by S. D. Perry
“If it were anyone else, I suppose I’d agree,” Ezri said. “But not Benjamin. Maybe this is all hindsight, but when I look back, I see that Ben’s life was like a refiner’s fire. Things that would have ground down any other man only made Benjamin stronger and sharper. Hardship purified him. He took the heat and he made it his own and at the core of it was the fact that he never ceased questioning his motivations, his desires and fears. He didn’t see himself as a prophet or an emissary, not really. But he did what a prophet is supposed to do: he tried to clarify his vision by never allowing himself to think that there was only one path to truth.” Ezri stopped speaking, rolling around what she had just said in her head, trying to decide whether she believed it, then finally decided she did. “How does that sound?” she asked.
Ro looked at Ezri and smiled. “Like a hard act to follow.”
Back in the runabout’s aft compartment, Bashir was removing a bowl of couscous and a cup of broth from the replicator and trying very hard not to let Taran’atar’s stony silence unnerve him. Setting the food down on the table, Bashir glanced over at the Jem’Hadar and was surprised to see he was currently showing more interest in the bowl and cup than he had in anything else so far during their trip.
“How’s that liquid diet working out?”
Taran’atar looked up. “Adequately.”
“I wonder,” Bashir said. Shortly after Taran’atar had come to DS9, he’d allowed the doctor to subject him to a complete medical examination. Bashir had put him through a battery of tests, scans, and analyses, in part to verify Taran’atar’s claim that he was one of the anomalous Jem’Hadar who wasn’t dependent upon ketracel-white for his survival. Withdrawal would never be an issue for him, but without the white to supply all his nutritional needs, Taran’atar needed to eat.
He’d told Bashir that after the Vorta had identified him as having the mutation, they’d devised a liquid diet that would satisfy his nutritional requirements while slowly allowing his digestive system to reassert itself. Taran’atar had committed the formula to memory, and managed to program the station replicators to produce it. Bashir had analyzed a sample, and while it was chemically suited to Taran’atar’s physiology, he didn’t even want to imagine how vile the stuff must be.
“You wonder what?” Taran’atar asked.
“I’m wondering if you’re ready to try something other than that concentrated pond water the Vorta gave you,” Bashir said with a small smile. “How long since you ate last?”
“Six days,” the Jem’Hadar said. Because his physiology was so efficient, any food he ingested was completely absorbed and converted to fuel, with no waste. Taran’atar only needed to eat once every four or five days. Six, however, was too long.
“Let me guess: You’re finding the Vorta’s concoction a little hard to swallow.” The doctor indicated his bowl. “Do you want to try some of this?”
Taran’atar hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “What is that?”
“This is couscous—grain and spices and beans…” He held up the cup. “And this is vegetable broth.”
“Humans are omnivores. You do not eat meat?”
“Very rarely,” Bashir said. “I never make meat for myself, but I’ll eat it if someone else prepares it.”
“This is a cultural prohibition?”
Bashir shrugged. “Call it a lifestyle choice.”
“Klingons eat a great deal of meat,” Taran’atar observed.
“Klingons get diseases of the colon a lot, too,” Bashir replied, picking up the cup of broth and carrying it to Taran’atar. “Let’s start with something simple. Try this.”
Taran’atar took the proffered cup and held it to his nose, sniffing. His face wrinkled and he said, “It has an unpleasant odor.”
“Try some anyway,” Bashir said, then had another thought. “No, wait, let me check something.” He pulled his medical tricorder out of his bag and passed the scanner over Taran’atar a couple of times until he was satisfied. “Go ahead. No allergies.”
Taran’atar took a small sip of broth, looked for a moment as though he was going to spit it out, but did not. Finally, he swallowed and appeared to roll the flavor around in his mouth for a moment or two. Then he took another mouthful. Then another. After finishing the broth, he gave the cup back to Bashir. “Thank you. How do you know so much about our biology?”
Bashir handed him the bowl of couscous and the fork. “You aren’t the first Jem’Hadar I’ve examined. Some I’ve studied quite carefully, in fact. You’ll need to chew that, by the way.”
“Dissections?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did you dissect them?”
Bashir shook his head. “No, of course not.”
“Vivisection?”
“No.”
“Then I do not understand. How could you know so much about my species?”
Nonplussed, Bashir collected himself for several seconds, then replied, “I…we…found a Jem’Hadar child several years ago and I was able to observe and record much of its maturation process with my medical scanners. Also…” But then he hesitated, uncertain whether to continue. “Well, perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I once tried to help free a group of Jem’Hadar soldiers from their dependency upon the white.”
Though his expression didn’t change, Bashir sensed a sudden tension in Taran’atar’s shoulders and back muscles. In measured tones, he asked, “And did you succeed?”
Bashir shook his head. “The actual situation proved to be not unlike your own: a rare and random mutation.”
“How rare?” Taran’atar asked.
“You tell me. Didn’t you say the Vorta specifically searched for Jem’Hadar like yourself at Odo’s request?”
“Yes, and they found only four of us,” Taran’atar said. “Or so they said.”
“You sound skeptical.”
“The Jem’Hadar understand the Vorta better than the Vorta understand us,” Taran’atar said. “We obey them because it is the will of the Founders, but if they did not control the supply of the white, if the white were discovered to be unnecessary or, at the very least, conquerable…Most Jem’Hadar go their entire lives without ever seeing a Founder, but the Vorta are there every day—watching, prying, sneering. You all look like Vorta to us: humans, Klingons, Romulans, Bajorans, Vulcans—some of the Jem’Hadar who fought in the war said it made killing you more satisfying.”
“Charming,” Bashir said, deciding he was no longer hungry.
Taran’atar seemed to realize he had caused offense. He felt compelled to explain himself. “The Founder who exil—who sent me here told me something I did not understand at the time, but now I’m beginning to see his wisdom. He said, ‘Exposure brings understanding.’ Then, the Founder laughed aloud and said, ‘And just as often, familiarity breeds contempt.’”
Bashir nodded. “That sounds like something Odo would say.”
“He also told me to be watchful particularly of the one named Quark. I am not sure why.”
Bashir laughed. “I am. But never mind. So, do you have any personal feelings about your mission to the Alpha Quadrant?”
“The Founder told me only to obey the colonel as I would obey him. The colonel has told me to obey you. So that,” he said, “makes you my Vorta.”
“Oh, no,” Bashir said. “No, no, no. Not me. I’m the doctor, the man who gives you broth and couscous.”
“…As the Vorta gave me the white.”
“Bad comparison. I want you to be well…”
“…So I can fight for you,” Taran’atar said. “So I can kill other Jem’Hadar.”
Struggling to remain calm, Bashir let out a breath and said, “That’s not true. I want you to tell me what the other Jem’Hadar will do so that we can try to find a way to avoid more deaths. I’m a doctor. Do you understand what that means in my culture? Our first rule, one of the oldest rules in our recorded history, is ‘Do no harm.’ It’s my role to develop new ways to help, the
n to teach those ways to others.” Then, realizing how pedantic he sounded, Bashir hesitated and tried to shift the conversation back to Taran’atar. “Is there anything analogous to this in the Dominion?”
“There may be,” Taran’atar said. “I do not know everything that happens throughout the length and breadth of the Dominion. I am a soldier. My role is to defend and, if necessary, to kill. Do you think that makes you superior to me?”
Bashir was surprised by both the question and Taran’atar’s matter-of-fact tone. “Better?” he asked. “Well, not better. More tolerant, perhaps. The Federation…”
“Not the Federation,” Taran’atar interrupted. “You. There is something about the way you carry yourself. You wear humility like a shroud. Again, it reminds me of the Vorta.”
Bashir knew he was being challenged, that he had to think carefully about what he would say next. There was danger here, but also opportunity. “There were times in the past,” he said slowly, “when I felt the need to hide who I was. It’s been a hard habit to break. I’m trying to learn new habits.”
Taran’atar studied Bashir’s face for the space of several heartbeats, then said, “When you think about what you are going to say, you are not nearly so much like a Vorta.” He held out the empty bowl. “May I have more?”
Bashir took the bowl. “Yes, of course.” Then, he handed Taran’atar a napkin. “Wipe your chin,” he said.
Chapter Eight
Bashir’s combadge chimed and Ezri called, “Dax to Bashir.”
“Go ahead.”
“We’ve found something. You’d better come up here.” She paused and Bashir heard Ro speak, though her words were indistinct. Ezri added, “And bring Taran’atar.”
Taran’atar followed Bashir into the runabout’s cockpit. Ro had dropped out of warp and was using the runabout’s thrusters to edge them into the shadow of a large derelict spacecraft. Neither she nor Ezri looked up when they entered, both intent on their instruments. Though they were too close to the spacecraft for Bashir to make out the ship’s configuration, Taran’atar announced, “Romulan N’renix-class cruiser. Crew complement: forty-five. Medium shielding, medium weapons, excellent cloaking capability. Maximum speed: warp nine point eight. Can sustain a cruising speed of warp nine point five for over twenty-six hours. Used primarily to transport high-level military personnel and secret technology.”
“I’ve never heard of this class,” Bashir said, studying the sensor input. “Has one ever been to the station?”
“No,” Ezri said. “This might be one of the classes of ships they didn’t want us to know about.”
“That is correct,” Taran’atar said. “No N’renix-class ship ever left Romulan-controlled space during the war.”
“Then how do you know about it?” Ro asked, giving the thrusters one more nudge. Bashir looked out the main viewport and saw they were so close to the derelict that he could make out the seams where the hull plates were joined.
“The Dominion’s military intelligence on the Alpha Quadrant is extensive,” Taran’atar explained. “I made a thorough study of it before embarking on my mission.”
“What happened to it?” Bashir asked. “Are there any casualties?”
“It’s been hulled in half a dozen places,” Ezri said, reading off the sensor log. “No life signs. No energy signature. And the engines are gone.”
Bashir winced. “Core failure?”
“No,” Ezri said. “I mean the engines are gone. Someone removed them. Did a good job, too. Wait, let me check something….” She reset the sensors and did a quick scan. “They took the main disruptor bank, too. Ripped it right out of the belly.”
“Are you picking up any third-party engine signatures? Maybe make a guess about how long ago this happened?”
“Long enough,” Ezri said. “And, no, nothing.”
Taran’atar leaned forward and checked the sensor readout. He pointed to the pattern of impact marks on the ship’s hull. “This is not a Jem’Hadar attack pattern, but it is very well placed.”
Ro looked over her shoulder at him and asked, “You guys have patterns for weapons-fire attacks?”
“For every class of enemy craft, yes. Each has its unique weaknesses.”
“How about Federation runabouts?”
“Aft shield generator.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“That’s enough,” Bashir snapped. “Can we board her? Is it holding atmosphere?”
“Let me check,” Ezri said. She finished her scan and said, “Not in the cargo bays or weapons-control areas, not without EVA equipment. The crew quarters are…well, they’re gone. Engineering and the bridge are intact, and I think I could reactivate life-support from here, but the corridor linking them is open to space. I could beam over a forcefield generator and plug the hole. Life-support would need maybe an hour to generate enough atmosphere to sustain us. No gravity, though.”
Ro groaned. “I hate zero gee.”
“That’s all right,” Bashir said. “We need you to stay here and mind the sensors. Get to work, Ezri. Taran’atar and I will gather our gear.”
“On it,” Ezri said, and set to her task.
Bashir was struck by a thought and turned back to Ro. “Lieutenant, how far are we from the space lane for this sector?”
“I was just thinking about that myself,” she said. “Not far at all. This isn’t a heavily trafficked area, but if you were leaving the Romulan-controlled sector of Cardassian territory, you’d pretty much have to pass by here.”
“Could you tell if the ship was towed here?”
“Not unless it was done very recently, but there’s one thing that leads me to believe it was.”
“And that is?”
“No bodies. If the crew quarters were opened to space, there would be bodies nearby. I don’t read any.”
Bashir sighed heavily. “Right,” he said. “Someone wanted this ship to be found. But why? A scarecrow?”
Taran’atar looked at him quizzically and silently mouthed the word “scarecrow.” Then he said, “If I understand the meaning of the word, then, yes, it was meant to incite fear.”
“Terror is an effective weapon, Commander,” Ro said.
Bashir looked down at Ro, momentarily stunned into silence. Then he laughed disgustedly and said, “I keep hearing that today, so I suppose it must be true. Anything on long-range scanners, Ezri?”
Ezri stopped what she was doing and ran a quick check. “No,” she said, “but if a cloaked Romulan ship was approaching, we wouldn’t know it anyway.”
“Good point. All right, then, we don’t have much time to do this. How are you doing with the forcefield?”
“I’d be doing a lot better if you stopped asking me questions,” Ezri snapped, but then looked up and added, “sir.”
Bashir smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. Come on, Taran’atar, let’s go see what Commander Vaughn packed for us.”
Ezri waited for Bashir and Taran’atar to leave, then looked over at Ro and said, “He’s trying not to show it, but he’s enjoying this.”
“Yeah, I got that, too.”
“He used to play spy on the holodeck.”
“Really?” She grimaced. “Never go spying with someone who thinks it’s a game.”
“I don’t think he’s played it since he’s learned about Section 31. I think it lost its innocence.”
“Maybe,” Ro said. “Or maybe he lost his.”
“The air pressure looks good,” Bashir said, checking the sensor readings and closing the front seam of his protective garment. It was a class-B environmental suit—not rated for hard vacuum, but it would be adequate for the conditions aboard the Romulan ship.
“Better than I would have hoped,” Ezri said. “We should be all right as long as our air supply holds out.” She looked over at Taran’atar, who was checking the charge on his phaser. “What about him? No suit?”
“He doesn’t need one,” Bashir said. “Jem’Hadar physiology is much better suited fo
r this sort of thing. He’ll probably wear eye protection, but not much more.”
Confirming Bashir’s prediction, Taran’atar pulled a pair of dark goggles out of his equipment belt and slid them down over his eyes. Holding his phaser at combat readiness, he said, “Transport me first in case there is something waiting.”
“Sensors say there are no life signs,” Ro said.
“Not everything shows up on sensors.”
“Good point.”
The Jem’Hadar stepped onto the transporter platform. Just before Ro activated it, Taran’atar shrouded, becoming invisible. When Ro reported that he had successfully beamed over, Dax and Bashir stepped onto the platforms. “Energize,” Bashir said.
Materializing in the center of a wide corridor lit only by emergency lighting, they saw Taran’atar floating a meter off the deck, bracing himself against the ceiling, his phaser at the ready.
“No shroud?” Ezri asked.
“No need,” Taran’atar said. “There’s no one here.”
Bashir checked the status of his and Ezri’s e-suits and was satisfied with what he found. Looking back down the corridor, he saw the blue glow of the forcefield generator that was preventing the air from escaping.
“How long will the batteries maintain the field?” he asked Ezri.
“Two hours. Not much more.”
“All right, then,” he said, pointing up the corridor. “Let’s not waste any time. The bridge is in that direction.” He had memorized the ship’s schematics just before they had left the Euphrates. “Taran’atar, would you mind taking point?”
The Jem’Hadar did not reply, but pushed off the bulkhead with an easy, practiced motion and moved silently up the corridor.
Bashir looked uncertain. Dax guessed he didn’t have a great deal of zero-gee experience. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s rather like swimming. Just don’t move too suddenly.” She tapped her foot against the bulkhead and drifted forward.
Bashir watched her movements, studied the details of the corridor, and seconds later he was drifting past her easily.
Ezri rolled her eyes. “I bet you were even good at ice-skating the first time you tried it.”