by David Mack
Sloan shook his head and wore an incredulous expression. “From tyranny to theocracy. I’m not sure that counts as progress.”
Ghemor shot a pointed look at him. “Considering that it’s also changed Bajor from your enemy to your ally, I would argue that it does.”
“No offense,” O’Brien said, “but don’t you think it’s a bit too soon to call the Bajorans our allies?”
“Not necessarily. That brings us to the second reason for my visit: a request. The government of Bajor wants me to ask you not to abandon Terok Nor.”
O’Brien chortled and looked around at his comrades, who seemed uneasy. Grinning at Ghemor, he asked, “Why, pray tell, would the Bajorans want that?”
“Because that’s what the Prophets told me to tell them.”
Another awkward silence settled over the rebels.
Eddington folded his hands on the tabletop and leaned forward. He looked Ghemor in the eye. His mien was focused but his voice remained calm and quiet. “Could you clarify that, please?”
This was never going to be an easy sell, Ghemor knew. Despite having made personal contact with the Prophets, even she was not entirely certain which of their predictions she believed or which of their adjurations she was willing to heed. She was not one to believe in gods, but even she could not deny what she had witnessed firsthand. She needed to make the humans understand, and her best chance of doing so was to phrase this in a way they might be willing to accept.
“Sentient beings created and live inside the Bajoran wormhole,” she said, doing her best to sound clinical and detached. “They exist without physical form and don’t perceive time in the same linear way that we do. To them, there’s no difference between the past, the present, and the future. They experience it all at once. When they tell us what they see in the future, for them it’s reporting—but to us it seems like prophecy. These are the beings the Bajorans call the Prophets.” She cast expectant glances at each of the four humans. “With me so far?” They all nodded, so she continued. “After I made contact with them, they started using me as a mouthpiece to give messages to Bajor. One of those messages was about you.”
Ishikawa asked, “What was this message, exactly?”
“That Bajor needed to help the rebels, or else its people would die.”
Sloan shrugged. “That sounds pretty cut-and-dried.”
“Yes,” Ghemor said. “Which makes it a very unusual statement for the Prophets, but that’s a topic for another time. The bottom line is that Bajor is prepared to help you repair and defend this station.”
O’Brien sounded suspicious. “What can they do for us that we can’t already do for ourselves?”
“Restock your torpedoes, for one,” Ghemor said. “For another, they can fix your broken phaser banks and guide you to orbital coordinates from which their planetary defenses can give you maximum covering fire.”
The rebel leader held up his open hand, palm out. “Hang on. Do you mean to tell me Bajor’s had spare munitions for the station all this time?”
“Of course they did. The Alliance has maintained a sizable weapons cache on the planet’s surface ever since Terok Nor was built.”
“Then why the bloody hell are we finding out about it only now?”
“Because when someone puts a gun to your head, you don’t offer them free ammunition.”
Eddington muttered to O’Brien, “She has a point.”
O’Brien grimaced at his friend, then turned his attention back to Ghemor. “So, what does the rebellion have to do to win these favors from Bajor?”
“Move Terok Nor away from the wormhole and back into orbit. Once you’re in position, we’ll begin shuttling up munitions, provisions, and personnel.”
Nodding, O’Brien said, “We’ll have to discuss it.”
“Talk if you must, but do it quickly,” Ghemor said. “The Talarian Republic is about to collapse, probably within a few days. Kai Opaka has already sent out a message offering Talarian refugees safe haven on Bajor. It won’t be long before the Alliance retaliates. The sooner Terok Nor is back in orbit, the sooner we can begin making ready for war.”
“If we stay here,” O’Brien said, “we can’t expend all our efforts on defense. Fortifying a home base is all well and good, but the only way we’re ever going to win this war is to expand and start playing offense. Will Bajor sign on for that?”
Ghemor nodded. “Yes, it will.”
“All right.” O’Brien looked around at his comrades. “Show of hands: Who’s ready to move the station back to Bajor?” He raised his hand first, and the others did the same almost immediately thereafter. “Motion carried, then. Miss Ghemor, tell Kai Opaka that Terok Nor’s coming home.” He offered her his open hand, and she reached across the table and clasped it. Shaking her delicate gray hand in his callused fist, he smiled and added, “Welcome to the rebellion.”
3
Plans of Attack
Secession?” Supreme Legate Skrain Dukat knew that laughter was a grossly inappropriate response but chuckled despite himself. He smiled at his best friend and chief adviser, Gul Corat Damar. “That’s the best news I’ve had in weeks.”
Damar looked perplexed. “By what measure, sir?”
Dukat cleared his throat and shot a glance through narrowed eyes at his old comrade. A by-the-book soldier, Damar had many fine qualities—courage, loyalty, efficiency—but a gift for grand-scale strategic thinking was not among them. “This is a gift, Damar. Bajor just spit in the face of the Alliance—and after all we’ve done for them! We freed them from the Terrans. Gave them privilege and power. Shared our technology.” He leaned forward, his countenance darkening. “And how did they repay us? With betrayal.”
“Forgive me, but I still fail to see the opportunity in this.”
“All crises are opportunities, Damar. The key to leadership is not to waste them.” He got up from his desk, walked to a low triangular cabinet tucked into the corner behind him, and opened it, revealing his private stock of rare-vintage kanar. He chose a tall bottle that resembled a coiled serpent, then took two squat, cutcrystal tumblers from the upper shelf, set them on top of the cabinet, and closed the doors. “You know better than most how hard I’ve tried to be a friend to Bajor.”
Damar nodded. “Of course.”
As he filled the two glasses with the thick, burntorange liquor, Dukat reflected bitterly on the wrongs the Bajorans had done him in recent months. He had influenced their Chamber of Ministers to appoint his ruthless mistress Ro Laren as Bajor’s Intendant, only to see her convicted soon after on trumped-up charges of treason and handed over to the Klingons. Then the Bajorans had added insult to injury by reappointing Kira Nerys to the office. Now that scheming pulyot was dead, a casualty of her own hubris, and that fact was the sole reason Dukat was able to marshal a smile as he handed Damar his drink.
“Ever since this ‘Emissary’ appeared, Bajor has been caught up in a religious mania run amok. It’s clear to me that what the Bajorans need now, more than ever, is someone who can restore order to their society. I am that person.”
“On that we agree, old friend.” Damar raised his glass to Dukat, and they clinked the tumblers in a toast. “Though I have to say, that sounds more like a chore than a gift.”
“You need to see the big picture.” Dukat stepped in front of his office’s trio of oval windows and admired his sunset view of Cardassia Prime’s capital city. “By bringing Bajor to heel without Klingon interference, we’ll shame Martok’s empire and give the Union back its pride.” He sipped his kanar. “But to do that, we’ll need to move quickly, while the Klingons are still bogged down subduing the Talarians. How soon can you mobilize the Ninth Order?”
“Ten days.”
“Too slow. Make it five.”
Damar frowned. “With respect, Legate, I don’t inflate my estimates, and the timetable is not flexible. The Ninth Order can’t deploy until it’s refueled and resupplied—and that will take ten days.”
Dukat grum
bled in frustration. “Very well. I just hope we can secure Bajor before the Klingons regroup.”
“May I offer an opinion, sir?”
“By all means.”
Setting his untouched beverage on Dukat’s desk, Damar said, “We might not want to commit ourselves to the Bajor mission.”
The suggestion triggered Dukat’s temper. He faced Damar. “Why not?”
“Destroying Bajor would be simple, but subduing it will require a large-scale invasion and occupation. It normally requires years of planning to prepare the battlefield—to stage personnel and supplies and compromise the enemy’s infrastructure and institutions. My concern is that our forces will become bogged down without clear objectives, and we’ll wind up occupying Bajor for decades.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I say it because it would be a costly thing, sir. It would consume far more of our budget and resources than we can afford, and it would leave us vulnerable on other fronts. And for what? Bajor has surrendered its influence within the Alliance by seceding. What will Cardassia gain by conquering one planet?”
“Revenge!” Dukat hurled his glass at the wall. Crystal shards ricocheted like shrapnel from the impact. Tiny fragments remained stuck inside the syrupy stain that dripped in slow tendrils to the black granite floor. “Don’t talk to me of budgets or politics! You and I—we’re soldiers, Damar! Men of action!”
The door to the antechamber outside Dukat’s office opened, and two young Vulcan women entered carrying janitorial implements. They seemed to glide in graceful silence, heads bowed, moving on a direct path toward Dukat’s latest mess. With practiced choreography they set to work, cleansing the shards of crystal from the floor and the stain from the wall. Dukat admired their efficiency, obedience, and apparent humility. To his trained eye, their species’ reputation as perfect slaves seemed well deserved.
While the women worked, Dukat returned to the bar cabinet and poured himself a new drink. “I want you to take direct responsibility for planning the invasion and occupation,” he said. He returned to his desk and sat down.
“If that’s your wish, Legate.”
“Be merciless. Don’t concern yourself with preserving Bajor’s value to the Alliance. It’s more important that we make an example of them. The greater the collateral damage, the more effective a demonstration this will be. Understood?” Damar nodded once. Dukat grinned. “Splendid. Report back when the invasion plans are ready for my review.”
Damar stood. “As you command, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Dukat watched Damar turn and leave his office. The two Vulcan servants followed him out, and the door shut after them with a soft hiss. Downing another swig of his kanar, Dukat swiveled his chair to gaze once more out his windows at the deepening dusk. Night would soon descend on the Cardassian capital—but it was nothing compared to the darkness Dukat had resolved to unleash on Bajor.
“I’m surrounded by fools!” Regent Martok slammed his fist on the arm of his throne. The smack of flesh against stone reverberated off the walls of the High Council Chamber, which was deserted except for Martok and his chief of staff, General Goluk. The two Klingons regarded each other in the half-light, Martok glaring at Goluk’s war-scarred visage. “Kopek and his band of cronies got us into this quagmire with no plan for getting us out! What could they have been thinking, starting a war with the Romulans?”
“No doubt trying to boost their own pathetic credentials,” Goluk said. “For what it’s worth, My Lord, I’ve downgraded their security clearances and adjusted their portfolios to cut them off from the High Command.”
“It’s too late. The damage is done.” Martok stood, stepped off his throne’s dais, and walked past the grizzled, gray-maned old veteran. He paced atop the imperial emblem that adorned the chamber’s floor, and clenched his shaking fists. “We had one hand on the throat of the rebellion and the other on a d’k tahg set to stab the Talarians in the heart—but two wars at once wasn’t enough for them! They had to lay waste to Romulus and open a third front. Make no mistake: I enjoy a good war as much as anyone, but I prefer to wage them on my own terms.”
“I think that is precisely why Kopek sent Krone and his Cardassian allies to Romulus.” Goluk noted Martok’s questioning glance. “They may have instigated the conflict with the Romulans, but now that it’s engaged, its resolution is your responsibility.”
Halting in the middle of the room, Martok considered the implications of that point. “You think they’ve set me up to fail.”
“Yes.”
It made sense. The first sign of weakness on Martok’s part would be all the justification any of his rivals on the High Council would require to challenge him to ritual single combat for the regency. “I refuse to give them the satisfaction,” he rasped. “What will it take to neutralize the Romulan threat?”
Goluk crossed his arms and stroked his bearded chin. “The Romulans are rigidly hierarchical in their thinking and behavior, so the surest way to break their resolve is to strike at their leadership.”
“Are you talking about that toDSaH Hiren?”
“No, My Lord, the Xenexian, Mac Calhoun. Hiren and the other Romulans have rallied to his banner, and he seems to have been the architect of their recent victories, including the strike on our refinery at Tranome Sar.”
Martok returned to the dais and settled onto his throne. Though he had heard Calhoun’s name a few times before this, he hadn’t realized just how substantial a threat the rebel leader had become. “How strong is Calhoun’s fleet?”
“Strong enough to be called an armada. He has hundreds of ships, most of them built and crewed by Romulans, as well as several dozen vessels crewed by Xenexians he liberated from the Danteri.”
The regent’s thick brows knitted together in fierce concentration. “Not enough to invade our territory, but more than enough to inflict serious damage.”
“Exactly. Though I would be more concerned about Calhoun’s plan to unite his forces with those of the Terran Rebellion.”
The very notion prompted a gruff harrumph from Martok. “The Terran Rebellion will be gone long before he reaches them. Dukat will see to that.”
The general bristled at the mere utterance of Dukat’s name. “Must we let him seize the initiative against the Terrans and Bajorans? If his forces pacify those sectors without us, he’ll fill dozens of worlds’ governments with his puppets.”
“So? It’s not as if the Alliance Council wields any real authority. If Dukat wants to waste Cardassian blood and treasure jockeying for control over a bunch of useless jeghpu’wI, let him.” Martok reached down to a low table beside his throne, picked up a stein half-filled with warnog, and guzzled it dry. The last drops of pungent liquor dribbled through his black whiskers until he palmed them away. “Do you trust Klag to finish off the Talarians?”
“Yes, My Lord. He may have only one arm, but he’s still a great warrior.”
“Good. Then our only concern is Calhoun. Where is he now?”
Goluk took a small device from a pocket inside his cassock and used it to activate a holographic star map that filled the chamber. Manipulating its controls, he enlarged a section of the galaxy along the Klingon-Romulan border. “In the week since the attack on Tranome Sar, we’ve received reports of intermittent contact with single Romulan ships at numerous points along the border. We presume those ships are performing reconnaissance for Calhoun.”
“No doubt. Illuminate all points of contact.” A few taps on the control device by Goluk peppered the projection with more than two dozen pulsating red points of light. Martok studied the pattern and cracked a lopsided grin. “Curious.”
“My Lord?”
“Carraya, Lorillia, Celes… Those systems lie along an old trade route inside what used to be Terran space. Calhoun’s looking for a convoy, something big enough to be worth his while. He probably thinks that if he hits us hard enough, we’ll cut our losses—and give him the breathing room he needs t
o reach Bajor.”
“Then he’s hunting in the wrong place,” Goluk said. “He’s light-years from any active trade routes.”
“True… but he doesn’t know that.” Martok punched his open palm and smiled at his good fortune. “If it’s a convoy he wants, let’s give him one. The biggest one he’s ever seen. Fuel tankers, heavy freighters, medical frigates, all on a regular schedule between H’Atoria and Celes—a target so tempting Calhoun won’t be able to resist going after it, even if he suspects it’s a trap. But don’t make it look weak—he’ll see through such an obvious ploy. Defend it well. And make sure it passes within two light-hours of the Joch’chal Nebula.”
Goluk looked at the nebula in the holographic star map and nodded. “You think that’s where he’ll stage his forces for the ambush.”
Martok grinned, a predator preparing to feast. “Of course. Because that’s where we’re going to stage ours.”
4
Death Is a Name for Beauty
Sensation and awareness returned to Saavik in a sudden flood as she emerged from the prismatic fury of the transporter beam. She had materialized on a platform inside the new Memory Omega command headquarters, which lay hidden deep inside an ostensibly unremarkable asteroid orbiting Zeta Serpentis.
A pair of familiar individuals manned the transport console a few meters in front of her: a slender, balding human man with a kind face, and his lanky, supremely self-assured half-human, half-Klingon female comrade-in-arms. The two stepped around the console to greet Saavik as she stepped off the platform.
The woman spoke first. “Welcome back, ma’am. It’s good to see you.”
“Thank you, K’Ehleyr.” She nodded at the man. “Mister Barclay.”
He acknowledged her greeting with a shy smile. “Ma’am.”
“We are all in your debt,” Saavik said to them. “Your actions at Gamma Pavonis prevented what might have been a calamitous reversal. I commend you.”