by Peter David
Despite her preparation, Dax felt her words catch in her throat. She saw O'Brien staring at her from across the table and knew he sympathized. Bashir leaned forward.
"Take your time," he said.
But she wouldn't do that. She couldn't—not with people dying on Bajor.
"She died," said the Trill, "before Lela could get back to see her. I—" She stopped herself and started again, separating herself as much as she could from the experience. "She was devastated. And she couldn't draw any comfort from her symbiont. After all, Dax had never seen a host lose, a member of his or her family."
The doctor frowned. "But Lela herself survived, didn't she? Or else the symbiont would have died with her."
Dax nodded. "Lela survived. So did the Andevians—but not until hundreds of thousands had succumbed. They finally came up with a treatment using local herbs and minerals."
"Herbs and minerals," O'Brien repeated wonderingly.
"And this isn't in our database?" Bashir asked.
The Trill shook her head. "Shortly after the cure was obtained, there was an upheaval in the Andevian government. The new regime blamed Lela for bringing the plague to Andevian Two. She was sent home, along with Milayn's body and the surviving members of her family. And from then on, the planet was closed to outsiders. That's why Andevian Two isn't in our database—because we haven't had contact with them in three centuries or more."
"But Lela knew what went into the cure," O'Brien said hopefully. "She did, didn't she?"
Dax nodded again. "Yes. She knew. And now that the memories are coming back, so do I."
Bashir cursed beneath his breath. "That's the breakthrough we needed," he told the Trill. "I may not have any data on Andevian biochemistry … but if a Trill was able to catch the disease, it can't be too different from yours, Jadzia. Or mine."
Dax turned to O'Brien. "Or Molly's," she added.
"I'm just sorry I didn't think of this before. It's just that Lela was so miserable after Milayn's death, she blocked it out. So when the symbiont passed to me, the memory was buried deep in its consciousness."
She sighed. "Ever since this plague came about, Lela's experience had been lurking beneath the surface, distracting me from my duties. But it wasn't until the chief mentioned the possibility of his daughter dying that it all came flooding—came flooding—"
Abruptly, she felt a wetness on her face. Touching her fingertips to her cheek, she realized she was crying. Setting her jaw, she willed herself to stop, but Lela's emotions were too strong—her pain too great.
"Jadzia," said the doctor, getting up and coming around the table to put a hand on her shoulder. "It's all right. You did your best."
"Julian?" O'Brien said impatiently. "If there's a chance we can beat this thing …"
"The chiefs right," Dax agreed. "Come on. Let's go to the infirmary. We can input Lela's information there and see what we come up with."
She got up and headed for the door. But before she could get halfway, she felt a hand on her arm. It was O'Brien's.
"Thank you," he told her. "I know it couldn't have been easy for you to dredge all that up. I know how much it must have hurt."
The Trill managed something like a smile. "Thank me after we've come up with a cure," she said.
Before he could reply, she led the way to the infirmary.
At his post in Ops, O'Brien had lost count of which cup of coffee he was drinking. Upon reflection he realized that he might have been better off opting for Tarkalean tea instead. He couldn't recall the last time he had felt so anxious.
Normally he would have balked at having to deal with all the malcontented captains vying for his attention, all of them complaining about the quarantine. But he knew that Dax's help was needed in the infirmary, so he stuck it out.
"Odo to Ops."
O'Brien tapped his communicator badge. "O'Brien here. What can I do for you, Odo?"
"I called to let you know that we're exceeding our capacity, Chief. The brig is full and we're bringing in additional lawbreakers all the time."
O'Brien grunted. He sympathized with the lawbreakers, in this case. Bad enough to learn you'd been exposed to the plague in the first place—to be told you couldn't leave was even worse.
"I was just wondering," Odo said, "if I should prepare alternative accommodations."
"Couldn't hurt," he replied. "Use Cargo Bay Seven; that should suit our needs for the time being. I'll assign a team to help rig up security shielding."
"Thank you" said the shapeshifter. "Odo out."
O'Brien glanced at his monitors. For the last few hours, since Dax and the doctor had sequestered themselves in the infirmary, there had been no sign of a power spike. It was as if the station was behaving itself, knowing how much else was going wrong—and how much was likely to.
According to Bashir, Morn was just the precursor of a whole wave of victims. The fact that they hadn't materialized yet didn't mean they weren't going to. It was just a matter of time.
And when it came, it would be devastating. Just as devastating as it was on the surface, maybe.
O'Brien looked around Ops. The place was relatively quiet. The calm before the storm, he mused. The quiet before the—
Suddenly his controls began to beep at him. It only took a glance to find out why.
There was something wrong with section four-alpha of the gravity generator network. As he watched, cursing beneath his breath, generators went down one after the other.
Four-beta. Four-gamma and delta.
All of them governed personnel quarters on the habitat ring—but it was only a matter of time before the problem spread to an operations area.
The failure rate was eight percent and climbing before O'Brien could go into action. He was halfway to the turbolift when Hagen called after him.
"Chief! What's going on?"
O'Brien scowled. "It's the gravity generators! See what you can do to bleed inertia from the system until I can figure out what's gone wrong! And, for godsakes, get a team down to level seven, section five—I may need help down there!"
Hagen looked at him. "Why there?"
"Trust me," the chief told him. And without another word, he grabbed a tricorder and made his way to the turbolift.
Why level seven, section five? he echoed inwardly. Because there was a major gravity node there, located not far from the lift. And based on the pattern of generator failure, that seemed a likely problem spot.
Not that anyone on the station but O'Brien would have known that without delving into the engineering logs. After all, it was he who'd revamped the gravity net, generator by generator, not more than a couple of years ago.
No one knew that net the way he did. Hell, no one knew the whole station the way he did.
As the lift doors opened for him, the chief stepped inside and gave it its marching orders. A moment later, he was descending into the bowels of the station, where there was still as much evidence of Cardassian technology as of the Federation variety.
Level seven, section five, he thought, rifling through his mental files for a more complete picture of the place. As it happened, that section was one of the first O'Brien had worked on when he first came aboard Deep Space Nine.
It was also one of the sections that had run the smoothest over the last several months. He couldn't remember the last time he'd even had to take a look at it.
Abruptly the lift doors opened. The chief stepped out—only to be confronted with a vision of chaos.
Halfway down the corridor, where the Cardassians had located the power control room for this portion of the station, the bulkhead was a red-hot sparking mess with a hole in the middle of it.
Of course, the place was no longer a "control" room in any real sense of the word—not since O'Brien had switched over the power feed for the gravity node from the Cardassians' microwave technology to Federation-standard electro-plasma. Now the room was like any other power juncture—run automatically by the station computer.
As
the chief approached it, tricorder out, he began to understand what had been happening to the station over the last few days. The power spikes he'd encountered over and over again, the ones he couldn't seem to find the source of … this must have been their source.
Whatever had happened inside the control room must have had repercussions throughout the EPS system, sending spikes up one conduit after the other like shock waves radiating from an explosion. Except they'd radiated unevenly, so he'd had no simple way to find their center.
But why hadn't the sensors picked any of this up? O'Brien asked himself. Why hadn't any of the diagnostics he'd run unearthed the problem?
Then he had an inkling what the answer might be. Venturing closer to the control room, he peered inside its open doorway, looking for evidence that would support his theory.
He found some. For as he stared through squinting eyes past the sparks and the unholy red glow, he could see that the internal sensor leads for this section—the ones he'd installed when he switched over the power conduits to EPS—were blackened and fused.
He wasn't sure what had happened to them. It could've been caused by any one of a number of malfunctions—in fact, he saw this type of minor damage all the time. But if his diagnostic checks hadn't picked it up, it was because something unusual had happened.
Something his tricorder confirmed. O'Brien sighed.
The sensor leads hadn't just burned out. They'd formed some kind of feedback loop, creating the false impression that they were still working. And because of that—because he'd had no hint the sensors were on the blink—he'd also had no way to know there'd been a power anomaly.
Ironically, all the problems caused by the energy spikes had been fairly far from this point. It was only now that something as close as the gravity node down the corridor had been affected—and, in turn, taken down generator after generator. Perhaps the greatest surprise of all was that the node hadn't been damaged until now.
"Chief?" came a voice.
O'Brien turned and saw the arrival of the team he'd asked for, complete with tool boxes and EM field projectors. He recognized the faces of all three of them: Orser, Eisenman, and Yamaguchi—two men and a woman. All young and relatively inexperienced, but with the basic tools they'd need to become starship engineers one day.
That is, if they survived their stint on Deep Space Nine, and that was always a crapshoot.
"Seems we've located the source of all those power spikes," he told them. He tilted his head to indicate the control room. "It's in there. We fix this and the gravity control problem stops spreading."
Orser nodded. "We'll set up the projectors and get started."
"You do that," the chief replied. "I'll coordinate things with Mr. Hagen at Ops." He tapped his combadge. "O'Brien here. We've pinpointed the generator problem—and the reason for the power spikes as well. What's going on up there?"
"It's not good," the younger man told him. "Gravity generators are going down right and left. I've notified security."
"Good thinking," O'Brien said. "How much time before the gravity loss spreads to a critical area?"
There was a pause. "At this rate, not long," Hagen replied at last. "Ten minutes, if we're lucky—but more likely, around seven."
"Thanks," the chief said. "Keep me posted and vice versa. O'Brien out."
By then, the engineering team was almost finished setting up its forcefield projectors—the same kind Odo was using to pen up his lawbreakers. Except O'Brien's bunch would be dealing with deadly electro-plasma, not just some ornery Benzite.
There was quite a bit to do, too. First, they would have to locate the exact point of the energy leak. Then they would have to put an electromagnetic "bandage" over it and seal it up via micro-laser.
It wouldn't be as easy as simply cutting power to this section of the station—but that would mean a sweeping loss of gravity and the inertial stresses that came with it, and that was what they were trying to avoid. Better to do it this way and minimize the danger to the rest of Deep Space Nine—if not to themselves.
Yamaguchi turned to O'Brien as soon as the projectors were in place. "We're ready to go in," she informed him.
"I'll do it," he insisted. "Just keep an eye on me in case something goes wrong. My delicate skin won't stand up to naked plasma for long."
Yamaguchi smiled. "We'll keep an eye on you, all right."
Fortunately, nothing did go wrong. O'Brien entered the control room with a couple of the instruments his assistants had brought down, manipulated one of the EM force projectors so that its field covered the leak, and then set about repairing it.
It took all of six and a half minutes to weld the conduit closed with his micro-laser. Then, sweat streaming from his forehead and drenching his tunic, he got up and went out to see his team.
"And that," he told them, "is how it's done." He tapped his communications badge again. "O'Brien to Hagen. We're finished down here."
"I can tell," said the ensign. "The generator problem has stabilized. Of course, we've still got to bring the ones that were affected back online …"
The chief winked at his team. "I think I've got just the personnel for that, Mr. Hagen. O'Brien out."
Orser, Eisenman, and Yamaguchi looked at him. The chief couldn't help but notice a hint of admiration in their eyes.
"Well," he said, "what are you waiting for? There's a gravity node to repair, and all those generators to bring back on-line."
"We're on it," Eisenman assured him. And a moment later, they took off down the corridor with all their equipment.
O'Brien wiped some perspiration from his brow.
All was well that ended well, he told himself. Pretty soon, everything would be back to normal.
But it could have happened differently. A lot differently.
If he had abandoned his post as he'd had a mind to … if someone else had been manning his station up in Ops … they wouldn't have been able to trace the generator problems to their source the way he had. It would have taken a section-by-section search.
And by then a quarter of the station might have lost gravity. People could have been hurt. Damage could have been done to other, even more crucial systems. Even the infirmary might have been affected.
The chief winced. The infirmary—where Bashir and Dax were working on the cure. He couldn't help but picture the doctor and the Trill floating in midair, their work ruined by the sudden loss of gravity.
If O'Brien hadn't known where to locate the generator problem, their ability to fight the plague might have been lost—or at least drastically delayed. And who knew how many lives might have been lost as a result?
Including one very small, very special life. The chief winced again.
But he had stayed, hadn't he? He had remained at his post. He had been here to ward off the impending disaster.
And that, he realized, had made all the difference.
CHAPTER
15
VARIS SUL lapsed into silence during their trip to the capital city. Kira offered to return her to the Paqu village, but she declined.
After all, she wanted to meet the author of her misery face to face.
Her downward spiral had begun with her encounter with the trader who had given her the worthless antidote. Since then, through her subsequent capture and her near-sale into slavery, through the pain and degradation she had suffered, she had been convinced she was doing some sort of penance for her actions.
She had not expected to survive it all. Sul was certain her destiny was to suffer, and continue to suffer, until she finally succumbed to the disease herself. Ostensibly, her plan was to try and find some way of saving her people, but she didn't really think she had a chance of achieving that. Not really.
Then she was liberated by Kira Nerys and Ro Laren. She watched them in action, admired their resolve, their bravery. And slowly, slowly, something had begun to stir in her. A bit of that spark, that fire … that desire that had enabled her to become the tetrarch in the first pl
ace.
It was that same spark that demanded she confront her tormentor. It required that she look him in the eye and tell him what he had done to her and her people.
Only then could she accept whatever fate the Prophets had in store for her.
Before long, their runabout brought them to the offices of Ompar Tenzil. They were extremely plush, located in one of the central government buildings.
Varis, Kira, and Ro provided a stark contrast to their surroundings. They were bruised and bedraggled, cut and bandaged. The runabout pilot had tried to talk them into coming back to Deep Space Nine to be patched up, but they would have none of it. In a way, they considered their disheveled appearance a badge of honor.
It seemed bizarre—that after everywhere they had been, all the frightening and sleazy places they had passed through, the trail should end here in such comfortable surroundings.
Ompar's personal assistant, a buxom brunette, offered them a beverage while they waited. She indicated the overstuffed couch with a gesture.
"We're not especially interested in waiting," Kira announced.
The assistant had a permanent smile affixed to her face. "You must understand, Ompar Tenzil is a busy man. If you'll take a seat, I'll see if I can squeeze you in sometime in the next—"
Ro brushed by the woman. "That's very kind, but I think we'll squeeze ourselves in." Without another word, she kicked open the door to Ompar's office.
The secretary emitted a shrill protest, but by that point, Varis and Kira had passed her as well. As the three women entered the office, they found Ompar at his desk.
There was no one with him. He wasn't in communication with anyone. He wasn't going through work that sat in front of him, or doing much of anything. His computer terminal was on, and there was something on the screen.
It was Ompar's own image. He had apparently been in the middle of recording some sort of personal journal. But now he was simply staring off into space, looking out through the sizable windows that opened onto a spectacular view of the city.
With a strange lack of urgency, he shifted his gaze and looked up at them. "Yes?"