“How did she die?” Orta asked, out of morbid curiosity.
“The fumes from that damned mine—she’d have died anyhow, but at least she spent her last days fighting the spoon-heads instead of working for them. And we have you to thank.” He reached up and grabbed Orta’s malformed ear, as if the old man were a vedek or something. It took all of Orta’s willpower not to break the man’s neck. “May the Prophets walk with you, Orta.”
“And you also,” Orta said by rote. He stopped believing in the Prophets when the Obsidian Order agent sliced his vocal cords in twain. He only continued to wear an earring so they could identify his body.
The old man walked away. Orta watched him for several seconds. Many of the farmers had been culled from Orta’s own people, but others, like the old man, were volunteers—people who had lost their own farms, or who just wanted to do some good for Bajor.
He remembered Amrahan. It was one of the last attacks they had made outside Valo before the last of their warp drives had failed. The odd thing was, they had had no idea that there was a mining operation there, nor that there were Bajorans on the planet. Orta had wanted to hit it because the gul who ran it was the brother of the glinn who had first tortured him. That he liberated a brutal mining camp with a death rate of seventy-five percent had been purest coincidence—but one Orta happily exploited for his own purposes. After all, anyone could assassinate a gul, but liberating a mining camp was the stuff of legends.
That night, before he went to sleep, he took out the padd he’d taken from that derelict and read the prophecy again. Then he went to the window of his new, Starfleet-created home and stared at the sky.
He saw many moons. Most were less than a day away from perfect alignment.
All he needed now was the right weapon.
A plan started to form in Orta’s head. A plan for taking over the Odyssey.
Chapter Eleven
IT’S GOING WELL, Shabalala thought as he looked out over the land.
Three days ago, he’d stood on virtually the exact same spot and saw barren nothingness. Now he saw a row of houses, a twenty-square-meter construction with multiple protrusions that went underground to harvest the subterranean water systems for irrigation purposes, and small robots that were tilling the newly created soil under the watchful eyes of a group of Bajorans, most of whom were former terrorists.
“Looking good, isn’t it, Commander?”
Shabalala turned to see Dax walking up next to him. “I was just thinking that very thing, Lieutenant. Well done.”
“I’m sure Captain Keogh would disagree.” In a surprisingly good impersonation of his commanding officer’s tone, Dax said, “‘If we’d followed my plan, Lieutenant, we’d have been at this stage yesterday.’”
Laughing, Shabalala said, “Perhaps.” He considered. “Well, no, not ‘perhaps,’ at all, I’m sure that is what he’d say. But that is his way. I also can’t help but notice that you called him ‘Captain Keogh’ rather than ‘Deco.’”
Once again, Dax put on the smile that mirrored his daughter’s. “Well, he’s not here for my use of the name to annoy, so why bother?”
“Good point.”
Just then, Keogh and Kira approached from the west. The first officer waved to them.
“Commander,” Keogh said to Shabalala as he approached in as jovial a tone as he ever had. Then he glanced at Dax and added, “Lieutenant,” with somewhat less joviality.
“It’s going well,” Kira said, looking out at the workers.
Chuckling, Shabalala said, “That seems to be the general consensus, yes.”
“With good reason, Commander,” Keogh said. “Of course, if we’d followed my plan, we’d have been at this stage yesterday.”
Shabalala and Dax exchanged a knowing look.
“ Odyssey to Keogh.” It was the voice of Maritza Gonzalez.
Keogh tapped his combadge. “Keogh. Go ahead.”
“We’ve gotten word from DS9 that the supplies for New Bajor have arrived.”
“Good to hear, Commander. Set course for the station and stand by to engage at full impulse.”
“We’ll be ready to go as soon as you and Commander Shabalala beam on board, sir.”
“Negative on half of that. Mr. Shabalala will be returning, but I’m staying behind with the scientific team.”
“Yes, sir. Odyssey out.”
Keogh turned to a confused Shabalala. “You’re in charge of the Odyssey.” Next to him, the first officer saw Dax frown and Kira’s eyes widen in surprise, both reasonable reactions to Keogh’s surprising announcement.
“Sir, I’m sure that—”
“You’re not questioning my orders, are you, Mr. Shabalala?”
“Of course not, sir, but—”
“Good. I’ll accompany Major Kira and Lieutenant Dax back to Deep Space 9 when they report back there in two days. I assume you’ll be done by then?”
“That is the plan, sir, yes,” Shabalala said with a sigh.
Keogh nodded. “Excellent.”
Kira smiled, but Shabalala recognized it as the polite smile one used on people one didn’t like but didn’t wish to annoy, either. “Captain, it really isn’t necessary for you to stay.”
“The commander here is perfectly capable of handling the Odyssey, Major. And I want to keep an eye on things here.”
“Captain—” Kira started.
“I’m not doubting your abilities—or even yours, Lieutenant,” he added to Dax. “It’s not the projectI’m concerned about.” He pointed to the scarved individual presently inspecting one of the hoeing machines, which appeared to have some kind of fault. “It’s him.”
Kira pursed her lips. “I can’t stop you from staying, Captain, but I’m perfectly capable of keeping an eye on Orta.”
“Of that, Major, I have no doubt. Still, and all—”
“Fine,” she said, throwing up her hands. “Do what you want.” With that, she walked off.
Keogh regarded Dax, who was giving him a disdainful look. “Is something wrong, Lieutenant?”
“Just wondering how much this has to do with Orta and how much this has to do with Aidulac.”
“Nothing whatsoever,” Keogh said in a tight voice. “I’ve had these concerns about Orta since the mission started, as your Commander Sisko can attest. Since they are my concerns, I feel it’s only appropriate that I address them.”
“If you say so.” Then she turned and followed Kira.
As the women retreated, Keogh let out a breath.
“Sir?” Shabalala prompted.
“I can understand Kira’s reaction. This is her project, and she’s never been a hundred percent happy with the Federation’s involvement in Bajor. Hell, from all accounts, she views Starfleet as little more than a necessary evil. She’s the type who hates the idea of relying on someone else to keep the freedom that she spent all her life fighting for.”
“I agree,” Shabalala said.
“Dax, though—her behavior is inexcusable. All right, she saved me from doing something stupid with that Siren woman, but I fully intend to note her comportment in my log.”
“Of course, sir. If there’s nothing else, I’ll be returning to the Odyssey.”
Keogh nodded. “Carry on, Commander.”
As Shabalala requested transport back to the ship, he thought back on Dax’s words, and wondered how the life of the party became the man he now served under.
After Shabalala dematerialized, Keogh turned his gaze back toward Orta, who was still struggling with the hoeing machine. Several others were now gathered around the device with him. Keogh tapped his combadge as he started walking toward the tableau. “Keogh to Rodzinski.”
“Go ahead,” said his chief engineer, who was also staying behind to make sure all the machinery worked properly.
Keogh gave the coordinates of Orta’s location. “Report there immediately—there seems to be some trouble with the hoeing equipment.”
“Yessir.”
“Ke
ogh out.” He tapped his combadge to close the connection just as he reached the crowd. Orta; a woman named Tova Syed, who had been Orta’s chief lieutenant for years; and two other Bajorans whose names Keogh did not know were now poking at the machine, which lay inert in the soil. Tova ran a diagnostic tool over it.
“What seems to be the difficulty?” Keogh asked.
“It’s broken,” Tova snapped in an annoyed tone. To punctuate that annoyance, she threw her tool into the dirt.
“I’ve contacted Commander Rodzinski—he’ll be here any moment.”
Pointedly picking up the diagnostic tool, Orta said, “That won’t be necessary, Captain. We don’t need to run to Starfleet every time a machine breaks down. We will fend for ourselves—as we always have.”
“You’re not living in a cave anymore, Orta. You’re part of a team now—and that means that you work with other people, and you make use of the resources available to you. Right now, you have a Starfleet engineering team at your beck and call. A terrorist works on his own and solves his own problems. A member of a team asks for help from other team members.”
“But, Captain,” Orta said in what may or may not have been a smug tone of voice—it was hard to tell with his vocoder—“I am no longer a terrorist.”
“Then act like it.”
Rodzinski showed up a moment later. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked.
“It’s broken,” Tova said again. “Maybe you can tell us why. The diagnostics all say it’s working fine, but it’s not moving forward like it’s supposed to.”
Giving Rodzinski a nod, Keogh said, “I’ll leave you to it.”
“We appreciate your help, Captain,” Orta said.
The hairs on the back of Keogh’s neck stood up. Something was very wrong here, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. Orta being nice was just so damned out of character. He was even more convinced that he needed to stay here to keep an eye on him. Kira was too similar to Orta, and would probably excuse any odd behavior out of loyalty to a fellow Resistance fighter.
As for Dax, he wouldn’t trust her with command decisions under any circumstances. When he was younger, he had looked up to Curzon, even emulated him in many ways. But after Altair VI…
No, he thought, it needs to be me. I’ll get to the bottom of what you’re up to, Orta. That’s a promise.
Orta shook his head as he watched Keogh walk away. Idiot, he thought. Like all Starfleet. Well, most, he amended, remembering Ro Laren and Jean-Luc Picard. But they were the exceptions. It will be a pleasure to take command of his ship when it returns. In fact, the captain’s idiotic insistence on remaining behind would be a key to Orta’s plan. He would make a fine hostage…
The Starfleet engineer, Rodzinski—a diminutive human with gray-and-black hair—stared at his tricorder. “There’s nothing wrong with the machine,” he said.
“That’s what we told you,” Tova said in a tight voice.
“But it’s not moving,” Rodzinski said. “Which can only mean one thing.”
“What’s that?” Orta asked.
Rodzinski looked up and regarded Orta with a grave expression. “If the cause isn’t internal, it must be external.” He held the tricorder display-out toward Orta and Tova. “What’s wrong with this picture?”
Orta peered at the display, which showed a schematic version of the hoeing machine—based on the words over the image, it was the results of the scan of the hoeing machine that Rodzinski had just done. “It looks normal.”
“Look again.”
Tova snarled. “Can’t I just kill him? Don’t worry, they’ll never find the body.”
“Very funny,” Rodzinski said. “Can’t you see what’s wrong here?”
Orta was coming around to Tova’s view of Rodzinski’s prospects for mortality, but calmed himself. “Obviously, Commander, we cannot. We would like you to enlighten us.”
He pointed to a protrusion on the bottom of the machine—which was presently under the soil. “See that?”
Rolling her eyes, Tova said, “That’s the—” Then she frowned. “No, wait, it isn’t. What is that?”
“An excellent question,” Rodzinski said, “to which I don’t really have an adequate answer. We’ll need to see what’s under there. Which, given the fact that it can’t move, is a bit of a problem. I’ll get some antigravs over here.”
As Rodzinski’s hand moved toward his combadge, Orta said, “That won’t be necessary.” He looked at the other Bajorans, who all nodded.
The four of them positioned themselves at equidistant points around the front, back, and left side of the machine and each grabbed a handhold. Orta himself stood at the front of the machine and grabbed it at one of the diggers, and crouched.
“Everyone ready?” Tova said. “And—heave!”
Orta straightened his knees, his back straining with the weight of the machine as he lifted it upwards. The vocoder rendered his grunt as an odd kind of metallic whining, which annoyed him.
At the back, Tova did likewise, while the three at the side not only lifted up, but also pushed it to the right, overturning the machine.
Rodzinski’s mouth hung open. “Okay, I’m impressed.”
Tova smiled. “What, you Starfleet types don’t do heavy lifting?”
“Not if we can avoid it.”
Orta almost snorted. Typical Starfleet weakness, he thought derisively.
“Look at this,” Tova said, kneeling down by the depressed spot of soil where the hoeing machine had been. The repeated attempts to move the machine without success had resulted in a hoeing-machine-sized divot in the ground.
Sitting in the middle of that divot was a rather nondescript black box, which gave off a mild green glow. Orta also noticed a marking in some kind of script. He was no linguist, but he was fairly certain it wasn’t Bajoran.
“Okay, this is very odd,” Rodzinski said. “Don’t touch it!” he added quickly as Tova reached for it.
“Why not?” Tova asked, sounding irritated.
“Because I really don’t like the readings I’m getting.”
Orta walked over toward Rodzinski. “And what readings are those, Commander?”
Rodzinski frowned. “I’m honestly not sure. I’m getting odd energy emissions—but I also can’t get a solid reading on the object itself. Don’t touch it!” This time he yelled at Tova as she reached for it again.
“I’m not one of your stupid engineers, Commander,” Tova said, standing up.
I can give you what you want.
“What?” Orta asked.
“I said I’m not one of his stupid engineers. It’s just some box. Let’s get rid of it so we can get on with the work.”
“Not you,” Orta said, waving his arm. “Something—”
I can give you what you want.
Images suddenly flooded Orta’s mind: Strange alien beings of a type he’d never seen before. One of them hoisting this very box over his head. A beam of pure force emitting from the box as he did so. The other aliens being vaporized by it.
With this device, all that you desire will be accomplished.
He did not recognize the world, the beings, none of it—but he recognized the box for what it was.
It was the final piece to the puzzle. When he found the prophecy, he knew what he had to do. He just needed the right weapon to implement the plan. At first, he thought the Odyssey would be that weapon, but he no longer needed to take over an entire Galaxy-class ship and its crew of a thousand for the sole purpose of making use of its powerful weapons.
Because now he had the ultimate weapon. Something that he now knew—just knew—was stronger than even the Odyssey’s phasers. And he could hold it in his hands.
I can give you what you want.
“Oh, no,” Rodzinski said.
“What?” Tova asked.
“According to the tricorder’s database, this energy emission is flagged as belonging to a very dangerous artifact. General Order 16 specifically states that I have to take this th
ing into custody right now.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible, Commander Rodzinski.” As Orta spoke, he knelt down and took the box—the artifact—the weapon—in his hands.
“Put that down! You have to—”
Rodzinski never finished the sentence. As soon as the weapon was firmly in Orta’s grasp, a bolt of green energy lanced out from it and struck Rodzinski square in the chest. He was vaporized instantly—Orta was quite sure that the engineer never even knew what hit him. Unlike, say, a phaser, the beam made no noise as it fired. It simply destroyed the engineer without a sound.
That silence continued for several seconds, as the others were too stunned to say anything—except for one, who muttered a quick oath to the Prophets.
“You were right, Syed,” Orta finally said, turning to Tova. “No one will find the body.”
Tova looked outraged. “I was kidding, Orta! You didn’t have to kill him!”
“Oh, but I did. You see, he was going to take this away from us—and we cannot let him do that.” Cradling the box under one arm, he adjusted the volume on his vocoder. He wanted to make sure he was heard. “Most of you know of the prophecy we unearthed back at Valo. It is a prophecy that, in the natural course of things, won’t be fulfilled for many hundreds of years.
“But, in the natural course of things, we would never have been conquered by Cardassia. In the natural course of things, Cardassia would never have withdrawn. In the natural course of things, I would have died under interrogation by Gul Madred. Destiny is not what the Prophets write out for us, destiny is what we make it. The prophecy will be fulfilled, my friends. And this—” he held up the weapon “—is the means by which we will make it be done!”
Over the years, he had made many speeches just like this one. He waited for the inevitable cheer that would go up in reply. They always cheered. It was how Orta knew the speech had gone over well. He couldn’t remember the last time a speech didn’t.
No cheers were forthcoming.
The Brave And The Bold Book One Page 16