by Various
“You want what?” Duras barked.
With great patience and dignity, Kurn repeated, “Permission to kill my elder brother, Worf, son of Mogh.”
It was a brilliant gambit on Kurn’s part. If Duras refused, he would be acting contrary to Klingon honor customs, flouting millennia of tradition. The blemish to his own honor would be a grave embarrassment to his entire House. On the other hand, if he permitted Kurn to carry out his insane plan, he would be enabling his sworn enemies to restore their own tarnished honor to its former luster. As usual for Duras, there was no winning.
Ro, as impatient as ever, interrupted Duras’s ruminations. “He wants permission to kill his brother?” She shrugged. “He’d be doing the Alliance a favor. I say let him.”
“It’s not that simple,” Duras said, unwilling to elaborate.
Ro nodded slowly. “I see. It’s one of those complicated honor conundrums that keeps you people awake at night.”
Duras was going to let a burning glower suffice as his response to Ro, but Kurn chose to explain the situation to her. “What I am asking for is permission to perform the Mauk-to’Vor ceremony,” Kurn said. “One who has been dishonored has their honor restored by being slain with a mevak dagger by the one responsible for the dishonor.”
The Bajoran woman looked and sounded confused. “So…you’d be restoring Worf’s honor by killing him?”
“Not me,” Kurn said. “The Council blames Kira Nerys for my brother’s capture by the rebels. To lift his disgrace from my family, Kira must strike the fatal blow with the mevak blade. I need her temporarily transferred to my command, to help me accomplish my mission.”
Eager to end the discussion and get Kurn off his bridge, Duras said, “Permission granted. Dis—”
Ro cut him off. “Absolutely not!” She took half a step forward and planted herself between Duras and Kurn. “Kira belongs to me, and she’s not going anywhere.”
A rough, hard growl rasped in Duras’s throat. “Mind your place on my ship, Intendant.” Ro turned her head slowly, her gaze coldly hostile and unflinching. Though her challenge was unmistakable, half a second later she gracefully stepped backward, behind his chair.
Turning his stare at Kurn, Duras asked, “Why can’t you bring Worf here, to Kira?”
“After Worf was captured, the rebels took him to Terok Nor,” Kurn said. “New intelligence suggests Worf is still there. To reach him and perform the Mauk-to’Vor will require stealth and subtlety—and the help of someone who knows the station’s secrets better than anyone else: its former mistress.”
On the edge of his vision, Duras saw Ro shaking her head and muttering under her breath. If Kurn’s request vexed her, then it couldn’t possibly be all bad. “As you can see,” Duras said with dry sarcasm, “Intendant Ro cares deeply about Kira’s safety. What kind of risk will your mission pose to her?”
“High,” Kurn said. “It’s to be a covert operation in enemy territory, employing no personnel other than myself and Kira.”
“But couldn’t she brief you here, in advance?” Ro asked. “I still don’t see why you have to take her on the mission.”
Kurn flashed a condescending smile in Ro’s direction. “Safe here, she will have no incentive to be truthful and every reason to steer me into danger. If she faces my peril with me, her desire for self-preservation will keep her honest.”
Finding no fault with Kurn’s argument, Duras nodded and said, “Very well.”
“You can’t be serious!” Ro’s outburst turned heads from all directions on the bridge. “All this prattling about honor—did you forget that Kira belongs to—”
“She is a slave aboard my ship!” Duras bellowed. “That makes her life mine—to give, to take, or to cast away. And you would be wise to remember, Intendant, that this ship serves Bajor only as a courtesy. It remains a Klingon warship, under my command.” The face-off lasted for several seconds, then Ro turned away and stormed off the bridge under a dark cloud of indignation. As soon as the hatch closed behind her, Duras muttered a string of colorfully vulgar expletives describing her relationship to Gul Dukat. He looked at Kurn. “Is there anything else you want?”
“No, General,” Kurn said.
“Then take Kira and get off my ship.”
Kurn had wasted no time finding Kira after finishing his meeting with General Duras. Choosing to make a quick exit from the Negh’Var before the general changed his mind, Kurn led Kira through the cramped passageways to the transporter room. They ascended the platform and as soon as their feet settled onto the triangular transport pads, Kurn ordered the transporter operator, “Energize.”
A white haze and a tingle of dissociation, and then he and Kira materialized in a smaller transporter room, aboard the I.K.S. Ya’Vang. He stepped off the transporter stage. In a single movement, he plucked a short, cylindrical device from his belt, lifted it in front of his face, and activated it. “Kurn to bridge. We’re aboard. Raise the cloak and set course for the Amleth Nebula, warp nine.”
Kira followed him as he left the transporter room. He was much taller than she, and his stride was so long that she found it difficult to keep up with him. She had considered the corridors on the Negh’Var to be dim and cramped, but the passageways on the Ya’Vang were even closer and darker than those on the dreadnought. The interior of the ship was also hotter and more humid than she had been accustomed to aboard Klingon vessels. Probably because the only Klingon ships I’ve ever been on have had their climates adjusted for a Bajoran Intendant traveling on board as a VIP guest. This, she realized, was probably what conditions aboard most Klingon ships were like.
They climbed a steep set of stairs up one deck and made a few hard turns. Kurn stopped in front of a green portal, which slid open with a deep rumble of servomotors. Beyond was a modestly sized compartment, large enough for a single bunk, a desk, and a private lavatory and shower. “Your quarters,” Kurn said, motioning her inside with a sweep of his hand.
Kira stepped in and looked around. The room was spare and highly utilitarian, but it was clean and private. She managed a self-deprecating smile. “I hope I’m not putting anyone out.”
“Not at all,” Kurn said with a devilish grin. “My first officer prefers to bunk with the crew.” He pointed to some drawers set into the bulkhead beneath the bunk. “There aren’t many Klingon women your size, but I had the quartermaster alter a few uniforms that seemed close.” Pinching a wrinkle of her gray jumpsuit between his thumb and forefinger, he added, “I thought you might appreciate something more becoming a once and future Intendant of Bajor.”
She smiled salaciously at him, confident that he would be an even better ally to her than his older brother had been.
“Does everything meet with your satisfaction?” he asked.
“Yes,” Kira said, eyeing her surroundings. “This will do nicely.”
6
T he bar on Terok Nor’s promenade overflowed with angry voices. The senior leadership of the rebellion had gathered for a strategy meeting that was quickly becoming a free-for-all.
“Bloody irresponsible,” O’Brien shouted at Zek and Bashir. “It was sloppy, and you know it!”
At the far end of the row of pushed-together tables, Bashir and Zek shouted back, their own replies almost lost in the hubbub of liquor-amplified tempers. “We did what had to be done,” wailed Zek. Bashir added, “At least we were playing offense, instead of waiting for the Alliance to hit us again.”
“Utter shite,” O’Brien shot back. “You acted without orders, making tactical judgments without—”
“Without getting your permission?” Bashir cut in.
Nodding and glaring, O’Brien said, “Damn right without my permission, which, in case you’ve forgotten, is called insubordination.” Almost all the ire in the room was directed now at O’Brien, who stood alone at the head of the group and weathered its disapproval with a stoic frown.
“Let’s take it easy,” urged Cal Hudson, while, across from him, Kasidy Yates pl
eaded, “We’re supposed to be working together!”
Bashir retorted over the jeers, “And where is the court-martial, Smiley? Who’ll be our judge? Our jury? Or should we just let you be everything—including executioner?”
When the indignation started to taper off, O’Brien spoke directly to Hudson. “They acted without telling anyone except their own crews what they were doing. They didn’t let anyone else vet their plans—”
“And now we have a fleet of our own,” Zek crowed. “Which just goes to show: ignoring you makes sense.” A few of the gathered generals muffled their chortles in their sleeves or fake-coughed to make it seem as if they had at least tried to hide their laughter.
Lifting his voice, O’Brien continued, “Every heist they pulled was done within five light-years of the Trivas system. Plot ’em on a map and they make a nice little circle around it—or, as we like to call it in darts, a target.” The laughing stopped. “They might as well have sent the Alliance a bloody invitation. It’s a miracle they haven’t hit the damn shipyard already.” Staring down Zek specifically, he added, “And the inexcusable part is that if you’d consulted me first, I could’ve helped you get the same resources and cover your tracks. But this wasn’t about what was good for the rebellion, was it, Zek? This was about what would make you and that shaggy dog of yours”—he nodded at Bashir—“look like heroes in here.”
Pouring on the sarcasm, Zek replied, “Oh, you wound me. But I guess you’re the right man to stand there and judge me for wanting to impress my partners in the rebellion; after all, you don’t give a damn what they think of you, do you? That’s why it was so easy for you to lose your nerve in the Cuellar system!”
Bolting from his chair, O’Brien clenched his fists. “I’ll show you nerve, you—”
“He refused a direct order to fire on the enemy!” Zek cried. “Then he threatened to fire on my ship if we attacked an enemy target!”
Hudson and another man, Michael Eddington, intercepted O’Brien as he tried to rush Zek. Had it been Hudson alone, or Hudson and anyone else, O’Brien would have fought on. Eddington, however, had earned O’Brien’s respect; he was the rebellion’s best guerrilla warfare commander. For the sake of not embarrassing himself in front of Eddington, O’Brien backed off.
“It wasn’t an enemy target,” O’Brien explained. “It was an unarmed civilian colony. There was no reason to destroy it.”
“Except that it was full of enemy personnel,” Zek said.
“No, civilians,” O’Brien insisted. “Is that the kind of tactic we want to start using? Attacks on unarmed people?”
Hudson, ever the rationalizer of atrocities, said, “It’s an effective tactic, Miles. It undermines the confidence of enemy civilians in their leaders. In turn, it weakens our enemies’ control over their people.”
“Besides,” Bashir added, “if it was good enough for the Terrans of a hundred years ago, why shouldn’t we—”
O’Brien lunged again and almost made it past Eddington. His baleful gaze fixed on Bashir, he growled, “Except that it wasn’t good enough, you stupid sod. Learn some bloody history—a century of violence is what was destroying the empire.”
An arrogant snort of derision twisted Bashir’s face into an exaggerated sneer of contempt. “Spock’s cowardice and weakness destroyed the Terran Empire—everyone knows that.”
Twisting free of Eddington’s grip, O’Brien said, “Yeah? Then everyone knows wrong. The Terran Empire didn’t fall because it got too free—it fell because it got screwed by vicious, bloodthirsty bastards like you and your shriveled little friend.”
“Gentlemen,” Hudson said, his heavy baritone putting an end to the debate. “We came here to discuss strategy, not history.”
There was heat and sweat on the back of O’Brien’s neck. All he wanted was to strangle Bashir and Zek, no matter how counterproductive it might ultimately prove to be. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s talk strategy. I’m trying to wipe out an interstellar tyranny. Those two gits just want to set up one of their own.”
Bashir hollered, “This is war, Smiley! Whose side are you on? Would you rather kill or be killed?”
“They have a point, Miles,” Hudson said. “The Alliance wouldn’t hesitate to wipe out an unarmed colony of free Terrans. And this is no time to be pulling our punches: the harder we hit them, the easier it gets for us to recruit new members.”
“Hang on,” said Yates, the attractive and pragmatic Terran woman seated opposite Hudson. “I have to say, I’m with O’Brien on this one. I’m not comfortable putting unarmed civilians in the crosshairs.” O’Brien was grateful that Yates had sided with him. Though she was one of the few women in the rebellion’s leadership, her opinion carried a tremendous deal of influence with the other commanders. “I mean, you can argue the Alliance would wipe out a free Terran colony, but it’s not like they’re executing Terran slaves to try and break our spirit.”
“No,” Hudson said, “but they are torturing and executing any escaped slave who they think was trying to reach us, as well as anyone they think is helping slaves reach us. And it’s not because they think they’ll learn anything from torture that’ll help them find us. They torture runaway slaves for the same reason torture’s always been used, anywhere and everywhere: to scare others into submission.”
It was Eddington’s turn to ask rhetorically, “Are you advocating we take up torture? To try and intimidate Alliance troops and civilians into not supporting the war against us?”
“Why not?” Bashir retorted. “A little fear might be good for them. Teach them we’re not weak.”
O’Brien returned to the head of the table. “Bollocks. If you need to use torture to scare someone, it’s because you are weak. You don’t have enough strength to negotiate, so you bully instead.” A flash of memory: O’Brien remembered the sadistic glee with which Bashir had abused the captive Intendant Kira. “Unless, of course,” he added, “you want to torture people because you like it.”
“Maybe I do it,” Bashir replied, “because they deserve it.”
It was late, and O’Brien was tired of yelling. He lowered his voice. “Is that all this is to you? Payback?” Just as he had learned by watching two different men named Ben Sisko, the other people in the room quickly hushed themselves to hear what was being said. “Is revenge a good enough reason to fight a war? I don’t think so.” He started walking around the table, his pace steady and unhurried. “Today it’s revenge on the Alliance. Who gets it in the neck tomorrow? You? Me? When does it end?” He made fleeting eye contact with one rebellion leader after another as he continued. “What’re we trying to accomplish? Freedom? If that’s all we wanted, we could just run—run till we get to where the stars have no names, and settle on some dusty little ball of rock. But how long would that last us? Till the Alliance finds us, or the next empire comes.” He glanced sharply at Bashir. “Or we kill ourselves for some lunatic revenge fantasy.” Rounding the far end of the table, he turned his back on Bashir and Zek and kept walking, taking his time. “That’s not what I’m fighting for. That’s not why I risked everything to start a rebellion…. I met a man who showed me a better way of life. He was proof that Terrans don’t have to be barbarians, that power doesn’t mean cruelty.” He returned to his place at the head of the table and stopped, facing the group. “We can’t just be fighting to bring back an empire that fell a hundred years ago. It’s not enough to go back to being what we were. We have to fight to become something better than what we are.”
O’Brien looked from face to face, trying to gauge the group’s reaction. Most of the others wore introspective expressions, but otherwise seemed to be trying to stay neutral. Zek was looking off to one side and mumbling Ferengi curses, while Bashir regarded O’Brien with a disappointed frown and a few somber turns of his head to convey his rejection of all that O’Brien stood for. The only person at the table whose reaction was completely unreadable was Eddington. He leaned back in his chair, hands folded together on his lap, saying
nothing.
“Well,” Bashir said. “That was a very moving speech. Unfortunately, it doesn’t change the fact that we’re at war, and that the only way we’re going to win is by hitting the Alliance harder than they hit us, and more often. I’m sorry you don’t approve of how Zek and I built the rebellion’s fleet, but what’s done is done, and complaining that we didn’t do it your way frankly sounds like envy and not much else. So, unless you’ve got something productive to add, we need to get to our ships and begin planning our assault on Cardassia Prime.”
Anxious looks passed between the rebellion leaders. O’Brien felt the balance of power shifting in Bashir’s favor. Fighting it began to seem like a waste of effort. “Is that what all of you want, then? Are we done talking?”
“Miles,” Hudson said, trying to strike a conciliatory tone. “We have to face the realities of our situation. There’s a time and a place for idealism, and it’s not on a battlefield. A decisive strike on Cardassia Prime will throw the entire Alliance off balance. It’ll give us momentum—and it might even spark slave rebellions on some of the less stable planets.” He got up from his chair and moved toward Bashir and Zek.
Several other members of the group followed Hudson’s example. Among them, with apparent reluctance, was Kasidy Yates. Though she tried not to look back, she sneaked a look over her shoulder at O’Brien, who pleaded simply, “You, too, Kasidy?”