Rise Like Lions

by David Mack

  Scratching an itch under his week-old beard, O’Brien sighed. “That’s what passes for good news, now? We have a good chance of not dying if we crawl into a hole and keep our heads down? I’d hoped we’d have higher standards by now.”

  “We play the cards we’re dealt,” Eddington said. “The real question is: What are we going to do next? The other captains are getting restless, Miles.”

  “And I’m not?” He held up his hand, willing himself to stop before unleashing a harangue on Eddington, who he knew didn’t deserve it. “Sorry. It’s just so bloody vexing. I’m trying to keep their morale up so they can do the same for their crews, but really, what am I supposed to tell them?” He blanked the geological data from the situation table’s display and looked at his haggard reflection in the black tabletop. “The station’s gone, and we’re back on the run.”

  “If the news out of Cardassia is true, they’ve got their own problems.” Eddington leaned forward and lowered his voice. “This is the time to hit them, Miles. When they’re distracted. When they think we’re beaten.”

  “How do you know we’re not?”

  “Because you’re still standing,” Eddington said, and he sounded like he meant it. “If your enemy expects you to lie low and hide—”

  “Attack,” O’Brien said. He nodded, grasping the truth in it. The key to the rebellion’s strategy had always been to embrace the unexpected and the utterly unconventional. To take the risks the enemy never would.

  He called up a star map of Alliance territory. “If the Cardassians are having as much trouble as these recon reports say they are, the Klingons probably think we’ll take advantage of that, and hit the Cardies where it hurts.” He planted his index finger on the display. “That’s why we’ll hit the Klingons here, at Capella. If the Cardassians are already down on one knee, they aren’t the ones for us to worry about. It’s the Klingons we need to hurt.”

  “I agree,” Eddington said. “But Capella’s a hard nut to crack. It’s a long way from here, and it’s heavily defended. I don’t want to sound defeatist, but I don’t think we have the forces to go after a target like that—not yet.”

  Undaunted, O’Brien forced down another sip of coffee. “Let me worry about that. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I’m willing to bet it can be done.”

  To his surprise, Keiko’s voice answered from behind him, “That sounds like the Miles O’Brien I know.”

  O’Brien spun, face bright with hope, to see Keiko smiling at him. Throwing decorum to the wind, he grabbed her in a bear hug and spun her in a circle. “Keiko!” He peppered her beautiful face with grateful kisses. “Dear God, I thought I’d lost you back there.” Leaning back, he felt an irrational surge of annoyance. “Where the hell’d you come from? Why wasn’t your name on the manifests?”

  “I was on the Geronimo,” Keiko said. “Well, behind it, actually. Captain Neelix put a tractor beam on my lifeboat on his way out of the Bajor system.”

  The news brought a smile to O’Brien’s careworn features. “Remind me to buy that man a drink. But that still doesn’t—”

  “The survivor lists are a mess, Miles,” she cut in. “For every two people you have on your roster, there’s probably a third unaccounted for down on the planet.”

  That was both bad news and good news to O’Brien. “I’ll have L’Sen make a more complete census, starting tomorrow.” He shrugged at Eddington. “At least we’ll have crews standing by if we can ever get our hands on more ships.”

  “There is that,” Eddington said, accentuating the positive. “Lord knows we could use more ships if we’re going after Capella.”

  An Alliance news dispatch appeared on the edge of the situation table’s display and caught O’Brien’s eye. He opened it and was shocked. “Martok’s dead. General Klag killed him in ritual combat. Klag’s the damned regent now.”

  Keiko and Eddington looked as dumbstruck at the news as O’Brien felt. In the moment of pregnant silence, an idea took shape in O’Brien’s imagination. He stepped back, kissed Keiko on the cheek, and said, “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

  As O’Brien walked in a hurry, heading aft toward the transporter bay, Eddington asked, “Miles, where are you going?”

  He paused in the open doorway, smiled, and said, “To see an old friend.”

  Cables twanged as the antiquated lift descended, shaking as if it suffered from palsy, its metal frame clattering, its every groaning protest echoing from the narrow rocky shaft that surrounded it. O’Brien stood in the center of the lift carriage and realized how much he took for granted the fully enclosed and nearly silent turbolifts that were de rigueur on most modern starships.

  Above his head, the single fluorescent rod on the lift’s ceiling flickered. When he’d beamed down from Defiant a short time earlier, he had found Athos IV’s perpetually clouded atmosphere depressing. Bathed now in the lift’s sickly chartreuse light, O’Brien felt a new appreciation for those dreary gray skies.

  The descent was maddeningly slow, and O’Brien didn’t relish having to make an equal or possibly longer return journey when his visit was over, but at least it afforded him some space, time, and privacy to think—a luxury he rarely enjoyed aboard the ship. He reflected on his conversation with Eddington, who had reminded him unnecessarily about the fistrium that made these abandoned mines impervious to sensors and transporters. It wasn’t as if that was the sort of detail O’Brien would have forgotten—especially since it was why he had long ago chosen this place for a very special purpose.

  A sharp bump and deafening boom marked the lift’s arrival at the bottom of the shaft. O’Brien opened the safety gate, which folded aside like an accordion, torturing his ears with a piercing metallic screech that echoed in the tunnel ahead of him. He stepped out and walked at a quick step, grateful to be free of the steel cage. His footfalls were loud and crisp in the cool, dank air. The long, dark passageway was lit only at wide intervals by weakly burning orange bulbs along the ceiling. O’Brien passed from one pool of light to another and noted his shadow by turns stretching ahead of him or contracting to meet him.

  It took him a few minutes to reach the end of the tunnel. Arriving at its terminus, he turned and faced the only cell in what he had named Badlands Prison. Seated inside the spacious accommodation, secure behind its duranium bars, was the rebellion’s only prisoner of war. O’Brien nodded at him. “Hello, again.”

  Worf stood and regarded O’Brien with a glum frown. “O’Brien.”

  “I trust you’ve been treated well since my last visit.”

  The former regent of the Klingon Empire avoided O’Brien’s gaze and folded his hands behind his back. He looked contemplative. “I have no complaints.”

  O’Brien nodded. “Glad to hear it.”

  Despite its name, Badlands Prison was a clean, comfortable, and relatively dignified facility, one that Eddington had insisted be made worthy of such a high-ranking prisoner. The furniture had been tailored to suit Worf’s tastes, and great pains had been taken to secure a supply of traditional Klingon foods, to ensure the former regent received an adequately nutritious diet. Unlike the sickly lighting in the lift and corridor, the illumination in Worf’s cell was warm and even, and as an added courtesy it had been placed under Worf’s control, so that he could manage his own schedule. He had been allowed a traditional Klingon wardrobe, after the garments had been inspected by his captors to ensure they contained no hidden weapons. Reading materials had been made available to him, and his jailers had been handpicked by O’Brien for their calm dispositions and generally nonviolent natures. They had been trained to address Worf with respect, and to make every reasonable effort to accommodate him without compromising security.

  To O’Brien’s surprise, the relatively benign state of Worf’s captivity seemed to have worn the Klingon down far more thoroughly than any torture ever could have. Standing before him, the ex-regent looked calm, even statesmanlike. He affected an air of boredom. “Why are you here?”

  �
��I have news.”

  Worf smirked. “You wish to surrender? I accept.”

  “Not bloody likely. Martok’s dead.”

  A disaffected grunt. “Good riddance.” O’Brien let the silence hang between them while he waited for Worf to ask the obvious question. “Who killed him?”

  “General Klag.”

  Eyes wide, brow furrowed, Worf bellowed, “KLAG?” He lunged toward the bars and gripped them white-knuckle tight. “That one-armed taHqeq is regent?”

  O’Brien shrugged. “Sounds like he won fair and square.”

  Worf pushed himself back from the bars and paced the confines of his cell. “That yIntagh isn’t fit to shine the boots of a regent, much less hold the throne for Him Who Shall Return!” His face went taut with rage. “How did it come to this? Klag is a coward and an opportunist. He has no business even standing in the Great Hall, much less sitting upon the throne of Kahless.”

  The tirade drew a chuckle from O’Brien. “And I thought you hated Martok.”

  “Compared to Klag, Martok was a giant among Klingons—and Martok was a petaQ.” A deep growl of contempt rumbled in Worf’s barrel chest. “Is this why you came, O’Brien? To punish me with this news?”

  Crossing his arms, O’Brien said, “Partly.”

  The deposed regent shot a sidelong look at O’Brien, then turned and walked slowly toward the bars, studying his jailer with suspicion from beneath a ridged brow knit with concentration. “What is it you want from me?”

  “I suspect that what I want and what you want are very similar right now.”

  A derisive snort. “I doubt that.”

  “I’ve heard you speak more than once about how much you despise Klag. Had he not been protected from on high, you’d have had him killed years ago.”

  “So?”

  O’Brien saw through Worf’s façade of disinterest. The mere suggestion of misfortune for Klag had put the fire back in Worf’s eyes, kindled his spirit. “I think you want what I need—to make Klag look weak, stupid, and vulnerable.”

  Grasping the bars that separated them, Worf scowled down at O’Brien. “And how do you propose I help you do that?”

  “Tell us how to attack Capella.”

  Worf gasped in disgust and walked away from O’Brien, shaking his head. “You will never learn. This is why your rebellion will fail.”

  O’Brien wanted to pursue Worf, grab him by the shoulders, and turn him around, but he knew well enough not to get within arm’s reach of the regent’s cell bars, much less make the fatal mistake of stepping inside with him. Toeing the line on the concrete floor one-point-seven meters from the bars, he called out to Worf. “What haven’t I learned, Regent?”

  His plaint turned Worf’s head. “If you want to hurt Klag, you must deal him a defeat from which he can never recover.”

  Aghast at the implausibility of Worf’s implication, O’Brien backed up half a step and stared at him, jaw agape. “You’re not really suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, are you?”

  “You must blast the Great Hall out from under him.”

  Now it was O’Brien who had to shake his head in disbelief. “That’s insane. I don’t have anywhere near enough ships for a mission like that.”

  “Then get more ships.”

  He made it sound so simple, which was probably why O’Brien felt such a powerful urge to shoot him at that moment. “Let’s say I get more ships. What then? What would we need to know if we wanted to glass the Great Hall?”

  Worf considered the question, then he stepped away to the table where he ate his meals, picked up its lone metal chair, carried it to the bars, and set it down facing O’Brien. He sat down and crossed his arms.

  O’Brien took Worf’s meaning very clearly: This was going to take a while.

  He stepped back from the line and pulled forward a chair that was usually occupied by one of Worf’s around-the-clock guards, whom O’Brien had dismissed in the interests of privacy. He sat down and mimicked Worf’s pose.

  The Klingon smirked. “Let me tell you about Klag.”

  18

  The Damnation of Memory

  Neelix stood at the threshold of the Geronimo’s brig and watched Kes through the invisible force field. She looked troubled even in her sleep.

  Once, I would’ve done anything to comfort her, he brooded. Now all I can think about is wanting her off my ship. He knew he was lying to himself. If he had really wanted to send her away, he could have beamed her and Tuvok down to Athos IV when the other rescued survivors of Terok Nor were dispatched to the surface. Instead, at Tuvok’s request, he had agreed to let Kes remain aboard the Geronimo as his prisoner. It was a bitterly ironic state of affairs, in Neelix’s opinion. When he had first met her she had been a prisoner of the Kazon-Ogla, and he had risked their wrath when he’d gone to Ocampa to set her free. Now he was her captor, the one from whom she hoped to escape.

  Kes stirred and cracked open one eye. When she saw Neelix lurking just outside the cramped nook that served the tiny ship as its brig, she awakened instantly and sat up. “Neelix! How long have you been there?”

  “A while.” It had been more like an hour.

  She stood and took a half step toward him, stopping well shy of the painful but unseen barrier between them. “Are you still angry at me?”

  He sneered. “Can’t you read my mind?”

  “No, I can’t. Tuvok and his people did something to me. A neural damper, he called it. It’s blocking my abilities.”

  Neelix looked at his nervously shuffling feet. “Maybe that’s for the best.”

  “For the best? Neelix, they put something in my brain! They violated me!”

  “Like you violated me?” He shot an accusing stare that made her back away. “Kes, you made a slave out of me! You forced your way into my mind and took away my free will! Do you have any idea what that feels like? Do you?”

  She blushed as she averted her eyes, clearly ashamed. “No.”

  “It was the worst thing ever done to me, Kes. And I’ve had a lot of bad things happen to me. But the worst part of it, what made it really hurt, is that it was you who did it to me.” Tears welled in his eyes, and the bitter rage in his heart left him fighting for breath and control. “I loved you, Kes. I trusted you.”

  She looked up, her face contorted in anguish. “Neelix, I’m sorry. Please believe me. I never wanted to hurt you. I just wanted to save you, but you wouldn’t leave with me, even though the rebellion’s clearly doomed, and I—”

  “We’re not doomed,” he snapped.

  She blinked and recoiled in surprise. “Are you serious? From what I’ve heard, the rebellion just got slaughtered. You lost Terok Nor and half your fleet.”

  “Losing one battle doesn’t mean we’ve lost the war,” Neelix protested.

  Kes folded her arms and struck a haughty pose. “Some battles mean more than others, Neelix. This one was huge. Even you have to be able to see that.”

  “Even me? What is that supposed to mean? Are you implying I’m stupid?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, just deluded. You’re a romantic. I could see it in your mind—you never know when to walk away. You’ve never been able to tell when you’ve already lost.”

  “Is that so?”

  Holding up her hands in a pantomime of surrender, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she put her hands down and continued, she struck a far more conciliatory note. “I apologize. I spoke rashly, and for that, I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight, Neelix. I want to earn your forgiveness.”

  “So that I’ll let you out of the brig?”

  Her eyes became windows to sorrow. “So that we can be together.”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for that. Or if I ever will be.”

  She bowed her head. “I understand. I know that what I did was horrible. But all that I’ve done since I left Tuvok’s people, I did so I could come home to you. That’s all I ever wanted—to live far away from everyone else, away from all the wars
and fighting and suffering and death, and spend my life with you.”

  Hearing her invoke the dream they had spoken of so many times made Neelix long for the past, for the days years earlier when he had believed such a fate might be possible, that he could leave behind his war-torn memories and begin again with Kes, just the two of them and a clean slate.

  “I’m not sure what you expect me to do, Kes.”

  “You could talk to Tuvok for me,” she said. “Convince him I don’t need to be caged like an animal.”

  That sounded like a tall order to Neelix. When he recalled what it felt like to be manipulated like a puppet, he had to admit that he saw the logic in Tuvok’s request that Kes remain not only in custody but under maximum control. Deflecting his concerns onto the Vulcan, he said, “I’m not sure Mister Tuvok places much stock in my opinion.”

  “Well, it’s not as if you need his permission to let me out of the brig. After all, you are the captain of this ship. You can let me out anytime you want.”

  Neelix bristled at the transparency of her suggestion. “I see what you’re doing! Playing to my ego, trying to make me assert myself by defying Tuvok’s wishes. Maybe that kind of clumsy suggestion works when you have your fancy psycho-powers, but without them, it comes off as sad and obvious.” He saw the anger and disappointment on her face, and it filled his heart with scorn. “You’re just trying to use me again. I wonder if maybe that’s the only thing you know how to do anymore. Tuvok’s right—you belong in there.”

  He walked away, eager to put as much distance as he could between him and Kes. As he opened a safety hatch that led to the forward sections of the ship, Kes cried out, “Neelix! Come back! Please, I’m sorry! Don’t go!”

  A jab of his thumb against a control panel secured the hatch behind him.

  I’ve heard enough lies for one day, he decided.

  Keiko awoke when she heard the door of O’Brien’s quarters hiss open. She sat up as O’Brien came in. He paused as he saw her squinting at him. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t know you were sleeping.”