Now he wished he’d volunteered to be the first chosen from his group. In the beginning they had died quickly, but Moset must have learned in the interim how to keep his subjects alive longer, although the result of his experiments was always the same—death.
Not all Moset’s subjects had died, however. Dal was aware of the presence of others scattered throughout the station, but most were in a deeper state of stasis than Dal’s companions had been and were unable to communicate. Only his highly developed telepathy allowed him to sense the ones that were still alive.
Knowing his inescapable fate, lying paralyzed day after day, week after week, while his fellow Betazoids died under Moset’s painful ministrations, had been its own kind of torture. Not only had Dal had to listen to the screams, he’d had to feel their terrible fear and acute pain. Dal felt as if Moset snuffed out his life over and over again.
His only hope of escape was a speedy death.
He attempted to focus his thoughts away from the gruesome activities of the lab, to console himself with memories of his childhood, a happy time free of worry and pain. He remembered his first glimpse of his wife Lorella during his days at the university. Their favorite meeting place had been the botanical garden, filled with fragrant flowering plants and exotic off-world greenery. Later, he’d enjoyed his assignment as a science teacher at his first post in the Northern School District.
He worried now over what had happened to Lorella and the children. Were they even still alive?
He and his family had survived the initial invasion and had immediately joined the resistance. The Jem’Hadar had captured him while he’d been on a reconnaissance mission. They’d stunned him and detained him in a holding cell until they’d gathered enough prisoners to ship to the station. At least, thank the gods, his wife and children had escaped his fate. Moset and his assistants, however, had often discussed among themselves the fact that the resistance had been destroyed, so Dal doubted that any of his family still lived.
A weak mental whimper emanated from the mind of a woman who lay strapped to Moset’s table, and Dal’s nerve endings burned with empathy for her horrible pain. He hoped, if his family were dead, that they’d died quickly. Some things were worse than death.
He’d often wished he could emulate the selfless attitude of the Jem’Hadar. Along with Betazoids, these soldiers also served as subjects of Moset’s deadly experiments. The Jem’Hadar had no fear. Their only thoughts were to serve the Founders, and apparently they had no qualms over dying for their cause, whether in battle or under Moset’s knife.
As hard as he’d tried, Dal could find no purpose to Moset’s experiments. He knew enough science to hazard many guesses, but none seemed reasonable. Of one thing, however, Dal was certain. Moset was insane, and that very insanity made it impossible to divine the doctor’s intent.
Moset and his assistants entered the laboratory, signaling the beginning of another round of tests—and probably the beginning of Dal’s last hours, as well. He faced the prospect stoically. Days ago, his fear had given way to resignation. Dying on one of those surgical tables would be his fate.
An assistant approached Dal’s capsule and manipulated the controls. In a sparkle of light, Dal was transported to a laboratory table and strapped down firmly. His mind searched for Ellum and found him still in his pod. His poor friend. He would face one more cold day of life alone.
Moset ignored both Dal and the Jem’Hadar who had entered and lain calmly down on the adjacent table without coercion. The doctor frowned at the information on his padd, then performed a microcellular scan on both his subjects, a procedure Dal recognized that would give Moset readings of the cells’ functions at the molecular level. Dal, however, had no idea what the scientist was searching for. He simply took a perverse satisfaction in the Cardassian’s obvious irritation with the results.
“Place neurocortical monitors on both subjects,” Moset ordered.
An assistant placed the devices on Dal’s and the Jem’Hadar’s foreheads. The monitors would record encephalographic data.
“Configure the Betazoid’s monitor to alarm when critical psilosynine readings are detected in his brain,” Moset added.
The paralyzing effects of the stasis field no longer held Dal, but full-body restraints prevented any movement. Stronger people than he had struggled against them and failed to break free. Dal didn’t even try.
Instead, he attempted again to determine the nature of Moset’s experiments. Dal was just a science teacher, not a doctor, but he knew that every Betazoid possessed psilosynine, a neurotransmitter chemical. Was Moset trying to engineer some kind of microorganism to attack cells with a specific DNA sequence? But if so, why? Killing the Betazoid population made no sense. The Dominion’s mandate was to expand their empire, not destroy their enemies. Genocide was not their goal. Not usually, at any rate.
Dal caught sight of Moset’s expression, and the scientist’s single-minded determination frightened him. The width and scope of Moset’s experiments reflected their importance to the Cardassian and Dominion alliance, but Dal couldn’t figure out what Moset hoped to gain from performing cranial surgeries, extracting genetic material from healthy Betazoids, and implanting that material in Jem’Hadar.
Following his usual procedure, Moset and his team began with the Jem’Hadar. Using a gleaming archaic scalpel, the scientist peeled back the skin at the forehead. A high-powered saw cut through the cranial bone and exposed the underlying brain tissue. Through the entire procedure, the Jem’Hadar exhibited not one flicker of pain.
Then it was Dal’s turn.
“Increase neural stimulation to the Betazoid,” Moset directed. “Increase neurogenic radiation.”
Pain blossomed through Dal’s head. He grunted and would have writhed from the agony if the restraints had not held him.
Let this be over quickly, he prayed.
“Use a hypospray on the Jem’Hadar,” Moset said.
“For pain?” the assistant asked.
Moset shook his head with impatience. “Use the paralyzing agent to keep him from moving.”
The assistant rushed to comply.
“Drechtal beam,” Moset said.
An assistant handed him the device, and Moset employed it. “I’ve severed the neural connections. Now, apply the bioregenerative field. I need maximum accelerated cell growth.”
“Bioregenerative field applied.”
Moset moved to Dal’s side. “Increase the neural stimulation again for the Betazoid.”
As if his mind were suddenly on fire, Dal convulsed at the pain.
Through a haze of agony, he heard Moset order the plasma infusion unit. The fluids and electrolytes it dispensed were one of Moset’s measures intended to keep Dal alive as long as possible.
He tried to beg them to stop, but no words left his mouth, only a piercing primal scream.
Something stabbed the back of his neck, and even through his pain, Dal knew they were extracting matter directly from his brain.
“Apply the sonic separator and the trilaser connector,” Moset ordered. “Quickly. Quickly.”
“We’re losing the Jem’Hadar.”
Over his own suffering, the dying soldier’s confusion and agony registered in Dal’s mind.
“The Betazoid is dying,” Moset’s angry voice announced. “He’s no use to me now.”
Dal tensed as heat burned his brain. Then blessed blackness claimed him and ended his agony.
Chapter Seven
“ENERGIZE,” RIKER ORDERED. The first officer waited with Deanna Troi in Transporter Room Three for the remaining key officers of the mission to come aboard the Enterprise.
“Aye, sir.” The technician initiated transport.
On the transporter pad, beamed energy solidified into the forms of two old friends: Chief Miles Edward O’Brien and Lieutenant Commander Worf.
“Welcome aboard, gentlemen.” Riker greeted both arrivals with a broad grin.
“Commander,” Worf said with a n
od.
“I trust your journey went well, Mr. Worf?” Riker asked.
The Klingon nodded again. “Admiral Ross’s order to divert to Starbase 133 came just after the successful completion of our mission to Bolarus. The Defiant and its crew are at your service.” Never especially talkative unless duty demanded it, Worf seemed even more distant than usual.
Not surprising, given his recent loss, Riker thought.
O’Brien, by contrast, seemed as warm as ever, though it was immediately apparent that the war had aged the engineer, deepening the furrows on his forehead beneath his curly chestnut hair and adding fresh lines to bracket his mouth and merry eyes.
“Hello, sir. Counselor,” he said. “Keiko sends her love.”
Riker acknowledged the greeting from O’Brien’s wife, but his eyes were drawn to Deanna and Worf. Ignoring the Klingon’s inflexible military bearing, Deanna had stepped forward and warmly embraced her old shipmate and former lover.
The meeting was not their first since their fleeting romance had ended, but none of them had seen Worf since the death of his wife, Jadzia, another casualty of war, killed only two months ago.
Typically, Worf bore no outward sign of grief on his dark face, his expression as stiff as the ridges on his forehead, but it didn’t take much empathy to feel the man’s heartache. Will knew Deanna would want to comfort Worf, to help ease his loss, but she and Worf both had jobs to do. The war wouldn’t allow time for any but the briefest acknowledgment of the tragic changes in their lives.
After a quick and awkward embrace, Worf stepped back from her. His dark eyes spoke volumes. “I grieve for the loss of your world, Deanna.”
Deanna placed her hand over Worf’s doubled hearts. “And I grieve for the loss of yours.”
Seeing Worf and being reminded of his wife’s death brought home to Riker that he could take nothing for granted. But brooding over the losses and upcoming danger would do none of them any good. Forcing his mind back to his duties, Riker motioned toward the door. “Forgive the rush, gentlemen,” he said, “but we’re expected at the mission briefing. If you’ll kindly follow me . . .”
“This is insane,” Riker blurted at Vaughn a short time later.
From his position at the opposite end of the conference table in the observation lounge, Captain Picard wasn’t surprised by the outburst. He constantly relied on his first officer to speak his mind, though usually not so forcefully.
Vaughn also seemed unperturbed by Riker’s objections. The mission leader stood beside a viewscreen on the far wall, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t hold back, Commander. Tell us what you really think.”
Will shook his head and pointed to the Betazed system tactical graphic displayed on the viewscreen. “You can’t expect the Enterprise and only three Saber-class light cruisers to go up against a dozen Cardassian and Dominion ships of the line. We’ll never get anywhere near Sentok Nor.”
Picard had shared the same concerns with Vaughn earlier, but the captain had also accepted that three light cruisers were the maximum Starfleet could spare. All other ships within range were either disabled or fighting along the extensive front, struggling to prevent Dominion forces from penetrating Federation space. Besides, Picard wasn’t about to express his reservations in front of his crew. For the mission to succeed, they had to believe that it would, or they were beaten before they left the starbase.
Seeing Worf and O’Brien gathered once again around the table with Riker, La Forge, Data, Troi, and Crusher brought back a number of fond memories—pleasant times Picard now forced himself to set aside in order to face the current crisis.
“I would share your skepticism,” Vaughn said, “except for the factors in our favor.”
As if forcing himself to relax, Riker took a deep breath, but his expression dared Vaughn to prove him wrong. “I’m listening.”
“First, Captain Picard will lead the task force against the Dominion fleet,” Vaughn said, “and Starfleet has full confidence in his abilities. The starships Tulwar, Katana, and Scimitar will be under his command. Saber-class starships may be small, but therein lies their strength. They’re fast and easily maneuverable.
“Second, we may not have to destroy the enemy fleet. We simply have to keep them occupied long enough for you and Mr. La Forge to to beam aboard Sentok Nor with a team, complete the job, and beam out.”
“In a heated battle,” Riker said, “even ten minutes can be a lifetime.”
“Ten minutes may be all we’ll need, Number One,” Picard stated with a calm he didn’t feel. The captain realized how much would be at stake when they engaged the enemy defenses. He had already discussed tactics with the captains of the light cruisers. Each was aware that her ship and crew might not return from this action, a possibility they had each accepted when they volunteered.
“Let’s move on,” Vaughn said, and indicated the sixth planet ringing Betazed’s sun. “This is Darona. Because its population is small, the Dominion has garrisoned less than a thousand troops there, according to our intelligence. However, those troops are vital to the Dominion because of the planet’s strategic location. It makes an excellent listening post to scan the shipping lanes and observe movements of ships and supplies.”
“If the Dominion forces are using long-range scanning equipment,” Data said, “beaming onto the planet undetected seems unlikely.”
“You’re right, Mr. Data. Which is precisely why Admiral Ross has assigned the Defiant to get the extraction team to Darona,” Vaughn said with a nod to Worf. “She’ll be operating under cloak.”
Data’s eyes narrowed, and Picard could almost hear the subprocessors humming in the android’s brain.
“It is my understanding, sir,” Data said, “that the Dominion possesses the capability to detect cloaked vessels. Will that not be a problem?”
Worf spoke up. “Perhaps not. On Deep Space 9, we have been looking for ways to improve the effectiveness of the Defiant’s cloaking device ever since we learned the Jem’Hadar possessed countermeasures. Chief?”
O’Brien picked up the ball and ran with it, speaking directly to Picard. “It took a while, but I think we finally came up with a solution. It’s based on the same principle Commander La Forge first devised to defend ourselves against the Borg back on the Enterprise-D. By randomly rotating the field harmonics of the Defiant’s cloak, we should be able to stay below the threshold of the Dominion’s sensors. With luck, the Jem’Hadar will have no idea we’re in the area.”
“I take it you haven’t had a chance to test your modified cloak yet?” Riker asked.
O’Brien shook his head apologetically, “No, sir. My assistant and I actually worked out the final kinks after we left DS9. But the real test will come only when we’re facing a Jem’Hadar ship.”
Picard looked at Vaughn. “Then, assuming you can make it to the surface successfully, Commander . . . what next?”
“According to Commander Troi, beaming directly into the prison facility isn’t an option. We’ll need to make contact with the warden, Director Lanolan, and secure his cooperation in releasing Tevren. We’ll be wearing surface blacks for maximum protection, with native coats over them. And with the help of Dr. Crusher’s skills, even Mr. Data will be able to pass for a Betazoid.”
Picard turned to Troi. “You think Lanolan will cooperate?”
She glanced at him with dark eyes still haunted by the depth of her dilemma and the discomfort of her decision. “I can’t imagine he’ll like it, but I think he’ll understand the necessity.”
“While on Darona,” Vaughn continued, “we’ll be operating without combadges—a total communications blackout. We don’t want the Jem’Hadar homing in on our transmissions. Once we have Tevren, Data will activate a subspace transponder that Commander La Forge will install today in his positronic systems. When Data gives the signal, the Defiant will lock on to that transmission and beam the team out.”
“And by that time,” Picard added, “Commander Riker�
��s team should have destroyed Sentok Nor.”
Vaughn nodded. “That’s the idea. The Defiant will proceed to Betazed and deliver Tevren to the resistance.”
“Piece of cake,” Riker said with more than a trace of sarcasm.
“Let’s hope so,” Vaughn said evenly. “Any questions?”
“I have a comment,” La Forge said. “Destroying Sentok Nor is fine in theory, but I’d be a lot more comfortable emptying our torpedo launchers into it than trying to blow it up from the inside the way you’re proposing.”
“Inadvisable,” Vaughn said. “Even if our task force wasn’t already contending with a dozen enemy craft, the station is still able to defend itself.”
Picard turned to O’Brien. “Chief, what can we expect from Sentok Nor?”
“Massive armaments and heavy-duty shields at least, sir,” O’Brien said, “if it’s that similar to Deep Space 9. And we should expect upgrades from the original design. Commander Vaughn is probably right when he says that getting a team in will be easier than trying to destroy it from a distance.”
Vaughn nodded. “There’s also the fact that there’s almost certainly some Betazoids on board. We have an obligation to try to get them off before we take out the station. Obviously it won’t be easy, but that’s why Mr. O’Brien is going with the boarding party.”
O’Brien looked up. “Me, sir?”
But La Forge had already deduced Vaughn’s meaning. “You’re the Federation’s leading authority on Cardassian space stations, Chief. If anybody would know how to blow that monstrosity up from the inside in the shortest time, it’d be you. Frankly, I wouldn’t want to try this without you.”
“With all due respect, sir, I spend most of my time trying to keep Deep Space 9 from falling to pieces,” O’Brien reminded him, “not figuring out ways to blow it up. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
Eighteen hours after the briefing, and after the fourth day of combat drills with Vaughn, Deanna prepared to join Elias, Worf, Beverly, and Data aboard the Defiant. Will had come to the transporter room to see her off, and even dismissed the transporter operator so he could spend a final moment alone with her.
The Battle of Betazed Page 8