protracted metaphysical discussion with the entity. It would have been so easy to do that, to forget all about matters of life and death in the universe outside. . . . He shook his head, as though struggling for a moment to stay focused, and laid his hands flat upon the arms of the pilot area’s seat. “Perhaps I should have asked if you had come to another decision.”

  “We have not. The concern you feel for this other one of your kind, the one who exists here no more—we are intrigued by that. Your kind seeks to mold time, to make it different from what it is or will be; that is strange to us. But as you say, it is in your nature.” The image of Kira closed its eyes for a moment, silent, as it communed with the unseen others behind it. “Nevertheless, we cannot permit you to go to that other one. That which moves you from point to point, in space rather than time—this engine, as you call it—it wounds us terribly. We had not even known what pain and not-pain were, until such a thing came upon us. Now, we even know what death is; that is how severe the engine’s effects are upon our kind. All these things of time were brought to us by the one called Benjamin Sisko—but he also promised us that it would not be that way again. We accept that it was not your intent to harm us. But we cannot allow it to happen again.”

  Bashir clenched his jaw in frustration. There was no telling what was going on with Kira, out in the Gamma Quadrant—he had reached the limit of how much good he could do her at this distance. He had received no communication from her in the last few hours; she could already be dead, for all he knew. Hören could have caught h
er as she was fetching the thermal patches and blanket from the storage cabinets. Caught her with an arm around her neck, and the knife rising up in his other hand—

  He pushed the image out of his head. “If only . . . ” He shook his head. There was no way to explain to them.

  There was no need to. The Kira image’s gaze penetrated his thoughts. “You do not believe us. In your mind and in your soul, you think we tell you something that is not truth.”

  After a moment, Bashir nodded. “You’re right. That is what I think. There must be some way that I can activate the engine, and not have it hurt you. Or . . . or maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as you think; maybe you’re just afraid of it, because of the pain. It would be for only a little while, and then I would be out of the wormhole—”

  “You see?” The harsh, angry voice came from the image again, its expression changing to a scowl. Bashir knew it wasn’t addressing him, but the rest of the wormhole’s inhabitants instead. “This also is in the nature of these creatures! The pain and death of others is not real to them—thus they find it easy to kill all not of their kind!”

  “No . . . it’s not like that. . . .”

  “These words are such clumsy things.” The gentler voice returned to Kira’s image. “Even for your own kind. It was the same with the one called Sisko—there were things he would not believe until he could see them himself. Perhaps it is the same for you. We should show you that of which we speak.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is not the only time that exists.” The image raised a hand toward the shuttle’s bulkheads. “All of what you see—both in this universe and the one outside it—that is but one time of many. There are others, different from this.”

  He leaned forward in the seat. “You mean parallel realities? Something like that?”