by S. D. Perry
The other three guards were turning also, but Taran’atar had already planned his attack, had already visualized the deaths of these other Jem’Hadar. In his mind, Ro knew, they were already dead.
The soldier nearest him, less than two meters away, was raising his Federation phaser even as Taran’atar ran toward him, bringing down his kar’takin one-handed from its place behind his back. Ro winced as the blade bit deep, and Locken was short one more Jem’Hadar.
Taran’atar leaped into the air, spun to gain momentum, then threw his kar’takin at the acme of his arc. He landed lightly on all fours, rolled forward, and jumped up in front of a fourth Jem’Hadar just as the soldier was coming to terms with the fact that he had the kar’takin buried in his chest. As the soldier fell over backward, Taran’atar drew his phaser with inhuman speed and pointed it at the last of the guards, who was staring at him, ten meters away, paralyzed. Seconds after it began, the battle was over.
“Leave,” Taran’atar told his target. “Or die. It makes no difference to me.”
Ro’s eyes widened in disbelief and she found herself pointing her own phaser directly at the last guard.
The guard threw down a Breen disruptor, his only weapon, and ran into the forest.
Kel and his cousin followed Ro down and onto the battlefield as Taran’atar walked from body to body calmly collecting his weapons. “What the hell was that?”
This time Taran’atar didn’t need to have the question rephrased. “I told Colonel Kira I would not kill if I didn’t need to,” he said, tugging his kar’takin free from its victim. “These Jem’Hadar are a disgrace, badly trained by other Jem’Hadar who were badly trained by a human. They fear death. That whelp was no threat, and he will be a living witness to what happened here so the others will know what they face. It will cause unease within the unit, and perhaps others as well. We can use that.”
Kel and his cousin were stripping the dead soldiers of their weapons. “Leave the bodies,” Taran’atar told them. “They will serve as a warning.”
Ro shook her head, and began jogging toward the runabout, Taran’atar following. “I almost shot him myself. You took a big chance that I wouldn’t.”
“You told me you were once in the Maquis,” Taran’atar said.
“That’s right.”
“And you were one of the few that neither the Cardassians nor the Dominion could kill.”
“So?”
“That means you are a good soldier. I was not worried.”
It was, Ro reflected, one of the strangest compliments she’d ever received. She shook her head again and started to check the runabout.
At first glance, the ship looked bad. It had gone down nose-first into the young trees and the bow was buried up to the viewport in a bog. Closer inspection, however, was more encouraging. There were no hull fractures, the warp nacelles were intact, and a careful examination of the terrain around the main hatch revealed that several people had walked into and then out of the ship. She keyed the door to open, and it responded. Some power left, then.
The interior was a mess, though Ro was relieved that there were no bodies aboard. Her initial assessment was looking more and more likely: Dax and Bashir were still alive and had been taken prisoner.
The deck was tilted forward at a precipitous angle and so thickly spattered with mud that it was difficult to keep her footing. She sat down in the pilot’s seat and tried to access the onboard computer. She wasn’t surprised to be rewarded with silence.
“All right,” she muttered. “Then let’s just spin the dabo wheel.” Ro started tapping the power plant activation sequence, and a few key panels lit up. Speaking clearly and precisely, Ro said, “Computer, this is Lieutenant Ro. This is a priority-one command. Begin restart sequence on my mark. Authorization Ro-Epsilon-Seven-Five-One.”
There was no immediate response from the computer, but a couple of standby lights on the main control panel went from red to yellow.
“Mark.”
One of the engineering boards sparked and blew out. Somewhere in the mud under the runabout’s bow something vented and the ship began shaking. Ro grimaced, expecting a burnout at any second. Instead, the rest of the runabout control cabin lit up. For the first half-dozen seconds, all the lights were red, but then, as the computer completed a cursory diagnostic, they flashed to yellow, some directly to green.
Ro patted the console fondly. “Good girl. Computer, how much time is needed to complete restart sequence?”
“Four minutes, fifty-five seconds.”
“Are the main thrusters functional?”
“Affirmative.”
“Antigravs?”
“Stern antigravity units are fully functional; bow antigravity unit has been damaged and must be considered unreliable.”
“Okay,” Ro said to herself. “So, we’ll be using the main thrusters.” She rose, then inched back up the mud-smeared deck to the main hatch, her mind now working on the next question—namely, now that they could go somewhere, where would they go? The Ingavi knew the location of Locken’s stronghold, but was that necessarily the best destination? Wouldn’t it be more sensible to go back to DS9 and get help? Just as she reached the hatch, it seemed to open of its own accord. The air shimmered and Taran’atar appeared.
“We are discovered,” he said.
“Jem’Hadar?”
Taran’atar nodded. “Will the ship fly?”
“Yes, but we need four minutes. How many are coming?”
“Impossible to be certain. They are shrouded.”
“Then how do you know they’re coming?” Ro asked.
“They are loud. Assume at least twenty.”
“Will we have four minutes before they arrive?”
Taran’atar took the safety off his phaser and set it on high. “I will get you four minutes,” he said, then tapped his combadge. “Keep our link open. I will keep you posted.”
Before Ro could say a word, Taran’atar was out the door. He shrouded three steps from the hatch and was gone, not a leaf or twig stirring. The Ingavi were nowhere to be found. Taran’atar must have sent them back to warn the others. “Computer, time to completion?”
“Two minutes, fifty-two seconds.”
“Can we fire phasers?”
“Negative.”
“Can we raise shields?”
“Negative.”
Ro heaved a sigh, rubbed her eyes, now burning from exhaustion, and when she looked up, saw two Jem’Hadar suddenly appear in midair, one flying to the left, the other to the right, both of them trailing streamers of blood. Just as the bodies were dropping to the ground, Ro heard Taran’atar’s voice through her combadge. “Shield your eyes,” he said.
Just in time, she screwed her eyes shut and twisted her head to the side, but even with them closed, Ro saw a brilliant white flash. A second later there came a sharp crack and she felt a wave of intense heat on the exposed side of her face.
Voices cried out in agony, but only for a moment. When Ro opened her eyes again, there were four more bodies lying on the ground. Survivors had all unshrouded, the concentration needed to maintain their invisibility broken. She still couldn’t see Taran’atar, but she heard his steady breathing through her combadge.
“Computer, how much longer?”
“Forty-five seconds.”
She couldn’t be sure that Taran’atar heard the computer over the sounds of battle, but she wanted to give him some warning, if possible. Leaving the hatch open, she climbed back down the slanted deck to the cockpit, slipping once and almost cracking her head on the engineering console. Maybe fifteen seconds left, she decided.
Checking her board, Ro decided that most of the main systems were back online, though she noted a couple of troubling red lights. Unfortunately, she didn’t have time to check which systems were still out because the runabout was suddenly rocked by disruptor fire.
“Damage to port bulkhead,” the computer announced. “Recommend raising shields.”
“Ra
ise shields!” Ro shouted, her hands dancing over the main board.
“Complying.”
The runabout was rocked by another explosion, but since the ship didn’t have a hole in the port bulkhead, she guessed the shields went up in time. Deciding her time was up, Ro eased power into the antigravs, but felt only the runabout’s stern rise. Even if the bow antigravs were one hundred percent functional, the ship’s nose was too deeply dug into the slope for the ship to rise horizontally. “Didn’t think that would work. Time for something a little more dramatic.”
Ro shut down the antigravs and the stern settled back onto the ground. As she strapped herself in, she instructed the computer to reroute power from the deflectors to the structural integrity field. She might be hit by another disruptor blast in the second and a half she needed to fire the fore thrusters, but it was a chance she had to take. It wasn’t like she had any other options.
On the battlefield, Taran’atar crouched behind the largest of the young trees and waited for his opponents to finish shooting in random directions. He had just killed one by bouncing a rock off the underside of a tree bough so that it landed at the feet of one of his opponents. Three or four soldiers spun around at the sound and opened fire on their own man. Taran’atar shook his head, shamed by the idea that he might share genetic material with these amateurs.
His foes ceased fire and shrouded. Taran’atar waited, fixing his gaze on a narrow space between two saplings, then saw a blade of tall grass sway as if something invisible had brushed against it. Drawing a throwing knife from its sheath, he rose and smoothly threw the weapon into the gap. It halted in midair between the trees, the blade disappearing into a semicircle of amber-colored fluid. A Jem’Hadar fell forward, unshrouded in death, the knife embedded in his forehead.
Taran’atar heard the unit’s First order his soldiers to move from cover and head for the runabout. So, they aren’t complete idiots after all. They were doing what he would do if the situations were reversed—ignore the emplacement and advance to the main goal. Looking around, he saw leaves and blades of grass rustle and stir. Most of the remaining soldiers were within fifty meters of the runabout and he was at the edge of a clearing about halfway between them and their goal.
Someone became visible and opened fire. The runabout rocked.
Ro needed another ten, maybe fifteen seconds, but she wouldn’t have them….
Crouching low, Taran’atar ran to the center of the clearing, drawing his phaser as he ran. He’d studied the pattern of flattened grass; even as his chest hit the ground and he skidded to a stop behind a large stump, he opened fire, aiming low. Two more Jem’Hadar unshrouded and fell to the ground screaming, cut off just below the knees. A third briefly solidified, staggered by a graze to his hip. He quickly reshrouded, but Taran’atar fired again before the soldier could either roll aside or drop to the ground. Another dead.
The ground rumbled and surged. Taran’atar felt the runabout’s antigravs beat uselessly against the ground. He could have told Ro that wouldn’t work. Maybe this is a futile battle after all. A volley of shots from several points around the glade hacked at the stump. Splinters raked the side of his face and it was only luck that kept him from losing an eye.
Taran’atar raised his head, fired five quick shots at random points around the glade, then ducked back down, covered his head with his forearms, rolled to the left, and tried to shroud. Something was wrong; he couldn’t focus his will. Reaching up to his forehead, he found a large gash and a sliver of wood as big as his thumb. He felt no pain, but he knew shock would be coming on quickly. There was blood in his eyes now, but Taran’atar didn’t need to see. He heard the runabout’s thrusters roar and he felt heat on his face, but Taran’atar could not decide if it was the heat of blood or backblast.
He cleared his eyes and watched as the runabout tore itself out of the steaming earth, clods of dirt sliding down off the bow, vines clinging, as if the planet were reluctant to let it go. Then a half-dozen Jem’Hadar soldiers unshrouded around him, all of them pointing their weapons at his head.
The last vine snapped and the runabout rose rapidly into the air. Some shots hit the belly of the ship, but couldn’t pierce the shields. “Computer,” Ro called as she swung the runabout’s nose around. “Activate transporter. Lock on to Taran’atar’s signal.”
“Unable to comply,” the computer said. “Transporter is offline.”
“What?” she yelled, then glanced at the status board. She cursed and saw that one of the red lights she hadn’t had time to check was the transporter. “Can you reroute power?”
“Negative. Pattern buffers have been damaged. Risk to transportee would be unacceptable.”
“Phasers?”
“Phaser banks have not had time to charge.”
She was climbing fast—fifteen hundred meters—and decided it was time to level off. And time to pick a direction, too. Taran’atar was either dead now or captured. Bashir and Dax were probably prisoners. The Ingavi had seen her take off and must be wondering whether she was coming back. Locken’s fighters would be deploying soon. If she landed someplace, they’d have a hard time scanning for her—the one good thing about Sindorin.
No choice? she wondered, and knew precious seconds were ticking away. More than anything, Ro hated feeling like she had no choice. It was a long way back to DS9, assuming she even made it out of the Badlands, much too long a way for her to stare at her reflection in the console and think about what might be happening on Sindorin. So there were choices, but only one good one.
Ro programmed in a new course and the bow of the Euphrates dipped back down toward the planet.
The cell seemed much smaller now. Objectively, Ezri knew, nothing had changed: same walls, same bunks, same sink, probably the same Jem’Hadar standing outside watching them, but everything was crowding in much closer now. Even so, Julian felt farther away than he ever had before.
He hadn’t moved since they’d been brought back to the cell: on the lower bunk, his back to her, facing the wall. For a while, Ezri had tried to pretend he was asleep, but she could hear him breathe. In every couple, there’s the one who falls asleep first, and though she suspected that Julian liked to think of himself as the bedclothes-tossing, careworn one, he was, in fact, the one who usually fell asleep first. Ezri knew what Julian sounded like when he was asleep and this wasn’t it.
Before she had been joined with Dax, Ezri had learned enough about herself and the men she found attractive to know that it was best to let a relationship find its own level, not to be too demanding. She knew better than to push too hard with Julian, especially when it came to issues relating to his genetic enhancements.
And Julian, to his credit, had seemed to understand her circumstances, too. He knew the bare facts about her joining, but hadn’t asked for a lot of details, obviously preferring to give her time to tell her story when she wanted. They were a peculiar couple and they knew it—two people who were simultaneously very experienced and surprisingly naive, especially where it came to matters of the heart.
And all that had been fine, she concluded, until the Jem’Hadar attack on the station. Somehow that tragedy had set Ezri on a personal voyage of self-discovery, one on which she was determined to learn her true potential as Dax’s reluctant ninth host. The slow realization that she would take that journey had widened an already growing distance between her and Julian, and it wasn’t until she’d almost lost him forever that they’d regained their equilibrium, each perhaps a little wiser and more sensitive to the needs of the other. They still took great comfort and great delight in their togetherness…but they had quietly agreed to move at a very cautious pace.
But now…
Something else had changed since this mission began, something that—for all her certainty that she’d come to understand the man who now shared her bed—was eluding her comprehension. Locken had spun such terrifying scenarios with a wink and a smile, and Julian had listened as if on some level he could actually ration
alize what the so-called Khan was proposing. And if that was true, did she really know him anymore?
Had she ever?
“Julian?” she called, her voice sounding a little sharper than she had intended.
He didn’t answer right away and for a moment Ezri wondered if she had been wrong, if he had been asleep, but then, before she called again, he asked, “What is it?”
“I need to talk.”
Julian sighed, then stirred on the bunk as though he wanted to get up, but didn’t have the strength. “Wait a second,” he said. “My arm’s asleep.” He slapped his hand against the wall to get the circulation going again, then rolled over slowly, taking his time to get his feet on the floor. Head hung low, Julian rubbed the bridge of his nose and asked, his tone low and weary, “What do you want to talk about?”
Ezri felt a tiny growl blossom at the back of her throat. “I want,” she started, “I need to hear you say that Locken was wrong.”
“About what?” Bashir asked irritably.
“About you,” Ezri said. “About…” Her voice trailed off and Ezri found she wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to say, let alone what she wanted to hear. Then her mind latched on to the image of Locken’s self-satisfied smile and she rallied. “About who you are,” she said.
“Don’t you mean,” Julian asked, “about what I am?”
“That’s not fair, Julian. That’s not what I was thinking at all.”
“No?” he asked. “It’s what I was thinking. It’s what I would be thinking if I were you.” He stood, stretched, but refused to make eye contact with her. “Please don’t pretend that it isn’t,” he said, his voice louder. “Because I really can’t take it anymore, the pretending.”