by Diane Carey
Inside the stout and serviceable ship was a skeleton crew of six. Dukat would pilot. He simply didn't trust anyone else.
"Gentlemen, all of you sit quietly and do not attempt any movements which my crew will consider dangerous to me or to the vessel. We are taking you away from here. Indulge in your fantasies and your fears. The truth will find you soon enough."
Sliding into the pilot's cubicle, he fired up the antigravs. A roar of power came up under the vessel. The ground peeled away beneath them. A moment later, the city.
He felt the eyes of the captive councilmen as he engaged thrusters and flew the ship into the thin atmosphere and out into the blackness of space. Through large viewing ports on either side of the transport cabin, the planet fell away and space swelled up. Service lights came on in the cabin, very dim, just enough to move without tripping.
As soon as he could, Dukat increased speed to full impulse and steered impatiently around the outer planets. This was not a particularly powerful vessel, but it was double-hulled and possessed enough weapons to allow for a few good defensive hits.
His heart was pounding in his chest. Imagine that. He had actually been excited by stealing the council!
Yes, it was invigorating to rescue these one-dimensional civilians. He, the military, had just rescued the civilian council put in power when they deposed the military council.
Life was twisted.
Keying his sensors to automatic, he boosted the ship to warp speed, then warp two, and warp three. That was its highest speed. If they encountered ships that were faster, they would have to fight. He set his mind to that, but planned more sensibly to make a clean escape without any such incidents.
He knew the chances of clean escape were endangered. When the Klingon force found themselves met by the Cardassian fleet, they would know they had been found out, and Dukat estimated their next step, if they could free a ship or two, would be to block any escape from this sector. Time would tell.
He felt the eyes of Ewai, Pelor, Gruner, Locan, and all the others. They expected to be gunned down unceremoniously. Why not? They had done that to those whose power they had wrested away.
Such was the way of governments. Dukat had seen it before.
The sensors jolted him out of his contemplations when, after only fifteen minutes in space, they began bleeping loudly and showing flashing lights on his pilot panel.
"Contact," he said to his navigator. "I was afraid of this. I hope Sisko hurries."
"There they are!" the navigator called, and pointed out one of the side windows.
Ewai bolted to his feet and glared out the window. "Those are Klingons!"
"Yes!" Dukat shouted. "Those are Klingons! Unless you think I stole Birds-of-Prey and I'm having them attack us for effect! You must think I am quite a showman."
Stunned, Ewai sank back into his seat, staring out the window.
"How many?" Dukat asked his navigator.
"I read three…perhaps four coming out of cloak. They are at a notable distance. Shall I try to outmaneuver them?"
"Yes, try. We're smaller. We can take tighter turns. Shields up…go to emergency defensive posture. All we have to do is gain time until Sisko gets here. I hope he gets here soon."
"Make sure the chief double-checks all the new systems. We may need them."
"I'll tell him. But knowing the chief, he's probably doing it already."
Sisko modified his step enough for Kira to keep up as he hurried along the curve of the docking ring.
"Keep the station on yellow alert," he went on, skimming the top of the hundred thoughts rushing through his head. He was about to divide himself—captain of a fighting ship, custodian of a critical outpost, and he just couldn't be in two places at the same time. "I'd recommend moving some of the civilian population down to Bajor."
"I was planning to," she said, in a way that let him know they were thinking alike, and that in his absence she would defend Deep Space Nine with all the vigorous commitment of her years as an underground fighter, protecting the station and its reasons for being here as heartily as she had once fought for her planet, for her own life, and during the worst times for a simple meal.
In a very real way, she was still fighting for the planet and her life, for if the Klingons took Cardassia, they would come here next, to the wormhole, and Bajor.
"I still wish I were going with you," she said.
Sisko could tell she wasn't really asking to go. She knew how much she would be needed here if things turned sour.
"So do I," he gave her in return. "Take care of the place while I'm gone."
She nodded. Simple words, simple trust. All they could do was their jobs as best they and their crews could manage. The outcome—who could tell?
Without dragging out the goodbyes, Kira nodded and hurried away. Abruptly Sisko felt bad at leaving her with the heavy end of the stick, but the idea of sending her out to do his job against the Klingons, on what was quickly becoming a battlefront, was even worse.
"Ben! Ben!"
Echoes? Couldn't be—
He turned. Yes, it was. Kasidy Yates was rushing toward him down the corridor.
"I'm glad I caught you before you left!" She came up close.
"So am I," he said. But he wasn't. Another brutal goodbye—didn't sit well. "When did you get in?"
"Less than an hour ago. Jake told me you were about to go off on some kind of mission."
Her chocolate eyes belied the truth—she knew what the mission was, or at least she sensed it. She had been part of the beginning.
"The Defiant leaves in a few minutes," he said, and in many ways that was his answer. Not a runabout, not a transport, but the Defiant.
"And you can't tell me about it," she allowed.
He tried to smile. "I'll be back in four or five days."
"I'm leaving tomorrow," she said, disappointment filling her eyes and bracketing her mouth.
"I guess," Sisko sighed, "our timing hasn't been too good."
"It's been terrible." Kasidy's face was a template of regrets, of secret loneliness, and now of crumbled hopes. Even in peacetime, it was a very big galaxy. "I'm not even sure when I'll be back."
"Make it soon," he said to her, knowing as well as she did that the vagaries of commerce, not the two of them, would decide when they saw each other again.
She gazed at him, her throat moving as she struggled for words, but no farewell would serve and they both knew it.
Ultimately she flew forward and they pressed into a kiss, struggling to make up for the time lost, time spent together when they were busy telling themselves they just weren't "ready," whatever that meant.
All at once it didn't mean much at all, and they had lost a very great deal.
"Don't get killed," she murmured against his ear.
Knowing lost time couldn't be retrieved, Sisko set her back an inch or two.
"I'll do my best."
She let him go without any more pain. In fact, she turned and walked away before he entered the airlock leading to the Defiant.
Stepping onto the bridge of the Defiant was like putting his feet into an ice-cold bath. He had no sensations of progress or allurement that usually struck him when he was about to take the ship out. This time there could only be resolution. This was no skirmish. This was real war.
Maybe the bridge really was too cool. He thought about asking somebody to warm it up a little, but changed his mind. Adrenaline would take over and he'd be plenty warm enough.
Bashir was here, and Dax at the helm, Worf at the sensors and communications, and Ensign Helen Blake at the weapons and tactical. He didn't know her very well and this wasn't the time for a cocktail party. At other stations were other officers whom he acknowledged with little glances as he took his command seat.
"Sisko to Ops," he said, keying his comm pad.
"Kira here."
"Release all docking clamps and restrain all other traffic until we get under way."
"Aye-aye…Clamps are of
f. The pylon is free of traffic. You're clear to launch, sir. Good luck."
"Thank you, Major. Take care of my station."
"Aye, sir. Take care of my border."
He imagined her tense smile, and it gave him sustenance. The Klingons might stir up ghastly trouble, but they weren't going to have it their own way. They were giving in to primitive fears, lashing out at anything in sight, and for that they would have to pay some price.
It would be for Sisko to dictate that price.
As the Defiant slid away from Deep Space Nine and launched into open space, he settled into the leather of his chair.
"Activate cloaking device," he said right off.
Blake complied. The lights dimmed as if the ship were a living thing ducking into trouble.
"Cloaking device is functioning within normal parameters," she reported. She was tense.
Sisko didn't blame her. "Dax, set a course for the rendezvous point. Maximum warp."
Dax glanced down at her controls, tapped in the required instructions to the ship's mainframe, then said, "Course laid in."
"Engage. Mr. Worf, keep an eye out for Klingon vessels, cloaked or otherwise."
"Aye, sir," the heavy voice rumbled.
A little uneasy, Sisko noted. "Something wrong, Mr. Worf?"
"No, sir. It's just…I've never been on a Federation ship that had a cloaking device," Worf admitted. "It's a little strange."
"You'll get used to it."
"Sir," Bashir said hesitantly, "I hate to bring this up, but our agreement with the Romulans expressly prohibits the use of the cloaking device in the Alpha Quadrant."
A stab of irritation ran up Sisko's spine. If he hated to bring it up, why did he? Especially when he knew that his commanding officer knew it perfectly well? He almost snapped something back about instructive comments made to superiors, but that was no way to start a mission that might never end in their lifetimes.
"You're right, it does," he said. "But there are several hundred Klingon ships between us and Dukat, and I intend to make that rendezvous in one piece."
Bashir squeezed up a smile. He didn't seem to realize he'd overstepped his place. "Well, I won't tell the Romulans if you don't."
Open space was shocking in its vastness. To have a perception of the speed—warp eight—was to understand how eternally empty space really was. The time it took to cross what was now a frontier was daunting to the mind that could conceive of the speed they were traveling. With each light-year, they became more and more alone out here, more reliant upon their own wills and resourcefulness, and that much more likely not to make it back alive.
Space was particularly black, with few stars in this sector and almost no other life than on Bajor, way back there, a factor that had made Bajor easy for the Cardassians to occupy for so many years. No one else had wanted it. No one but the Bajorans.
The Federation's here now, he thought, projecting his own will forward to those whom today he would try to protect. Cardassians, if that could be believed. How things could change.
"Captain," Worf said, shaking Sisko out of his thoughts. "I'm detecting some debris, bearing zero-two-five mark three-one-nine."
Without meaning to, he lowered his voice, almost as though he meant to whisper, to keep his identity under wraps and their approach secret. "Commander, drop to one-quarter impulse."
"Aye, Captain," Dax responded.
Worf peered into his readout screens. "It appears to be wreckage from a number of Cardassian vessels."
Sisko tilted forward. "On screen."
The main view shifted, drawing through its powerful sensors and computer-generated magnifications a view of three spade-shaped Galor-class warships.
They were shattered. Hulls relatively intact, but obviously compromised and fully adrift. No power emanations at all, no operating motive power.
"Any sign of survivors?" Bashir automatically asked.
For several seconds, no one answered, as if no one wanted to state the initial reactions.
Then Dax said, "I suppose it's possible, but there's no way to know without decloaking and using our primary sensor array."
Worf turned to Sisko. "Sir, I strongly recommend against deactivating our cloak." When the rest of the crew looked at him as if he were some kind of blackhooded executioner, he said, "It is likely there are cloaked Klingon warships in the vicinity lying in wait."
Bashir boldly turned to him. "Doesn't sound very honorable to me."
Fielding the bald insult, Worf scowled. "In war, nothing is more honorable than victory."
They all watched him; then one by one the glances turned to Sisko and waited for what he would say. Abruptly he was the one who felt like an executioner.
Maybe they all were. Run and hide, or turn and kill.
But there were times to kill, just as there were times to do everything else. The Cardassians had played their part in this. If they had been a more open society, participating in the free exchange of trade and ideas, maybe they wouldn't fall under such easy suspicion, even from suspicious types.
"Commander," he said to Dax, "keep us at one-quarter impulse until we clear the wreckage, then take us to warp."
Bashir was ready. "Sir, if there are survivors—"
"I'm sorry, Doctor, but we can't risk it. We have to reach Dukat."
Reluctantly accepting the grim color of the next few days—if only it could be just days—Bashir backed off and didn't press the ugly point, the only point it was really his job to press.
Feeling as if he'd been hollowed out, Sisko pushed out of his command chair. "I'll be in Engineering. I want to check those power grids. We have to be ready for anything. Under these circumstances, we don't know who'll turn on us."
"Aye, sir," Dax murmured. Evidently she wasn't unaffected by the plying guilt in Bashir's voice a moment ago.
The engineering deck on Defiant was a maze of power packs. Almost everything down here was geared for engine thrust, maneuvering thrust, and weapons force. On the bridge, everything seemed relatively even, but down here, systems like sensor integrity, environmental control, even life support, were shunted out of the main area. Here, in the putty-and-fog grays of Engineering, the only consideration was strength, and slightly behind that, survival by brutality. This was a kicking ship, and nowhere was that more evident than in its bowels.
Bashir's request was still echoing in Sisko's head. Since coming to DS9 he hadn't had to flatly abandon anyone, not without a fight. But if he strayed from every mission under these conditions, he would find himself sacrificing hundreds for twos and threes, and better not to get in that habit. Things were different.
He snapped at the engineers and made them run down the systems with him, as much to distract himself from the echo of Bashir's words and the picture in his mind of those Galor-class ships drifting pathetically through empty space, out here where no one else would happen on them.
Finally he found a problem and plunged into it, communicating his dissatisfaction with the slightest glitch. If he had to pass by possible survivors, then he was at least going to succeed in saving those he was out here to save.
"And double-check the secondary power grid. It's still not performing as well as it should."
He was instructing one of the engineers when he realized there was another presence standing beside him.
The engineer glanced up, then nodded and quickly vanished.
Above Sisko as he crouched beside the grid housing, Worf glared down at him. "Can I speak with you a moment?"
Sisko stood up. "What can I do for you, Mr. Worf?"
"Sir, I wanted to know…why did you assign me to communications instead of tactical?"
Running over a half-dozen possible answers, Sisko decided on the truth—since they were on their way to do the very thing he had tried to avoid for Worf.
"I didn't want to put you in the position of having to fight your own people," he said.
Worf might have realized that.
Sisko couldn't tell
.
"I see," the Klingon said.
Sisko shifted. "If you'd like, I could put you in charge of one of the damage-control teams. That way, if there's trouble, you won't have to be on the bridge at all."
Judging from Worf's expression, the concept had never occurred to him, and the offer made him look as if he'd tasted something stale.
"If it's all the same to you, sir, I would prefer to remain on the bridge."
Sisko nodded. "I was hoping you'd say that. As far as I'm concerned, that's where you belong." He paused a moment, then decided to push. "I've been giving your resignation some thought."
Going a little stiff, Worf drew a breath and held it as if expecting to get punched in the face. He pressed his lips tight and waited to hear what Sisko would say.
Taking that as a sign that he was right to butt in, Sisko said, "If you really want to quit Starfleet, I won't stand in your way. I'll approve your request as soon as we get back to the station."
With his words, he talked of resigning. With his eyes and his tone, he let slip the fact the he thought this kind of action would be a fabulous mistake and a waste on two fronts. Not only would Starfleet lose, but Worf would. Many misfits had found substance within the braids of Starfleet service, vaulting far beyond the expectations of any of those childhood teasings that so often prickled men with pasts like Worf's. He not only belonged here—he had flourished here.
Unable to see Worf behind the helm of some distant cargo barge on a thready trade route that lasted years at a time, Sisko waited and kept drilling him with that I'm-pushing-push-back look.
Worf looked unhappy. "I would…appreciate that, sir."
As if he'd been slapped, he turned and left the engineering deck.
And that, for Sisko, was worth a smile.
"Have you got the shrapnel-nosed tubes ready yet?"
"Been ready for nearly a month."
"What about the automatic aiming sensors? I don't think we should have to aim by hand all the time."
"They can be keyed with one touch. On, off, just like that. Nothing to it. And here are the light-seekers…and right over here the heavy-duty close-range salvos. You know, I never thought I'd be saying this, but right now I'm glad the Dominion's around. Otherwise we never would've started these upgrades, let alone have them finished by now."