Mikaela Leishman, the shift commander in Nog’s absence, went over to talk to Nog; the two Yrythny engineers joined her. She squatted down to his eye level. “Lieutenant, is there something we should know before we return to Defiant?”
Throwing his head back, Nog laughed, a bitter sound that startled everyone within hearing. “Something you should know? How about we’re killing ourselves trying to put the Defiant back together but our ever-dutiful CO refuses to let me have the tools I need to ensure our safety.”
“I don’t think you should be talking that way—” Leishman paused when Nog glared at her. “Sir?”
“We didn’t get the load, Mikaela,” Nog spat. “No load, no metal. No metal, no femtobots. No femtobots, we’re ripe to be picked off like a targ running from a Klingon blood hunt.”
“Commander Vaughn isn’t one to make a decision like that lightly,” Chao reasoned, twirling her pasta with her fork. “He wouldn’t leave us virtually defenseless if he didn’t think it was the only way. He must have an another plan.”
“But there was a way to make this plan work, Chief,” Nog said, scrambling to his feet and stalking over to Chao. “That’s what’s so pointless about all this! If he’d given the Cheka trader what he wanted, we’d be starting to manufacture the femtobots next shift.”
“Do I dare ask what he wanted?” Senkowski said.
“The cloak. The Cheka wanted the cloaking device.”
A few pairs of Starfleet eyebrows shot up, but Tlaral gasped. “You can’t give it to them! We’d never be able to defend ourselves if they could cloak their ships!”
“Or worse, their weapons platforms,” Shavoh added.
“Practically speaking, Lieutenant,” Chao said, “the commander can’t give technology like that away. It’s not Federation property, just a loan from the Romulan Empire. Besides that, what about Prime Directive issues? Cloaking tech would radically impact the balance of power in this region. I’m with the commander on this one. Sorry.”
“Me, too,” Senkowski added, returning to study conduit repair specs.
Permenter rolled over on her stomach and looked up at Nog with sorrowful eyes. “I know I’ve been complaining as much as anyone, but I’d rather play by the rules. You want some candy? A little chocolate might make you feel better.” She held out the bag to him.
Nog slapped it away, got up, and stormed out of the room, growling, “This attitude is gonna get us all killed.”
The aquaculture village burned.
Collapsing into the ocean from their derricks, the flaming houses and outbuildings outshone the setting sun. Filtered through the acrid smoke, the last rays of light burned brilliant fuschia and tangerine; descending darkness gradually defeated the day. Greasy, rainbow chemicals glazed the sea’s surface as unrecycled wastes spilled into the water. Dead fish and sea life bobbed along with rising and falling waves.
Ezri stood on the observation deck, Jeshoh beside her, gazing out over the waters, trying to avoid looking behind her where the Yrythny military had lined up all the Wanderer servants working on the hydrofoil and prepared to interrogate them. Despite their claim that her workstation had been utilized to carry out the terrorist act, the soldiers seemed less interested in talking to the Defiant people than in rounding up every Wanderer on board. She couldn’t bear to watch. Even with her back turned to them, blocking out the soldiers’ shouted accusations and servants’ protestations of innocence proved difficult. Ezri understood the troops had a job to do, and she knew that maybe one among those servants might have a connection to the attacks, but certainly not all. Why did so many people have to suffer?
Squinting out over the heaving sea, she hoped the dark objects floating in the water were broken pieces from buildings and not bodies. Another explosion burst after flames greedily ate through the planking outside the fuel cell supply. She vaguely understood the village layout, noting that another fuel cell supply was at risk. Not a problem if the villagers had been evacuated, but she still saw figures leaping from dock to dock, carrying younglings in arms or in backpacks. Where are their evacuation craft? Surely there must be flying transports or marine vessels on their way. She slammed her fists into the deck railing, frustrated. There has to be something I can do to help.
“I need a magnification device, Jeshoh,” Ezri snapped.
He clicked open a supply station, and produced a boxy monocular device.
Taking readings off Ezri’s optical nerve, the lense sensors fed information to its computer, sending the mechanism humming and whirring into focus.
After first surveying the shoreline where the lights of House Minaral blinked, Ezri shifted her focus to the waters, subsequently taking in the entire 360-degree view around the hydrofoil. Nothing. She saw nothing resembling a watercraft heading in their direction. Turning her attention to the burning village, she studied the surface of each dock and platform, then dropped the lense. Ezri stopped counting at twenty, no thirty—too many—Yrythny, clinging to the pylons, structures collapsing all around, desperately trying to avoid falling into the convulsing waters.
“Your people are out there!” Ezri cried, throwing aside the magnifier. “We have to help them—”
“Shhh,” Jeshoh admonished her. “We need to keep to ourselves until the commandant gives us permission to—”
“If you think I’m going to stand here and watch innocents die while that commandant throws his weight around, you haven’t learned much about me during the last week.” Ezri shot off across the deck, igniting commotion among the soldiers.
“Hey you! Stop!” a patrol leader shouted, running after her.
Smiling politely, Ezri waved to acknowledge that she’d heard the soldier’s order. She dropped over the side, taking the ladder to the lowest deck, having some vague recollection of seeing the lifeboats and emergency equipment being stashed near where they’d changed for their dive trip. Dax lived by her own ethical compass; she’d be damned before she dawdled around, watching the military blowhards feeding already overinflated egos while people were dying. These Yrythny wanted her; she didn’t ask to be their savior and they needed to remember that involving her in their civil conflict was their idea. Dax was a package deal—take all or none—but nothing in between.
Just as she’d started to go below, Jeshoh charged across the deck after her. He skipped rungs down the ladder to help him catch up, but she still beat him by a minute. She kept the exterior door propped open, but as soon as Jeshoh’s feet touched the deck Ezri pulled him inside, closed the portal behind him and locked it. The clamor of boots clattering down the ladder outside didn’t bother her in the slightest.
“I don’t think the commandant wants you to leave—” he panted, bent over, trying to catch his breath.
With only a door between her and a squad of angry Yrythny, Ezri yanked off the doorpad cover, removed two circuit chips and snapped them in half. Two other doors led out of the room and deeper into the ship, but she figured it would be a few minutes at least before the soldiers made it down that way.
“What are you doing?” he said, incredulous. “They’re going to be furious. They’ll blow the door open.”
“This is still a ship of state. You think the Assembly Chair would appreciate his hand-picked mediator being hunted like a common criminal?”
“You looked guilty when you ran.”
“Let’s not kid ourselves, Jeshoh. Your troops have already decided the Wanderers are guilty—they’re not focusing on me or my crew. Well, I’m not about to lounge around, sipping wood wine when your people need our help. It’s not like we don’t have the resources.” She walked down the hallway, examining each and every locker she found. If she had to dive into the water and swim over to those villagers with the lifejackets, she would. Let them try to stop her.
“There’s a criminal investigation underway here, Lieutenant,” Jeshoh said. “You heard the commandant. To the best of the military’s ability to trace, the explosives that destroyed the village weren’t triggered on site, but remo
tely, from someone on this ship, right after another signal was sent here from your office. You’re right: they don’t actually suspect your or your people, Lieutenant, but they do believe you may be able to help them identify the real terrorists.”
“Why? Because only Wanderers commit crimes?” Dax mocked. She scanned the pictographs identifying the contents of each locker. Rations, rope, water purification, emergency communications…ah! Here it is. She opened the cabinet identified as storing the life preservers and removed the packs inside. An adjoining cabinet had the same contents. She repeated the process, tossing the packs to Jeshoh, who dropped them on the floor in protest. Ezri promptly scooped them up, slung them over her other shoulder and moved on to the next locker. “Is this knee-jerk assumption of Wanderer guilt the reason we aren’t running a rescue mission?”
“In part,” Jeshoh said reluctantly.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“The aquaculture villages are staffed with Wanderers,” he said bitterly. “I’ve seen it before. When terrorist attacks take out Wanderers, the military is slow to rescue or help the victims. Partly because high body count bolsters military propaganda. The Wanderers are evil, dangerous and so forth.” Jeshoh hesitated.
Ezri refused to let him off. “And?”
“And because they believe they shouldn’t save the terrorists from the consequences of their actions. Their attacks hurt fellow Wanderers, let them take the blame for the casualties.”
“That’s despicable!” she said.
“Would you believe me if I told you I agreed?”
Looking deeply into Jeshoh’s eyes, Ezri probed his sincerity. Physically, he towered over her; she knew if he truly wanted to stop her, he could probably overpower her with little trouble. He made no such move. Instead he willingly subjected himself to her scrutiny.
“Help me then,” she said softly.
Knocks became kicks and kicks produced dents as the soldiers continued pounding on the outer portal.
Jeshoh nodded and reached over to free the packs of life preservers from Ezri’s shoulder. “There are four rescue boats on the next level up. The door on the left is a back way. If we hurry, the soldiers may not realize our goals before it’s too late.”
The other door opened and Ensign Juarez peeked out, followed by four Houseborn assembly members, with Candlewood and McCallum bringing up the rear. Juarez sighed with relief when he saw Jeshoh and Ezri.
Good timing, Ezri thought.
“Everything all right, Lieutenant?” Juarez queried, stepping out cautiously.
Ezri filled him in on the proposed rescue mission. “I don’t think the troops will be happy about it, but I don’t really care. Still have your medkit? Good, you’re gonna need it. Grab those as well,” Ezri said, indicating some Yrythny medical supplies near the nurse. Ezri stuffed emergency blankets into her pack and threw assorted items at McCallum and Candlewood. Whether the Yrythny adapted well to water or not, the sun was dropping, and so would the water temperature. Shock would make survivors more vulnerable to hypothermia.
Jeshoh, who had been huddling with the other Yrythny, said, “They are willing to pilot the other rescue craft. I can persuade any other committee members remaining below decks to hold off the commandant and his men until we get the lifeboats into the water.”
Ezri nodded in approval. “Looks like we have ourselves a rescue team.”
The whir of computer circuits, the thrum of impulse engines and the patterns of blinking lights had a tempo Shar found comforting. From time to time, when his head spun with worries and have-to’s, Shar found refuge in working a spacecraft. Performing routine physical tasks helped him wrestle down the mounting anxieties that sometimes beset him. Most of the time, a spacecraft followed predictable patterns. Shar enjoyed the orderliness of it all, finding it comforting when the world around him refused to conform. His peace would dissipate shortly.
Though the Tin-Mal quarantine zone was in the opposite hemisphere, once Shar had locked in the navigational data and checked weather conditions (storms directly to the east of Ezri’s location), the Sagan’s ETA was only twenty minutes. A massive force field surrounding Tin-Mal combined with the curve of the planet made it impossible for Shar to transport Ezri to the Sagan from where they launched. Rather than track along the surface, Shar launched Sagan out of the atmosphere and into an arc that would take them to Dax in minutes instead of hours.
Few words passed between him and Keren; he was grateful for the quiet. He had a feeling he’d be in a siege of words from Lieutenant Dax soon enough.
A signal from his console alerted him that Sagan was approaching Ezri’s location.
“Sagan to Lieutenant Dax. We are within transporter range.”
The comm system crackled with static. “Stand by, Sagan. Prepare to beam up wounded Yrythny.” Shar blinked. Sagan was a decent-size shuttlecraft, but Dax had to know the ship couldn’t handle too many casualties.
“Coming through the cloud deck a hundred kilometers out, sir. I’ll have you on visual in five, four, three, two—on screen.” The companel monitor on Shar’s console lit up, but billowing smoke in the twilight obscured the view. “Computer, increase magnification and activate beacons.” Shar swept the ocean with spotlights, finally finding small dark figures on a dock. He thought he could see Ezri waving. Several midsize marine shuttles loaded with Yrythny were skimming away from the disaster site. “Keren, inside the starboard passenger bench are emergency medical kits. Please retrieve them.” What had happened down there?
Clouds of fine ash hung on the wind. Coughing, Ezri raised her uniform sleeve, dank with smoke and Yrythny blood, to her mouth. She pillowed the head of a wounded Yrythny on her lap; he’d stopped moving a few minutes ago and she hoped the Sagan hadn’t come too late to save him. Ensign Juarez had done what he could to stabilize his vitals, but the chemical burns to his lungs might have irreparably comprised his respiratory system. Waves heaved against the pier; the rotted wood platform groaned in response, swaying ever so slightly. Ezri envisioned the whole structure giving way, collapsing into the sea like most of the aquaculture village.
Her entire body, stiff with cold, ached. Over the last hour, she’d drawn on physical strength she didn’t know she had. At one point, Jeshoh had tied a line around her waist and sent her over the side to help a Yrythny with a broken arm into one of the rescue boats. Dangling in the air, she was tossed by the wind like a ball on a pendulum. She remembered digging injured people out from under collapsed cottages, putting out fires and helping Juarez transfuse Yrythny blood. Even with the lifeboats, Ezri knew many Yrythny that had survived the attack had perished in the water. She couldn’t think about her losses right now. She needed to assume command of the Sagan, deliver casualties to the proper medical facilities and figure out how to prevent her diplomatic mission from collapsing under the weight of suspicion.
When the shuttle spotlights finally appeared, the wait between transports felt unending, though she knew only seconds transpired between the time Jeshoh, Juarez and the five remaining wounded were beamed aboard. Her turn came. She blinked—it seemed once—and saw familiar environs, the shuttle’s interior; Jeshoh huddled with Keren, Shar had left the Sagan on autopilot while he helped Juarez.
“It’s gonna be a tight fit, everyone, so hold on to whatever’s bolted down. Ensign ch’Thane, with me.” Soot-smudged and soaked, Ezri settled in front of the conn, ordering Shar into the co-pilot’s seat.
He complied without comment.
He’d damn well better follow orders without question, she thought. “Prepare to return to Luthia,” she said hoarsely and cleared her throat.
“Lieutenant, I’m sure I can manage if you want to go back and have a medical check.”
“You’ve managed quite enough for one day, Ensign,” Ezri snapped. I need tea, a hot bath and, with a sigh she thought, Julian.
* * *
“Tell Fazzle he’s getting what he wanted,” Prynn said, trying to stay pleasant. The b
rutish guard posted outside the Cheka suite had no response. She shuddered when she thought about Fazzle touching her. I don’t care how badly we need those codes, I am not sleeping with anyone to get them. Lieutenant Dax or Doctor Bashir should be doing this. They seem like the types who really get off on the “let’s pretend” stuff.
“Can you tell Fazzle I’m here?” she said, forcing a toothy grin. This crew is going to owe me…
The guard raised his wrist to his mouth and whispered something unintelligible into his comm unit. A moment later, the doors opened.
“I can go in?” Prynn said.
Before the guard could answer, a familiar howling echoed from within the suite. She peered around the guard to see inside. On two hands and knees, Fazzle ambled down the hall toward Prynn, squealing, “Oh yes oh yes oh yes oh yes,” as he approached.
Prynn gulped. How did I get into this? When her father approached her about a “special assignment,” Prynn thought maybe he would ask her to take the Defiant for a shakedown before setting a course back to Vanìmel. Subjecting herself to Fazzle’s artistic whims? Not even on the list of possibilities. If that weird creature said or did anything untoward, Prynn would demand unlimited shore leave. It was only fair.
“Come, come,” Fazzle said, waving her in with one of his free arms. “My masterpiece is this way.”
She strolled down the hallway, subtly checking out whatever could be seen through the open doors. One of these rooms had to have a computer interface. She didn’t need the main computer itself, just a computer terminal. Her instructions were simple: find an interface, not in use, attach the encryption decoder/transmitter, known in Starfleet parlance as “the worm,” and get out. Not in a way that would make the Cheka suspicious, but swiftly enough that should her gadget be discovered, she might escape without having a link drawn between her and the transmitter. A hostage was the last thing her father needed right now. After passing more than a dozen doors and not glimpsing anything remotely resembling a computer, Prynn started to despair, worrying about what she might have to do in order to find a computer. Fazzle had stopped; she knew his workspace was close by—she was quickly running out of options.
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