by S. D. Perry
22
THEY WEREN’T GOING TO MAKE IT. THE FLOOR HAD FALLEN AWAY, BEcome—become nothing that Eli could see, exactly, just a whirling darkness that felt loose and horribly unstable beneath his feet. The roaring sound had grown louder, a sound like the ocean in a storm, like the hissing crash of a waterfall, and the roar had been joined by tremendous cracking noises, like bones, breaking. The walls seemed to waver like rippling water.
Benny still dragged him forward, pointing ahead into the strange and turbulent air. A light, ahead in the thick haze that had blanketed everything. Blue and gold and white, so bright that it defied color, the brilliant rays cut through the fog, leading them on. It seemed far away, but only a few steps later it appeared that they had reached the source—an opening in the dark, a lighted well of space that looked, that seemed like the tunnel Eli had always heard described.
A tunnel of light . . . Were they dying, now? Eli didn’t know, he didn’t know anything anymore, except that he no longer wanted to die. He wanted to see his daughter.
“There!” Benny shouted, pushing him forward. “Go!”
“What about you?” Eli shouted back. The crashing and cracking had grown louder, the haze thicker, the floor jolting and buckling beneath their feet. Whatever was happening, the building—
—building, is that what this is—
—was on the verge of collapse.
“I’m right behind you!”
“But—” Eli felt lost, confused. In spite of the dissolving structure all around them, he was afraid to go into the light, afraid that he wasn’t ready.
Benny grinned suddenly, a warm and somehow peaceful grin that radiated almost as brightly as the well of light in front of them.
“It’s okay,” he said, and Eli could see in his eyes that it was so. “Now—go!”
Benny gave him another push, hard, sent him reeling into the undefined brilliance even as behind him, the very air seemed to break apart, an infinite cold at Eli’s back as he stumbled into the light.
* * *
Her spawn began to issue forth from her, their birth the culmination of her patience and planning. She felt them eject from her body, her children, cool and wet and alive, leaving behind an emptiness that made her whole. That would make all of them whole, that would carry them to the meat worlds where they would take their rightful places . . . And turn their attentions to the obliteration of the weak ones.
The betrayers. The Trill. Even thinking the name made her tense, sent a number of her brood squealing from her body to the cold hard ground. The hatred she felt for the weak ones had sustained her for many spans of time, when she had been tiny and hiding, waiting in the darkness of her frozen nest beneath the mountains of the unknown world. All her attempts to reach out had gone unanswered, for so long that she had come to believe that she was the last matriarch, alone in the charge of her species. Her hatred had made her patient, though . . . And when the Shakaar-thing had stumbled upon her, she had taken him, finding in him and his people the perfect instrument for movement and growth.
It had not been easy. She had underestimated the meat, had learned of other spawnmothers’ failures since taking Shakaar, had witnessed the failures herself . . . But once she completed this great spawning, her brood would take the remaining population of this small meat world. They would unlock the secrets of these strange artifacts arrayed around her, and would use that knowledge to bring true and final death to the weak ones of Trill, and all their allies.
It is a good beginning, she mused as her membranes contracted, releasing more of her young. It is—
The great spawnmother tensed anew. Something was in her chamber. A meat-being, untaken! In the throes of spawning, she had not felt the danger.
She extended her will, found her guards asleep, wounded. She forced them to consciousness, demanded it, and they began to stir, crawling and stumbling; in seconds, they would be at her side. There would be no escape for the invader.
The meat-being hid behind an artifact now, trapping itself—
Light.
What was happening? She could no longer feel the workings of her tremendous body, the spew of her young. Her contact with the guards above was broken. The nest, the entire chamber—all of it, gone! The meat-being had opened the artifacts, and all had become white void.
I see you.
She spun out her senses, searching. She was not alone, but what thoughts were these?
They’re mine.
She reached out, seeking the mind she sensed, that dared to interrupt her time of birth. But the thoughts came from no particular direction, were simply all around her. She felt her uterine muscles contract, her fluids congealing. What did it want with her?
I wanted to tell you that it’s over. Your campaign, your hatred . . . your time. It ends here, now.
It was no taker of gist, no spawnmother; why could she hear its mind? She sought through the void with her rudimentary eyes . . . and saw it, emerging from the white. Like a meat-being in appearance, it walked toward her from the nothingness, its features becoming clearer as it neared. Dark and human, meat, but . . .
. . . the eyes . . .
It drew closer, looming ever larger as it approached. It was vast, she saw now, vast as space. Its brown face filled her perception, filled the void itself—
And then it spoke.
“You picked the wrong planet,” it said, and she felt her first glimmer of doubt.
It was also her last.
* * *
First Hanal’ahan surveyed his surroundings once more, his frustration growing with each passing moment. The white nothingness in which he and his men had suddenly found themselves appeared to be absolute. Yet it could not be a true void, his mind insisted. Although he couldn’t see it, there was a level surface on which he and his troops stood, which implied gravity. There was heat, or they would already be freezing, and there was breathable air, obviously . . . which meant, unfortunately, that he could clearly hear the nasal voice of the tiresome, demanding Vorta who kept calling his name.
This is impossible, he thought. Hours ago—or was it merely minutes?—he’d been on the bridge of a Dominion battleship, leading an armada of thousands more ships through the Anomaly. The Federation’s minefield had fallen, the way was open—and the Federation fleet that was even now attempting to retake the Bajoran system was soon to understand the power it faced in daring to oppose the Dominion. It was to be the turning point of the Quadrant War. The Federation and its allies would fall, and the Bajorans themselves, the backward spiritualists native to the world nearest the Alpha terminus of the Anomaly, would be eradicated. Their presence was deemed unnecessary, even offensive to the Founders. It would end.
Hanal’ahan had witnessed the armada’s passage through the Anomaly by his headset, satisfied by the prospect of combat as he recited the Jem’Hadar oath to reclaim his life through victory.
Then a single ship had appeared from the other side of the Anomaly, speeding toward the armada.
Third Musata’klan, monitoring sensors, had reported that the approaching vessel was the Defiant, the ship the Federation had most often used in its incursions into the regions surrounding the Dominion.
And it was alone.
Hanal’ahan had been mildly impressed. He had not believed Federation soldiers possessed the strength of will to make suicide runs, even futile ones.
The first snapped off the order to lock weapons on the approaching ship—
And then they were here.
No Anomaly, no ships, no enemy craft, not even sidearms, except for their blades . . . and this, this seeming . . . nothingness. Hanal’ahan half suspected some new form of transporter technology, but their intelligence on the Alpha Quadrant suggested nothing like this. And even a transporter would not explain the nature of this place.
“First!” the Vorta shouted next to him. “I demand an explanation for this.”
“I have none to offer,” Hanal’ahan replied, not for the first time, his
gaze still searching the emptiness.
“We were on the verge of altering the face of half the galaxy, and this is your response? But for your incompetence, we would already—First! Look at me when I address you!”
“Be silent,” Hanal’ahan hissed. He’d heard something, a strange sound, like a high-pitched scream very far away. “Do you hear that?”
He did not address the Vorta. Second Valast’aval nodded, his eyes narrowing. All the Jem’Hadar were turning in their direction now, drawn by the sound. It was becoming louder.
“What is that?” the Vorta demanded. “What’s happening?”
The First was considering a violently physical response to the whining Vorta when something in the uniform blankness became visible: an enormous, bloated mass, a misshapen creature, squirming toward them like some massive, swollen eelworm. Its screams intensified.
“First . . .” the Vorta began.
“Weapons!” Hanal’ahan shouted, and as one, his men reached behind their backs and unsheathed their kar’takin.
Hanal’ahan held his blade before him, reassured by the solidity of the grip. The triangular blade was keen, his reflexes steady.
This, at least, I understand, he thought, and addressed his men.
“Victory is life!”
The chorus was unanimous. “Victory is life!”
As one, the Jem’Hadar charged.
* * *
“May I speak with you a moment, Admiral?” Ro asked politely, leaning into Kira’s office. Akaar pushed past her, stepping out into ops.
“Not unless you can tell me where your Colonel Kira is,” he snapped. He’d waited in her office for a full seven minutes, by Ro’s count, before the flush creeping up the back of his neck finally reached his face. He was now entirely upset. Several people looked up at the sound of his voice, most of them Starfleet, then quickly looked away.
“If you’ll step back inside, maybe I can explain,” Ro said, wanting their conversation to be private, primarily because Akaar could pull rank on practically anyone else in the pit—most of them were Starfleet—demanding answers. Even the Bajorans on duty could face repercussions.
But for those of us about to quit . . .
“Please,” Ro said, making herself smile at him. “I’m sure I can help.”
Akaar glared, but moved back into Kira’s office. Ro took a deep breath and followed, reminding herself that this was no game. The humor was incidental. She really did have to stall him, to keep him from going after the Defiant—and if she chose her words carefully, she could probably pull it off without lying.
“What is it? Where is the colonel?”
Ro took another deep breath. “I regret to inform you that the colonel is unable to meet you at this time. However, I’m prepared to present you with a full status report.”
Akaar stared at her as though she’d lost her mind. “Where is she? She was supposed to wait here.”
Ro was ready for that one. “The colonel is pursuing an idea about a possible solution to the parasite situation, but as I said, I’m fully informed of the station’s current—”
“You are giving me the runaround, Lieutenant,” Akaar interrupted, his eyes cold. Obviously aware that his size made him more intimidating, he took a step forward, glowering down at her. “We are in a crisis situation, and I would rather not deal with any of your, your nonsense right now. Where is she?”
Ro felt something break, something that had been pulled taut for too long. She also took a step forward, not caring that he was practically a meter taller, not caring about much of anything . . . except that she was sick and tired of his attitude, and the attitude of those like him.
“My nonsense? Admiral, you’ve made it clear on more than one occasion that you don’t like me, that because of my history you consider me a poor risk, which is fair enough,” she snapped, the words rushing out fast and hot but also smooth, as though she’d prepared a speech. “Let me make clear to you what I see. Your mind is closed, Admiral, to the concept that people change, to the idea that Starfleet’s way is not necessarily always the best way. Colonel Kira is working to resolve this crisis. What are you doing, besides looking for somewhere else to put your foot down? Now, do you want to hear my report, or not?”
Akaar stared at her, shocked pale. For a moment he appeared to be speechless, his mouth working, no sound coming out—but Ro could see the circuits firing, could see in his narrowing eyes that she was about to get the shoutdown of her life.
Come on then, she thought, glaring back at him—
—and both of their badges went off, even as Merimark’s excited voice erupted from the desk, as ops exploded into a spontaneous flurry of action, people standing and clapping, embracing one another.
“Lieutenant, Bajor is reporting that the hostage-takers have collapsed,” Merimark reported breathlessly. “At every site. The parasites are fleeing. Lenaris Holem is standing by, he says—he says it’s over, sir.”
Ro and Akaar stared at one another for what seemed an eternity, what was probably only a few seconds—and Akaar stepped back, finally finding his voice.
“I have things to see to, Lieutenant,” he said coolly. “Inform the colonel that I’ll expect her report as soon as she returns to this office.”
With that, he was already striding out the door, slapping at his badge, requesting a return to the Trager. Ro watched him go, her eyes wide, feeling like she’d just sidestepped being run down by a freight loader—and then grinned, the reality sinking in.
It’s over. Not only that, she’d survived leadership and a direct confrontation with a Starfleet admiral.
“Maybe I have an affinity for this kind of work,” she said, and still smiling, went to call the Defiant, to bring them back home.
23
ELI—ELIAS VAUGHN OPENED HIS EYES, BUT COULDN’T SEE. A WOMAN was shouting, moaning, and he hurt, his shoulder, there’d been an accident, and where was Benny? The light, he’d gone into the light, and everything seemed hard now, the surface beneath him, the air around him, and he couldn’t see. What was happening?
Someone was shouting, not the woman. Around him, movement, he could feel it through the floor beneath him, could hear running.
“Got it—”
“They’re dying—”
“Get that one—”
Voices of conquest. The thought was a fragment, but he knew the tones he heard, knew that a battle had turned.
Something cool on his face, lifted away. Painful brightness flooded his eyes for a moment, and there was Benny, looking down at him, except—
—you’re old! His friend had aged twenty, thirty years. His eyes were the same, he could see that, but his face—
“You’re okay. Just rest now, you’re going to be fine,” Benny said, and it wasn’t Benny at all, this man was clean-shaven, white-haired, just a man with Benny’s eyes. There was another loud moan, almost a scream, and the man looked away, his face tight with anxiety and fear and . . . and excitement?
Too much to take in, and he was exhausted. Vaughn closed his eyes again, deciding that he’d believe the man with his friend’s kind gaze, take the man’s advice. Benny was coming, anyway, he’d be there in a minute, he could explain everything. Vaughn let himself drift away, knowing that something had changed, slipping into the dark with an easy mind.
* * *
“Uuuhhhh!”
The sound was the feeling, it was coming out of her, but Kas didn’t know it, knew nothing at all but her body, the pain, the need. Push, push, she had to push, her body was pushing whether she wanted it or not. The pain was huge and glassy, searing, but the need was greater.
A door, opening, a rush of air, more yelling. “What’s happening? Are they all—”
“—All of them!”
“Oh, thank the Prophets! Thank the—”
Shut up, why won’t they shut up, I’m, I’m—
“Uuunnhhh!”
“—get someone down here, now! Right now!”
Soun
ded like Jake, but Kas wasn’t sure, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but push, had to push. Opaka Sulan said something, her voice sweet and sure, Kas couldn’t hear the words but thought she could feel hands on her thighs, warm and strong. The need came again and she pushed, as hard as she could.
“—two, three, four—”
“You’re doing great, Kas, great!” Judith’s face, close to hers, a sweaty flash that was there and gone, and was someone holding her hand? She didn’t know.
“—nine, ten and breathe, good, deep breath and push, two, three—”
Sulan’s voice. The pain was like nothing she’d felt before, surely she was turning herself inside out, but even that wasn’t a thought, barely a scrap of understanding. The need. The need, and the feeling of movement, deep at her core, of liquid heat and movement.
“Now, Kasidy, push and hold, two, three—”
“There! There, I see it!”
Kasidy bore down, unaware that she was screaming, the pain so vast that it was no longer pain, it had become something else. The feeling of letting go, of movement had become all-powerful, quenching the need, finally giving her release. There was a burning, far away, and then that was gone, too—and she felt something leave her body. The baby, she was feeling the baby leave her body.
“Good, good!”
“Oh, God! Oh, it’s so—”
“Kasidy!”
Her mind was grasping, clawing for answers, hearing more now—hearing the sound of joy in the voices of Sulan, of Joseph, of Jake. Judith’s face next to hers again, aglow, tears in her eyes.
“She’s beautiful, Kasidy. She’s beautiful.”
A girl? Kasidy laughed, her heart filling up with the thought. A girl, and then Opaka was putting a warm, wet weight on her chest, and there she was, a tiny, tea-colored face above a piece of blanket, frowning, blinking, covered in goo. Looking at Kasidy with bright, confused eyes.
Another rush of air, cool and sudden. Kas looked away from the perfect, beautiful baby for a split second, saw that the door had opened, saw Kira Nerys standing there, her clothes ragged, her eyes going wide. Saw an amazed grin surface, then was through looking at Kira, her gaze drawn back to the blinking bundle in her arms. The girl was screwing up her face to squall, her tiny, perfect mouth working, her frown deepening, chin quivering. She let out a hoarse, fragile wail and Kasidy closed her eyes because her heart was breaking with it, with love for the child.