by Various
O’Brien closed out the news report. A quick search algorithm on the other articles Ezri had downloaded from the network made it clear she had been keeping tabs on her family through their local news. Most of it had been reports of a rather banal variety—business association awards, public recognition for charitable gifts, flattering remarks in the social columns. None of it had carried even a hint of the tragedy that had been to come. Poor kid, he thought with sadness. To find out in the news that her mother and brother are dead, and her kid brother snitched to the Alliance. To see her own name in print as a wanted criminal…. No wonder she stopped reading the news.
He got up from his desk and walked to the replicator. “Coffee, hot. Double strong, double sweet.” The machine whirred and hummed melodiously as it produced his steaming beverage in a colorful swirl of energy. He took the mug from the replicator nook and returned to his desk. Two down, two to go. Continuing to work his way down the roster by rank, the next person under his microscope would be Enrique Muniz.
At a glance, O’Brien could see that he wasn’t going to get off easy this time. Unlike Leeta and Ezri, Muniz had made extensive use of the comm system over the past several months. He had sent and received a combination of text and audiovisual messages, more than three hundred in all. Deciding that chronology was the least important concern at this stage, O’Brien sorted the files based on whom Muniz had been communicating with, and where those persons were located.
As far as O’Brien could tell, Muniz had at least respected the moratorium on communications with people on Alliance-controlled worlds. Instead, he had traded messages with fellow members of the rebellion—some of them on ships passing through the same sector as Terok Nor or the Defiant, some of them in the rebellion’s semi-permanent installations in the Badlands.
How’m I supposed to whittle this down? O’Brien wondered. “Computer,” he said. “Open all text-only messages sent or received by Enrique Muniz during the past six months. Show them in chronological order, oldest first.”
“Working,” the computer responded, and the messages appeared on O’Brien’s screen, accompanied by a simple, icon-based navigation pane down the left side of his monitor.
The first message was sent to Muniz by a man named George Primmin, who was part of a group of rebels that had seized control of a small privateer called the Vesuvius.
Hey, Quique. You still at Terok Nor? The rest of us sweatbacks finally took your advice and nabbed a ship. Write back if you’re okay.—George
Muniz’s reply had been sent within an hour of receiving the message from the Vesuvius.
Prim! I knew you guys could do it! Yeah, I’m still sweatin’ it out on big T. Stay safe.
Clicking swiftly through screen after screen of text messages, O’Brien saw that they were almost all as short as the first two. It was like reading transcripts of conversations between people who lacked the attention span to write missives longer than a few sentences apiece. Muniz’s brevity suited O’Brien just fine tonight; it made the task of reviewing his comm traffic go that much more quickly. Then he found himself reading a message that made him pause. In it, Muniz provided someone named Neeley, another member of the Vesuvius’s crew, with detailed instructions for how to transmit a fully secure audiovisual message to Terok Nor by exploiting a loophole in the Alliance’s communication relay network. Muniz was a talented engineer, even by O’Brien’s standards, but he hadn’t been aware that the man possessed that kind of skill.
“Computer,” O’Brien said. “Show me all audiovisual messages received by Enrique Muniz during the last six weeks.” This time the list appeared on his monitor without preamble. Surveying the items on his screen, he zeroed in on one sent from the Vesuvius by Neeley, at a time shortly after the instructions had been sent by Muniz. He selected the message and entered the command for playback.
“File restricted,” the computer said. “Playback denied.”
We’ll see about that. “Command override: O’Brien, three-eight-five, alpha, theta, green.”
“Override accepted. Decrypting file for playback.”
After a momentary delay, a moving image appeared on O’Brien’s screen. Blurry and dark at first, he realized that it was someone standing in front of a small portable video recorder that they had just set up. As the person backed away, he saw that it was a strikingly attractive red-haired woman. Her tall, slender body was wrapped in a heavy robe and blanket.
“Hey, Quique,” she said. “It’s me. I, uh…” She blushed, looked away from the camera at the walls of her quarters, and struggled not to laugh. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” Staring into the camera, she went on, “You know you owe me for this, right? Well, you’re damn right you do.” A flirtatious gleam gave the lie to her narrow-eyed glare. “Don’t you even think of fast-forwarding until I get to say this: I love you, you big twit. And on that note—” She reached out from under her blanket and pressed a button on a table console. Resonant, bass-driven music began to pound from the speakers. With a salacious grin, she said to the camera, “Happy birthday!”
She jumped to her feet, threw off the blanket and robe, and revealed her outfit, a scandalously titillating leather ensemble that O’Brien was fairly certain even Intendant Kira would not have been bold enough to wear, not even in private. The blonde was dancing now, gyrating like an Orion woman, thrusting her hips and running her hands over her body, and as she began to peel away the first articles of her already scant clothing, O’Brien snapped, “Computer, end playback!”
All right, Quique’s not a spy, O’Brien concluded. Just a very, very lucky man.
To be thorough, O’Brien made a cursory review of the rest of Muniz’s files. The remaining text files were all harmless, and most of the encrypted video files were additional installments of “The Lisa Neeley Show,” which O’Brien found increasingly compelling and difficult to turn off—until he thought of Keiko. Turning off episodes of “The Enrique Muniz Show,” of course, had required no effort whatsoever.
And then there was Sito, he realized. She had joined his crew only six weeks ago, but her skill as a pilot had made her invaluable. He had worried that her youth and naïveté might make her unequal to the rigors of life aboard a combat ship, but she had surprised him, and everyone else, with her resilience. Such a good kid, O’Brien lamented as he called up her comm logs. Hate doing this to her. Makes me feel like a bloody peeping Tom.
Much like Leeta and Ezri, Sito had limited most of her communications to work-related matters. There was no record of her having had any contact with anyone off the station since her arrival on Terok Nor. But one file caught O’Brien’s attention; it was an unsent text message, a draft that Sito had apparently been working on over the past several weeks. Let’s get this over with, O’Brien decided, as he opened the file.
17 He’mesh
Dear Tera,
I don’t know where to begin. First, I guess, tell Mom and Dad that I’m okay. I know they don’t approve of what I’m doing, but I have to do this. I never meant to hurt them or you, it was just a choice I made.
There’s not much I can tell you about where I am or what I’m doing, because that’s all top-secret and stuff. I’m comfortable though, and safe. I’m still trying to figure out how to get this message to you. I can’t send it directly, because we never know who’ll be listening. I’m trying to find someone who might be going to the surface who could carry a printout of this letter. (If you’re reading it, I guess I did!)
The rebellion’s not like we were told on Bajor. The people here are good, and they take what they’re doing really seriously. Don’t believe people who tell you the rebels are just “criminals” or “malcontents.” They’ve got some really big ideas about the future.
Have to run now—duty calls. More soon.
28 He’mesh
Tera,
I’m back. It’s been a crazy busy time around here. You probably guessed that from the long gap in the dates, right? I figured. There’s no po
int telling you what we’ve been doing. If it was something important, you probably saw it on the news already. And if you didn’t, then I’m probably not supposed to say anything.
The biggest news is behind the scenes, as usual: I’ve been seeing a guy. Can’t tell you his name (we’re not supposed to make records of who’s here, can’t be too careful), but he’s a decent man. He treats me well, and he’s really smart. He’s not the most popular guy, but he’s steady, dependable. More about him later.
The hardest thing to get used to around here is the boredom. To fill the time, I’ve got a new hobby: gardening. The corner of my quarters has a bunch of new plants sprouting. You’ve probably already guessed they’re all jossa flowers. They’re the only thing I’ve ever been good at growing, so I decided to stick with what I know. I’m hoping to have blooms soon.
5 Yolava
Tera,
Okay, I know this is a long time between letters—I was offline for all of Pel’hath—but sometimes it just can’t be helped. Since I haven’t found a way to send this to you yet, I guess it doesn’t really matter. By the time it reaches you it’ll be more of a journal than a letter, anyway.
My garden is coming along. The flowers are all so pretty…it’s such a shame you can’t see them, I know you’d like them.
Remember that guy I told you about? Well, there’s a new wrinkle in the story—I met someone else, someone closer to my age. The new guy is so handsome, and he just knows how to talk to me, you know what I mean? Problem is, he can be kind of a jerk sometimes. When he’s nice he can be a lot of fun, but when he goes on a tear he can be dangerous.
So, ever a glutton for punishment, I’ve been seeing him behind the other guy’s back. I thought I could keep it all casual, have my fun with the young guy but keep the steady guy as my safety. Didn’t work out that way. And, in classic Sito Jaxa fashion, I’ve gone and done something royally stupid: They’ve found out about each other, and I know this is gonna get ugly pretty soon. Worst of all, I’m pregnant, and I don’t know which one of them is the father.
I wish I was anywhere but here.
The letter stopped there. O’Brien looked at the date on the last entry; it was only days old, entered shortly before the Defiant had left Terok Nor. Bloody hell, she’s pregnant? That’s just great. How can I take her into combat knowing that?
Many times throughout O’Brien’s life, he had uttered the words I don’t want to know, but until this moment he’d never meant them so literally.
His first impulse was to relieve Sito of duty. That won’t work, he realized. Everyone’ll ask why, and what am I supposed to say? I can’t tell them she’s pregnant, because how’m I supposed to know that? She’ll know I’ve been through her private files—then everyone’ll figure I’ve been through theirs, too. And they’ll be right.
He felt as if he were trapped in a corner. If Sito was pregnant, then for the safety of her unborn child she shouldn’t be on active combat duty. But unless she volunteered that information, he would be unable to act on it.
He reclined in his chair, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths to ward off his impending monster of a headache. Another glorious day in the rebellion.
5
C aptain Kurn of the I.K.S. Ya’Vang stroked the thick bramble of his dark beard as he listened to the Bajoran woman’s proposal. So far, it consisted of little beyond wild speculation and conspiracy theories, none of which had inspired the Klingon commander with confidence.
“If I’m right,” Kira Nerys said over the secure comm, “then the rebels are gathering assets to build more ships like the Defiant. Possibly several more.”
He let out a derisive grunt. “You’ll need to do better than that, woman.” Shaking his head, he added, “All you’ve shown me is that you know how to spin a good story.”
A fierce gleam and the hint of a smirk on her face made Kurn wonder if he’d just said exactly what she’d wanted to hear. “What is it you’re looking for, Captain? A connection? The missing piece of the puzzle that makes the rest fit together?”
“Maybe I’m looking for a woman who doesn’t speak in riddles,” he warned with a jagged grin of his own.
She reached forward and sent a data file to him. It opened in the upper right-hand corner of his screen: a star chart centered on the intersection of four sectors of Cardassian-controlled space: Bajor, Cardassia, Almatha, and Algira. Bright red triangles marked several locations in interstellar space. “Recognize the region?” she asked. “Do me a favor, Captain. Look at the map and tell me what a keen tactician such as yourself is able to glean from it.”
Kurn transposed Kira’s image and the map on his screen, so that he could inspect the map more closely. One by one he called up the data linked to each of the highlighted locations, and then he began to understand what she was driving at. Though he had been generally aware of the positions of the star systems Kira had described in her account of various hijackings and disappearances, he hadn’t really understood the truly proximate nature of their occurrence. Seeing it on the map made it abundantly clear that all the events that Kira had flagged had occurred in an improbably limited area.
“All right,” he said. “I see how close they are.” He switched Kira’s image back to the primary position. “You think the rebels are targeting that sector specifically?”
“I know they are,” Kira said, growing bolder.
Alive with the rising thrill of the hunt, Kurn felt his pulse quicken and his blood rush hot on the back of his neck. “And that’s where you think they’re building new ships?”
“Yes,” Kira said. “In the Trivas system.” Another data file came across and appeared on his screen. “The old Empok Nor station. The Cardassians decommissioned it years ago, when they finished mining the Trivas system’s asteroid belt. Terok Nor was supposed to strip it for spare parts, but we never had time, so we left a few sentries on board.”
“Punishment detail?” Kurn guessed.
“Precisely,” Kira said. “With no one at Terok Nor to answer the sentries’ call for help, the rebels could easily have taken control of the station and turned it into a shipyard.”
The chain of her reasoning was locking together now in Kurn’s thoughts. “The stolen kelbonite,” he said. “They’d use it to shield the station’s fusion core, hide its power signature from long-range scans.” She was nodding, obviously pleased with his belated arrival at her way of seeing things. “I’ll admit, it sounds plausible.” Moving on to his next point of suspicion, he inquired, “Why are you telling me?”
“Because telling Intendant Ro would do me no good,” Kira said. “If she did investigate, and it turned out to be nothing, I’d take the blame—but if I turned out to be right, she’d take the credit. Either way, I’d lose…. Regent Martok isn’t interested in helping me—after all, he’s the one who sent me to Ro. As for General Duras, I tried to tell him, but he’s too afraid of Ro to make a judgment without her approval.”
“That’s because Duras is a petaQ,” Kurn said. “And Martok is an opportunist; my brother’s throne was still warm when that yIntagh seized it for himself. Neither of which answers my question: Why should I help you?”
Her manner became as calculating as that of a Nilestran cobra. “Because we both stand to gain from a partnership.”
“I don’t agree,” Kurn said. “My brother’s capture disgraced the House of Mogh. If my family didn’t have powerful friends, Martok would have stripped us of our lands and titles. I can’t afford to give him a reason to do so now.”
“Kurn, Kurn, Kurn.” Kira flashed him a sinister smile, the kind whose exaggerated sweetness always concealed lethal venom. “I understand that you’re in a precarious position with Martok and the High Council. And that’s exactly why you can’t risk refusing my offer.”
His laughter was throaty and bellicose. This woman lives up to her reputation and then some, he decided. “I don’t see why I need you at all,” he said. “If I go the Trivas system, I can do so without your help
. The honor of victory would be mine alone.”
Kira stiffened her posture, but the fire in her gaze remained steady. “And what will it gain you, Kurn? A small reprieve from Martok’s wrath? A few extra years of watching your back before one of his people puts a knife in it?” There was that maddening smile of hers again. “Imagine how much stronger your position would be backed by a grateful Intendant of Bajor—one you helped restore to her rightful office.”
A slow growl turned in his throat while he considered her point. She was right about Martok; no matter how glorious a victory Kurn scored, Martok would remain his enemy and continue to impede his military and political fortunes. But if a strong off-world ally such as Bajor were to support Kurn, it might provide him enough leverage to gain a seat on the High Council, which would put him in a position to challenge Martok for the regency. At the same time, disgracing the current Intendant, Ro Laren, would weaken the Cardassians’ sway over Bajoran politics and keep the balance of power within the Alliance tilted in favor of Qo’noS—but unless Kurn could guarantee that a Klingon-friendly executive would take Ro’s place, any such gain might be short-lived. Grudgingly, he was forced to concede that Kira was right: her best interest was also his.
“If I agree to a partnership,” he said, “how will I convince General Duras to release the Ya’Vang for this mission? And how do you propose to secure Intendant Ro’s permission to accompany me?”
“First, we’re not to reveal the true nature of our mission to anyone until after it’s accomplished. Second, convincing Ro to release me to your custody will be easier than you think.”
He began to see why she had a reputation for cunning. “I assume you have a plan that addresses both our needs?”
“Of course I do, Captain,” she said, with a seductive lowering of her chin. “Of course I do.”
General Duras leaned on one arm of his command chair on the bridge of the I.K.S. Negh’Var and heaved a tired grunt. Intendant Ro stood to his left. Together they faced Captain Kurn, commanding officer of the Vor’cha-class battle cruiser I.K.S. Ya’Vang. Kurn had gone to tremendous effort to convince Duras to rendezvous with his ship in the Rakal system. Meeting with any member of the House of Mogh would once have been distasteful to Duras, but to see the brother of the captured Regent Worf—former regent, Duras corrected himself—come before him as a humble supplicant had seemed like a privilege not to be wasted. Now that he knew what Kurn wanted, he regretted his decision to let this toDSaH set foot on his ship.