by Diane Carey
"This is Commander Kaybok of the M'Char. What is it you want?"
"I want to know why you stopped that ship," Sisko said bluntly, without identifying himself or his ship. They probably knew already.
"We have orders to search all vessels attempting to leave Bajoran space."
Kira squared her shoulders. "Search them for what?"
"For shapeshifters. Each ship will be scanned, its cargo searched, and the crew members and passengers subjected to genetic testing."
"On whose authority?" Sisko asked, holding back from telling them that he was the only person who could order anything like that in this sector.
"On the authority of Chancellor Gowron and the Klingon High Council."
"The Klingon High Council has no jurisdiction over ships in Bajoran space."
A glitch—he'd almost said "in my space." He realized it would've been a tiny error, but somehow just thinking it invigorated him. It was his space.
Kaybok looked—maybe jealous? Certainly angry. He was hot-faced and tense. Kasidy must've put up a fight.
The Klingon seemed to want to snap something, but visibly controlled himself. Yes, he did know who Sisko was. After a few moments he decided to say, "We assumed you would welcome our assistance."
Measuring the Klingon's attitude, Sisko thought better of flexing his authority again. That wasn't enough of a reason for Kaybok to stop these searches. After Sisko left, he would keep doing it. Of course, he hadn't stopped yet.
"Do you have any evidence that there are changelings aboard this particular ship?" he asked.
Kaybok glowered. He knew he was being cornered. "How can we have evidence until we have conducted our tests?"
"Commander," Kira spoke up, "Bajoran law strictly prohibits the unwarranted search and seizure of vessels in our territory."
"I have my orders," Kaybok slung back, and cut off his transmission.
Robbed of its source, the screen went back to a picture of the two ships.
"The Klingon ship has increased power to its tractor beam," Dax reported, glancing from the screen to her controls, then back again. "It looks like they're preparing to board the Xhosa."
"Major," Sisko began, "raise shields and power up the forward phasers. See if that gets their attention."
Kira moved her hands across her panel. "Shields up. Forward phasers standing by."
Pressing her lips into a line, Dax said, "They're still not releasing the tractor beam."
Sisko pressed back against his chair. "Fire a warning shot two hundred meters off their starboard bow."
Kira turned and looked at him. She would rather launch a direct hit, he knew. But that wouldn't answer any of her questions, would it?
"Yes, sir," she said, and pressed the firing mechanism.
Defiant's high-powered phasers discharged across the black veldt, creasing open space with a nearblinding light.
Dax buried a grin. "Commander Kaybok would like to speak to you."
"Let's hear what he has to say."
The screen changed again.
"Captain, this is outrageous!"
"I agree," Sisko acknowledged. "But you're not leaving me much choice. You're in violation of Bajoran law. Now, I'll ask you one more time… release that ship immediately."
"We are your allies!"
"Major, lock phasers on the M'Char's engines. Prepare to fire on my command."
This wasn't just any ship—it was Kasidy's ship. He wouldn't let these bullies push anybody around, but having the chance to defend Kasidy gave him a sense of being the knight in shining armor. She was going to see him dare the Klingons to knock the chip off his shoulder—it embarrassed him a little that he enjoyed that. He felt like a schoolboy playing with the biggest toy in the galaxy.
A little louder than necessary, Kira said, "Phasers ready."
Kaybok stared splinters at them over the screen. He looked about ready to blow his brow ridge off. Twisting to one of his officers, he growled something in Klingon about the tractor beam. On Dax's board, the sensor light indicating active traction abruptly clicked off.
Turning to face Sisko again, Kaybok said, "Gowron will hear of this!"
The transmission snapped off again, and again they were looking at the two ships. Xhosa was now floating free, and a moment later the Klingon ship tipped its wing and bore off. Soon they were at high speed, and soon they were gone.
"I'm receiving a hail from the Xhosa," Dax reported. "It's Captain Yates."
"Captain," she said, her voice thready with relief, "I don't know what you said to those Klingons, but it must've been good."
That was her way of telling him how determined the Klingons had been and how she had no doubts they would've made good on their threat of genetic testing. Sisko guessed Yates might have offered to turn back to DS9 and the Klingons had refused even that.
Or had she pulled some trick on them that made them finally throw that tractor beam on her? Why were they so interested in her ship?
"Is everyone all right?" he asked her.
She broke into a smile. "Everyone is fine."
"I'm glad to hear that."
They fell into silence, communicating with the gaze of gathering affection and the undertone of personal meaning. Sisko felt his expression give away how much he wished he could go with her, and that there wouldn't be so many days before they saw each other again. Around him, his crew pretended not to notice, but they were bad liars.
"We'll keep you on sensors as long as possible. But I doubt the Klingons will give you any more trouble."
"I appreciate that, Captain. I'll see you in about two weeks."
He held back his smile, but it showed. He could feel it. "You know where to find me."
"General!"
Kaybok jolted to his feet at the gasp of his bridge's turbolift doors. The light from inside the lift was almost blocked off by the mass of Martok and six other fleet commanders as the group spewed out of the small space.
"Kaybok," Martok began. Such a tone.
The fleet commanders spread across Kaybok's bridge. All remained silent. He stared from one to the next. No charity there.
"General—" he began.
"Stand there!" Martok cut him off.
Kaybok stood straight, his hands icy at his sides.
"Did you board the freighter Xhosa?" Martok began evenly, suddenly lowering his voice.
Now Kaybok's feet were cold too. "I…I…I stopped it, General—"
"But you did not board it?"
"They…put up their shields, General!"
Martok paced in front of him. "And their shields stopped you?"
"No, sir—"
"Then there is an explosive aboard."
"No—no, sir."
Martok paced around behind him. "Who stopped you from this?"
"It was Sisko! He came in his battle barge! I didn't know if it was part of your plan to fire on a Starfleet ship."
"No, it's not part of my plan yet. How did Sisko know you were heading off the freighter? Did you not have sense enough to block its transmission?"
"Of course, General. They got away from me…for a few seconds."
"And when you caught them again, why did you not board?"
Shuddering under the general's interrogation, Kaybok realized there was no way out of the funnel into which he had fallen. The sentence had to be said.
"I had not…enough crew."
Martok paused in front of him. "Yes. And where is your crew, Kaybok?"
Almost hesitating again, Kaybok realized his hesitation itself was a grave error. He looked around at the other fleet commanders and finally back to Martok.
Flatly he confessed, "They were killed."
Martok stopped pacing. "When you beamed them into open space?"
The bridge seemed to spin. "Yes."
Turning away, Martok was a ball of rage. "Execute him."
The most senior fleet commander came forward and plucked from Kaybok's belt his family's ceremonial dagger.
Kaybok held out a hand. "General—"
Martok swung about. "Do not beg!"
Stunned silent, Kaybok stood there with his mouth open.
A hard force struck him in the middle of his back. He realized he had been looking at Martok and not paying attention to the fleet commander who had taken his dagger.
That fleet commander—it was Paghal. The two of them had served together in their first ship. They had been scarcely children, so eager to see space, to venture together and come back with stories and songs. . . .
As the strength drained from his legs and his lungs collapsed within his chest, Kaybok turned slowly to look into the face of his earlier companion.
Strange. Paghal seemed not to remember.
CHAPTER 7
"I STEPPED OVER him like the old fool he was."
Martok sat in his command chair on the bridge of the Negh'Var and used Kaybok's own ceremonial dagger to chip Kaybok's blood from his boots. He found a particular poetry in doing that.
"Things are falling apart here, Chancellor. It is my recommendation that we dispense with Deep Space Nine and get on with our plans. If we are to attack Cardassia, then let us attack Cardassia. And for any who stand in our path, let us kick them out of the way."
The monitor before him, Chancellor of the High Council Gowron's hawklike blue eyes bore back at him, frosted by the interference caused by the scramble sequence of their communications system.
"You are moving too fast, General," Gowron said. "We have information to gather before you strike."
"I have much information already. I've confirmed that Deep Space Nine has virtually no weaponry."
"How did you do this?"
"I have sources on the station."
"Really…"
"I am ready to take the station."
"You are quick to shoot, Martok. There are other considerations."
"I have considered them. It will not work to pretend to be on shore leaves, then go out and pick at ships as they ramble by. I've found no advantage in coddling Starfleet. How long do you think they can be put off? If they fight," Martok said with a shrug, "then they fight. We have bigger enemies."
Gowron once had been as quick to wrestle as Martok felt now, but being chancellor had put forbearance in the other warrior's ways, and now, as war came upon them again, those ways were causing hesitations where there should be none. Martok was glad to be in his place as general of the fleet instead of chancellor of the High Council.
"Sisko will find us out soon," he said. "Already he has brought out his battleship once. He will figure out what we're doing, and he will bring Starfleet. I say we accept that. Let me take the station. The Founders will want to take it, and I want to take it first. It's the first line of defense of the wormhole. If the Dominion is to be stopped, it will be stopped here. Deep Space Nine should be a Klingon station!"
"They are still our allies." Gowron's face was bracketed in static as the chancellor sat back and shook his head. "I remind you, Martok, this is not just plunder for a handful of us. This is survival for all of us."
"Chancellor," Martok persisted. "Accept the facts. When Sisko finds out what we're doing, the treaty will be over. Let me move the fleet away from this shell of a station and begin preparing to do what we came here to do."
True regret showed in Gowron's eyes.
After a moment he said, "Very well. I will confer with the Council. Promise your fleet commanders that they will have a chance to defend against the coming enemy. We will do anything we have to do to keep the Dominion out of our quadrant. But for now, Starfleet has not betrayed us. We will not move against them until they do."
"According to our long-range sensors, the Klingon task force has withdrawn to just outside Bajoran territory."
"So now they're in unclaimed space. And if they decide to continue searching ships…"
"There's nothing we can do about it."
Jadzia Dax spoke with practicality as she and Ben Sisko sat together in his office on DS9 as if none of the morning's activities had happened.
"Unless they try to stop a Federation or Bajoran vessel," she finished.
Sisko watched her, trying to find a hint of experience there that might tell him there was one thing he hadn't done, something he could yet do to divine the Klingons' motivations, but even Dax was uncharacteristically perplexed.
The comm line chirped as Sisko finished, "Which, so far, they haven't done."
"Captain," O'Brien's voice piped through, "General Martok is here to see you."
"Send him in."
Not entirely unexpected.
The door gasped, and Martok strode in with the posture of purpose stiffening his tall frame.
"General," Sisko began, "we need to talk about—"
"Sohk-vad!"
The Klingon plowed straight past Dax to the desk, and slammed a shining, angry, carved dagger in front of Sisko.
He swung around with such panache that his body armor jangled, and out he went.
Dax picked up the dagger and looked at what appeared to be a family crest.
"It's Commander Kaybok's," she said.
Sisko looked at it. "Why give it to me?"
"He's letting you know Kaybok is dead. Martok probably had him executed for disobeying orders."
Turning the knife in his hands, Sisko absorbed the grim news. Had Kaybok gone against Martok's wishes in cornering Kasidy's ship?
He doubted that. But other suspicions were confirmed. The Klingons were taking something very seriously, even to the point of risking the treaty with the Federation.
"Which means our next confrontation with the Klingons won't be resolved so easily. Any suggestions, old man?"
She shrugged with her eyes. "The longer the Klingons stay here, the worse things are going to get. Whatever you're going to do, you'd better do it soon."
He thought about this for a few moments, wandering the thin lines separating the forces with which he had constantly to deal, and sought out one of the tricks that had given him advantage in sticky situations in the past.
He offered her a wry grin.
"Curzon told me once that in the long run the only people who can really handle Klingons are Klingons. Get me Starfleet Command."
CHAPTER 8
THE DAYS WERE long when there was no ship. Where there was no ship, there was no space, no risk, no reward or purpose. That unique entity which was more than vehicle, more than transportation, which somehow possessed life and reason beyond its designation as chamber of survival in an intolerable place—was gone for him.
Yes, there could be another ship. For all sailors through history who had lost a ship, there would always be another. Somehow, though, the hole remained empty. Nothing could take the place of the unique identity magically possessed by a good ship with a heart of oak. He hadn't yet gone looking for another.
Every sailor either knew that ship or wished for her, the ship that had been slammed down hard but had picked herself up and brought her crew back in, safe. Every sailor understood that point when things changed between himself and the ship, when he found himself not only fighting to survive, but to bring the ship back because suddenly there had sprung to life a mutual loyalty.
And, of course, for so many there came that moment when one had to give up life for the other, and usually, as was right, the ship got the raw end of the deal.
Most ships would rather have it that way—die in a crash, in a ball of fire, at the bottom of a suffocating miasma, rather than wither in age, be converted to a barge, and eventually scrapped.
Thus the Galaxy-class Starship Enterprise had gotten the wish of ships. Crashed, and she had saved her crew doing it. Not a bad way to go.
Yet, to be one of those crew, one who had manned the bridge for so long …was a sorry fate.
This place, this planet of Boreth, was not unlike the landscape where the Enterprise had crash-landed. Veridian III. As forbidding as any world might become, given time. A fit place for a ship of exploration and
battle to finally die.
I am a Klingon. Such thoughts of ship loyalty—this is a human thing, yet I feel it. I'm glad I feel it.
"Brother Worf?"
A cleric strode toward him, wearing the simple gathered robes of Boreth Monastery.
"Yes, Master Lourn?"
"I went below, to see if you were enjoying the exercises, and you turn up here, watching from above. Why aren't you in the arena?"
Worf folded his hands and let them drop between his knees as he sat on his bench. Below them, in the wide open arena, two dozen Klingon men grappled and jousted in hand-to-hand combat exercises. The day's exercises weren't particularly fierce, but in the past hour there had been some blood drawn.
"This is my Silent Hour," Worf said evasively, hesitant to blurt out the truth.
"I thought you had already done two Silent Hours today," Lourn said. He didn't sit down.
"No…only one."
"And you chose to have a Silent Hour instead of participating below? I don't understand."
"I am having a Silent Hour," Worf fumed, raising his voice, "because I do not want to grapple, and Silence is my only other choice."
Lourn circled the small bench, one of several viewing benches settled up here on the promontory. "You sound hostile. Why don't you say the truth of why you do not go down?"
Worf peered at the scene below—other Klingons of his own age and ability grunting and grappling in bunches of threes and fours. Yesterday it had been twos and threes. Tomorrow it would be fours and fives. Next week it would be winners of the playoffs going one-to-one.
"It seems pointless," he finally said. He didn't feel like sparing Lourn's sensibilities. "Hand-to-hand combat…why do we bother? A child with a hand phaser could defeat the whole arena of muscles and blades. How often does such battle come up? There is more to life than this." He made a disapproving gesture. "This is not even how battle really is anymore. This is nothing but sport."
Lourn didn't come around or pace back and forth, but spoke from a fixed position behind him. "Battle will come more in your life. If it does not find you, you will go out and find it. This is our nature."