by David Mack
Keiko asked, “Then it’s official? We’re scrubbing the Olmerak mission?”
“No choice,” O’Brien said. “We need everybody here.”
Sloan kicked the side of the table. “Dammit! We were so close!”
As usual, Eddington remained the coolest of the four minds in the room. “We should begin evacuating people to the planet’s surface.”
O’Brien shook his head. “There’s no time. We need everybody we’ve got, working on repairs and offloading munitions.”
“Michael’s right,” Keiko said. “There are hundreds of noncombatants on the station, Miles—some of them kids. Let’s move them to Bajor while we still can. Later, if we have time, we’ll evac the support personnel.”
All three of his subordinates were nodding in agreement, so O’Brien relented. “Fine. Luther, tell Bajor we need extra transports up here on the double. Michael, what’s the ETA on the Cardie fleet?”
“Sixty-one hours. I’ve summoned as many reinforcements as I think can get here before then, but it looks like the Cardassians will have us outnumbered roughly five to one.” He frowned, a rare admission of pessimism. “We’ll have to hope the station’s weapons and the planet’s artillery can hold them off.”
Steeling his nerve, O’Brien put on a brave face. “If we can get the shields back to full power, we should be able to hold our ground. It won’t be pretty, but it’ll be possible. Keiko, get anyone who knows how to hold a tool onto a work detail. Fixing the shields is our top priority, even before weapons. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right,” O’Brien said, straightening his back. “Let’s get to it.” He shot a look at Eddington and tilted his head sideways toward his office. Eddington nodded in reply, and the two men climbed the stairs to the upper level and continued through the parting doors into O’Brien’s sanctum. As the portal shut behind Eddington, O’Brien circled behind his desk and slumped into the chair. “Of all the bloody bad luck.” He made a fist. His rage made it quake. “We were about to seize the momentum. Now we’re back on defense. Again.”
“I share your frustration, Miles. And I don’t deny this is a disappointing setback. But I believe we can survive this.”
The prediction drew a derisive grunt from O’Brien. “Survive it? Sure. But for how long, Michael? We’ll take heavy losses this time, no matter how much firepower the Bajorans lend us.” Driven by fear and fury, he got out of his chair and turned to stare out the window behind his desk. He spoke to Eddington’s reflection in the window. “No one’s ever won a war fighting only defense. If we can’t shift the momentum, we’re finished. So, you tell me”—he turned and looked at Eddington—“are we ever getting off the ropes again? Or are we just biding our time until the Alliance puts us down for good?”
A grim affect descended upon Eddington. “I don’t know, Miles. I’m not a fortune-teller. But if this is the end for the rebellion, I plan to face it standing on my feet with a gun in my hand.”
O’Brien took two glasses from a drawer on his desk, then filled them from a half-empty bottle of some alien liquor he kept hidden beside them. He handed one to Eddington and raised the other in a toast. “Bloody well right.”
A clink of crystal, and they drank to their impending doom.
Surrounded by abandoned furniture inside an evacuated suite in the Habitat Ring, Keiko faced the life-sized holographic projection of Saavik generated by her quantum transceiver. The Vulcan woman stood with her hands folded primly in front of her. “Did O’Brien and the others heed the warning we sent?”
“Yes,” Keiko said, leaning against the side of an overturned sofa. “O’Brien seemed suspicious of the source, but I persuaded him it was reliable.”
Saavik nodded. “Has the rebellion abandoned its assault on Olmerak?”
“Reluctantly, but yes. They’ve turned their efforts to fortifying the station.”
That news seemed to disappoint Saavik. “The Cardassians are sending their entire Ninth Order. The rebellion will not be able to repel that great a force.”
Keiko’s temper was stoked by Saavik’s matter-of-fact tone. “Be that as it may, they’ve chosen to stand and fight.”
“Have they formulated any contingency plans for tactical withdrawal?”
“We’re working on some, yes. But our top priority—”
“You mean their top priority.”
Feeling her anger rising from a simmer to a boil, Keiko fought to keep a civil tone as she replied, “Our top priority is defending Bajor and the station.”
“But if necessary, the station will be abandoned, correct?”
“Yes, Director.”
The older woman’s countenance took on a grave aspect. “In such an event, the rebellion’s casualties are likely to be severe. What preparations have you and the other embedded operatives made for your escape?”
“None,” Keiko said, holding up her chin with prideful defiance. “And I’ve ordered the other Omega agents in the rebellion not to do so.”
Confusion furrowed Saavik’s upswept eyebrows. “This is in contravention of my express orders.”
“I’m aware of that. My order stands. No one leaves.”
Her overt challenge seemed to draw out a hint of anger from behind Saavik’s cool Vulcan demeanor. “This is highly illogical and extremely dangerous. We cannot risk any of our agents being captured and interrogated by the Alliance.”
“Oh, please. We have agents all over the Alliance! In the capitals, on the ships, in the hidden bases. My people aren’t in any greater danger.”
“Quite the contrary.” Saavik unclasped her hands. It was a small gesture but enough to tell Keiko that she was eroding her superior’s patience. “Those agents have cover stories prepared decades in advance. Yours are in league with the rebellion, which makes them all potential prisoners of war. They need not do anything more to attract the Alliance’s attention than survive. And if even one of them—or yourself—should be subjected to a Klingon mind-sifter, all for which we have struggled and sacrificed will be lost.”
Keiko folded her arms. “Well, then. It sounds to me as if we have a vested interest in not letting the rebellion fail.”
“That is a non sequitur. The safeguarding of our operational secrecy does not necessitate our intervention in the affairs of the Terran Rebellion. In fact, just the opposite is called for.”
Overcome by rage, Keiko wished Saavik’s holographic image were real so that she could throttle the Vulcan. “So we do nothing? We just sit by and watch them get slaughtered? Then what the hell are we even doing here? Why send us to infiltrate the rebellion if we’re not going to help them when they need us?”
“Our objective is merely to steer them toward nobler paths, so that when the time comes for their ascendance they will possess the requisite qualities to establish a stable and benevolent society.”
“It’s awfully hard to be benevolent when you’re dead, Saavik!”
“Restrain your passions, Miss Ishikawa. They cloud your judgment.”
Saavik’s arch condescension was more than Keiko could take. “Don’t tell me to act like a Vulcan! If I’m emotional, it’s for a good reason.”
“If your fellow embedded agents’ reports are correct, your reason seems to be that you have developed an unhealthy emotional attachment to the rebellion’s leader, Miles O’Brien.”
“It’s not an unhealthy attachment. I love him. And he loves me.”
A subtle sigh of disappointment. “This was not part of the plan.”
Keiko closed her eyes and pressed her hands to the sides of her head, as if to stop the pressure she felt building inside her skull from splitting it in two. “God help me, I am so sick of hearing about the plan!” She glared at Saavik. “As a set of objectives, it’s fine. But why must you be so slavishly devoted to its details?”
“It has carried us through many decades of suffering and deprivation, and its predictions have, for the most part, been accurate.”
“Al
l except for when the rebellion would come,” Keiko shot back. “Spock didn’t see the Alliance falling for another twenty years! I don’t know about you, but I’m not prepared to wait that long just because Spock said so, when there’s a viable rebellion happening right now.”
Arching one eyebrow, Saavik sounded skeptical. “So, you now consider yourself a strategist on a par with the late Emperor Spock?”
“Don’t twist my words,” Keiko said. “And don’t lecture me about my emotional link with O’Brien when your own emotional biases are just as obvious.”
Saavik recoiled, offended. “Who are you to accuse—”
“I know about your history with Spock. He was your mentor. Hell, from what I’ve heard, he was like a second father to you. So don’t tell me you don’t have a personal stake in protecting his legacy, because I know that’s a lie.”
Her accusations were met with several seconds of bitter silence from Saavik. Then the Vulcan recovered her blank mask of composure and folded her hands at her waist. “If you wish to defy my orders, so be it. But I will not permit you to condemn our other agents within the rebellion based on your emotional impulses. Henceforth, I will issue my directives to them through L’Sen.”
Keiko seethed. “You’re relieving me of command?”
“Correct. For your sake, I hope you can maintain operational security. It would be a pity if an agent of your caliber had to share General Nechayev’s fate.”
Saavik’s threat sent a chill through Keiko. “Secrecy will be maintained.”
Lifting her hand in the Vulcan salute, Saavik replied, “Then live long and prosper, Keiko Ishikawa.”
Suppressing her anger, Keiko reciprocated the gesture. “Peace and long life, Saavik.” Upon the last syllable of her valediction, the transmission ended, and the image of Saavik flickered and vanished, leaving Keiko alone in the darkness. She tucked the quantum transceiver back inside her boot and heaved a dejected sigh.
So much for calling in the cavalry.
11
The Path of Most Resistance
Picard didn’t like going into any situation blind, but this time he had no choice. Navigating inside the Klach D’Kel Bracht—a dense nebula of supernova remnants that was packed with false vacuum fluctuations, littered with innumerable pockets of metreon gas, and laced with shifting zones of metaphasic radiation—was nothing less than a nightmare. He had been forced to reduce the speed of his Trill-made outrider, which he had named Calypso, to less than one-third impulse, to avoid triggering a meltdown in its impulse manifolds.
Troi stood behind his right shoulder, peering with a fearful gaze through the forward canopy at the roiling, bloodred maelstrom that seemed to have swallowed them whole. “Are we sure these are the right coordinates?”
He glanced at the helm controls and verified their position. “We’re within two hundred million kilometers. It can’t be much farther.” He pointed at a display along the starboard side of the cockpit. “Is there anything on sensors?”
She leaned over and poked at the console. “Nothing but static.”
“Merde.” Swallowing his suspicion that they had been led astray—or, worse, into a trap—Picard focused on steadying their passage through the fiery tempest.
Menacing forks of lightning flashed through distant clusters of churning gas, and thunderstrokes shook Picard’s tiny vessel. The erratic energy fields inside the nebula had made it impossible to raise the Calypso’s shields, which had only exacerbated Picard’s already serious misgivings about coming there.
Then, all at once, the walls of fog and dust parted like a curtain revealing a grand stage, and what Picard saw directly ahead robbed him of his breath. They had penetrated a pocket of near vacuum more than half a billion kilometers in diameter. At its center was a yellow main-sequence star, and orbiting it, squarely inside its habitable zone, was an Earth-like planet with the most eerily beautiful blue rings Picard had ever seen. Barely able to raise his voice above a shocked whisper, he told Troi, “Verify coordinates.”
Troi checked the sensors, then looked back in awe at the planet. “Confirmed. That planet’s position matches the coordinates Barclay and K’Ehleyr gave us.”
“A world like that, hidden in the midst of all this…” He couldn’t help but smile. “How remarkable.” He set an approach course. “Strap in for landing. There’s no telling what kind of weather might be waiting for us.”
Minutes later, he found that his precautions, though prudent, had been entirely unnecessary. Only minimal cloud cover lingered above their specified landing point, a broad prairie shining with waves of tall grass bowing before a stiff afternoon breeze.
As the Calypso neared its precise touchdown location on top of a small knoll, another ship shimmered into view there. It was sleek and feminine in its slopes and curves, pale gray and pristine, beautiful yet imposing. Picard had never seen anything remotely similar to it. He admired it more profoundly the closer he came to it, and it was an effort to tear his eyes from it as he completed his landing procedure. The Calypso touched down with barely a tremor of contact, and he gently cycled down the engines and thrusters to standby.
Troi was already lowering the aft hatch and hurrying out to go see the other ship. Picard struggled to unfasten his seat’s safety harness as he shouted at her back, “Deanna, wait!” It was no use—the woman was already outside, sprinting through waist-high grass toward the other ship.
He grabbed his blaster on the way out and followed Troi. When he caught up to her, Barclay and K’Ehleyr were walking down their ship’s port-side ramp. Noting Troi’s excitement as she circled their vessel, Barclay said to her, “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
“It’s amazing,” gushed the half-Betazoid. She threw a wide-eyed look at Barclay. “What’s it called?”
K’Ehleyr answered, “The Solomon. It’s named for a king of ancient Earth, one known for his wisdom and good judgment.” She glanced at Barclay. “How it ended up as the name of our ship, I still don’t know.” She stepped off the ramp and met Picard with a taut wrinkle of a smile. “Thank you for coming.”
“The pleasure’s mine.” He pivoted one way, then the other, and marveled at the lush, untrammeled world that surrounded them. “What is this place?”
“A well-kept secret. People have died to keep it off the Alliance’s star maps, so we’d appreciate it if you’d lose these coordinates after you leave here.”
Picard nodded. “Of course.”
The half-Klingon seemed bemused. “Don’t you want to know why?”
He drew a deep breath and savored the perfumes of flowers whose scents he didn’t recognize but that reminded him of a dozen others on worlds scattered across the galaxy. He exhaled and asked K’Ehleyr, “Does it matter?”
A stifled chortle and a small shake of her head. “No, I guess not.”
“Though I am curious about one thing.” Now he had K’Ehleyr’s attention. “If you’re capable of preventing the Alliance from discovering an entire star system in the middle of their own territory, just how much influence do you have? How far does your organization’s reach extend?”
“Even farther than you might imagine.”
“That’s not an answer, dammit. Be specific. Is this Memory Omega really powerful enough to take down the Alliance?”
K’Ehleyr and Barclay exchanged what seemed to Picard like a meaningful glance. Then she said, “Yes… with the right allies.”
“With the right allies,” he parroted. “And you think I fit that bill?”
A noncommittal sideways nod. “Our superiors do.”
The cynic in Picard told him to walk away, to trust in himself and no one else, to remember that the cardinal rule of survival is “never get involved.” But part of him wanted to believe that he might still make a difference. That his life might amount to more than decades spent digging in the dirt, looking for fragments of other people’s great labors. That, just perhaps, he might contribute something of value himself, some work of noble note.
And he couldn’t deny there was at least a small appetite for revenge demanding to be sated; he had endured a lifetime of injustices and abuse at the hands of the Cardassians and the Klingons. They’d beaten and killed those whom he had dared to take into his heart; they’d robbed him of his freedom and his pride, smashed the last token of his heritage and left its dregs in a stain at his feet. They deserved to pay. To fall. To face justice.
But above all, he had to do what was best for Troi. He watched her smile and laugh as she cavorted around and beneath the Solomon, all her attention on young Mister Barclay. In all the years Picard had spent with Troi, he had never seen her react that way to anyone else. She clearly was smitten, and he doubted it was a physical infatuation. Barclay was not an unattractive man, but he was hardly a chiseled Adonis or a fountain of charisma. Whatever she’s reacting to, Picard speculated, it’s something in the man himself. Something in his nature.
He couldn’t know what was in Barclay’s soul or Troi’s heart, but he saw an undeniable connection being made between them. Such moments, in his experience, were beyond rare. Most people he had ever known, himself included, had never experienced anything like it. And here, Troi had found it—or it had found her. Either way, it seemed wrong to Picard to take her from it. And if the mere presence of such a man could transform Troi’s mood so dramatically, then that alone was a reason to consider taking the path of most resistance.
Picard asked K’Ehleyr in a low voice, “Why me?”
“Because you have a reputation that precedes you,” she said. “Because you have intelligence, and education, and experience, and courage. But most of all because the future needs people like you: men of conscience. Natural leaders.”
He shook his head. “No. I can’t. And besides, the rebellion’s finished.”
“Not yet. Let us prove it to you. If we can’t, you go your way, we’ll go ours. But give us a chance to show you what’s possible.”
Wiping a sheen of perspiration from the top of his bald head, Picard sighed. “I’ve never been what one would call a joiner, K’Ehleyr.”