by Various
“That’s tricky,” Keiko said. “She’s not even showing yet, so it has to be very early in her pregnancy. The Bajoran gestation period is only five months, and even so, Bajoran women tend to stay active right up until their babies are due.”
“This isn’t about her doing the work,” O’Brien said. “I’m sure she’d be a fine pilot right up until she went into labor, and I’m proud of her for putting her own life on the line—but I’m not going to let her take an unborn child into battle. Nobody’s asked that kid if it wants to be in combat, and I think it’s bloody well wrong to put it there.”
“Fine,” Keiko said. “Relieve her of duty, then.”
“How the hell am I supposed to justify that?” He let go of her hand and got up from the sofa. Pacing on the other side of the coffee table, he continued, “If I tell her that I know she’s pregnant, she’ll know I’ve been snooping in her personal files. And when the rest of the crew hears about it, they’ll figure I’ve been snooping on them, too.”
“You have been,” Keiko interjected.
He shot her a scornful glare. “Then they’ll start talking about finding a new captain, maybe Leeta, or Muniz. Next thing you know, I’m not only out as leader of the rebellion, I’m done as the captain of the Defiant. A perfect end to a perfect day.”
“So, find another reason to take her off combat duty,” Keiko said. “Assign her to train new pilots. Heaven knows we need them right now.”
“True,” O’Brien said. “But it’ll still look like I’ve singled her out for punishment. It could still backfire.”
Keiko crossed her legs and pressed a finger against her lips while she pondered the matter. Then she looked up at O’Brien. “You need to make your decision look impartial, right?”
“Right,” he said. There was a surety to her manner; it calmed him enough that he stopped pacing to hear her out.
She nodded. “All right. Order physical exams for the entire crew. Call it a standard procedure, say the medics need to get some baseline medical data for future treatment, that kind of thing. Do it by rank, or by department, alphabetical, whatever. If Sito won’t get examined, let her go for bucking orders. If she does get checked out, you’ll have proof she’s pregnant. Then you and the medics can have a sit-down with her, and you can reassign her to pilot training.”
It was all so diabolically logical. The longer O’Brien considered it, the better it sounded. “I like it,” he said. “Covers all our bases.” He returned to the sofa and sat down next to Keiko. “Best of all, the medics could actually use that kind of information. It’d be a good idea no matter what.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Keiko said with a smile.
Once again he was reminded of how essential Keiko had become to his work, to his existence. It made him think of the strange turns his life had taken to bring him to this moment. “You know, it’s funny,” he said. “One of the most decent men I ever met in my life was the Bashir from the other universe—and the biggest jackass I’ve ever met is the Bashir from this one.”
She chuckled as she snuggled under his arm. “Well, aren’t the people from the other side supposed to be our opposites or something?”
“I asked the other Sisko about that,” O’Brien said. “He didn’t think we were opposites so much as…different possibilities. A lot of the same potential, but different results.” He held Keiko a little bit closer. “Take me, for example. There and here I was a good engineer, a good mechanic. In that universe it made me someone important; here I was just a slave. Or look at Bashir; on the other side he was a doctor, and here he’s—”
He searched for the right word. Keiko found it. “A jerk?”
“You can say that again,” he said with a broad smile. He kissed her cheek, and they laughed together at Bashir’s expense. Despite the fact that Terok Nor remained the number-one target of the Alliance, here with Keiko he felt safe. Protected. “Anyway, thinking about Bashir the doctor made me remember something he told me. My other self was married, he said. A family man.” She looked at him, perhaps sensing that he was on the verge of saying something important. He pulled her tight against him, in a firm yet gentle embrace. “I never asked who the other O’Brien’s wife was. I didn’t feel like I had the right to know, and I didn’t want to jinx it or get my hopes up. In case I ever met her over here, you know? But the way I feel, I don’t know if the other O’Brien’s married to another you…but I’d like to think that he is.”
“Me, too.” Keiko reached up and pressed her soft, warm palm against his face, and then she kissed him, long and slow and in a way that made the rest of reality fall away from his senses, made him forget for an instant that they spent every moment of their lives beneath the looming shadow of catastrophe. Then her lips pulled away by degrees, but her hand stayed where it was and she remained intimately close. She pressed her forehead against his. “I’ve heard Alliance physicists say that there are actually an infinite number of universes,” she whispered. “If that’s true…I hope we find each other in all of them.”
“So do I, love,” O’Brien said, grateful that, for the moment, they at least had each other in this universe.
Intendant Ro stepped onto the bridge of the I.K.S. Negh’Var and moved directly to intercept General Duras. Ro was certain that she noticed a hint of dismay in his averted glance. “General,” she said. “Have we received any updates from Captain Kurn or the Ya’Vang?”
“No, Intendant,” Duras said.
It became immediately apparent that he was not in an elaborative mood. Extracting information from him was going to require effort. “Weren’t they due to check in four hours ago?”
Duras grunted as if clearing his throat and checked the chronometer. “Five, actually.”
“Doesn’t that strike you as cause for alarm, General?”
“Not really, no.” He turned to her, half his face illuminated in the ruddy glow of a small station monitor, the other lost in shadow. “When a ship is on a mission like this, sometimes comm silence is needed.”
“So there’s no protocol for following up when a ship on a covert operation misses a check-in?”
A long exhalation of air through Duras’s nose telegraphed his growing annoyance. “What do you want me to do, Intendant? Transmit an encrypted subspace hail toward Terok Nor, requesting an update on the Ya’Vang’s status? The rebels on the station might wonder why we’re sending such a signal toward their best stronghold, but I suppose that’s of no concern to—”
“Enough.” She despised the condescending tone of his voice. “Let the Ya’Vang maintain comm silence. Notify me the moment they check in.”
“As you command, Intendant,” Duras said, without truly striking the tone of a subordinate. If anything, he made a mockery of her authority. He was the most insolent officer, of any species, that Ro had ever met.
Ro left the bridge and returned to her expansive but spartan suite. Its panoramic views of deep space were majestic but cold, the steady glow of starlight feeling almost surreal without the twinkle imparted by atmospheric disturbance.
Shifts of attendants swept into and out of the room, one group after another, bringing myriad flurries of official business and pending executive decisions for her review. Most of them she delegated to her subordinates; a few she graced with cursory reviews before scribbling her approval or waving them away to some unconsidered political purgatory.
The minutiae of work occupied her for a few hours until it was finally time for dinner. She had long since made it clear to her support staff that, whether she was dining alone or with company, she was never to be disturbed except in cases of dire emergency. Her evening repast was one of the few times of her day that she could be relatively assured of peace and privacy.
All her meals were prepared in her own galley, to prevent her food from becoming contaminated with any of the filth that the Klingons consumed. “If anything live ever reaches my table,” she had warned her cook, “I will kill it, then I’ll kill you.”
&n
bsp; This evening’s meal had met with her complete satisfaction. The appetizer, of salted Circassian figs and wedges of sharp Rakantha marbled cheese, had been followed by an entrée of Vulcan mollusks sautéed in Rhombolian butter and served on a bed of freshly cut seedling moon grass. A bottle of good Alvanian brandy had been set out for her after-dinner cordial, and she sipped the sweetly complex liquor slowly while considering the delicate nature of her situation with Kira Nerys.
There had been no choice but to let Kira go with Kurn. The Klingons, once they became obsessed on a matter of honor, were relentless. She had a grudging respect for Kurn’s tactics, despite her dislike of the man himself. He boxed in Duras like an old pro, she reflected. You’d think a warrior with political skills that finely honed would have risen further in the ranks by now, especially when his elder brother had been regent for years. Then she realized the truth: it had been Kira’s handiwork that had maneuvered Duras so adroitly. Kurn’s appeal to Klingon honor, even his assurances to Ro that Kira’s life would be placed in mortal peril—it all bore the mark of Kira’s touch. She must have coached him to tell me and Duras what we each wanted to hear. More to the point, he did it. So, if he’s following her cues…what’s in it for him?
Ro pondered the mission that Kurn had proposed to Duras and she asked herself how its success might possibly benefit Kira. Its value to Kurn wasn’t hard to figure out; lifting the dishonor of Worf’s capture would preserve Kurn’s wealth. It would not be enough to cleanse him of the political stigma, however; unless he somehow elevated himself to the rarefied status of Hero of the Empire, it was unlikely that he would ever be able to attain a seat on the Klingon High Council. As a mere starship captain, he would be unable to change Kira’s fortunes for the better, so why would she aid him in killing Worf?
Helping Kurn complete the Mauk-to’Vor ceremony would earn Kira a small measure of approval among the Klingons, but not enough to offset the disgrace of her perceived role in Worf’s downfall. If I were her, Ro wondered, how would I have used Kurn to my advantage? Making his mission a success didn’t sound like Kira’s usual means of action; betrayal was Kira’s chief currency.
He needs her to land the killing blow on Worf, Ro remembered. What if she doesn’t kill Worf? What if she kills Kurn…and rescues Worf instead?
Suddenly, Ro was certain that she could see Kira’s plan revealing itself in her imagination. Worf, rescued by the woman who had been blamed for his capture, might be able to return to Qo’noS and challenge Martok for the regency. If he won, and regained the throne, he would almost certainly be very grateful to Kira, who would no doubt use her restored political influence to oust Ro and reinstall herself as the Intendant.
Over my dead body, Ro vowed to herself. Or hers.
A brutal bit of political calculus worked itself out in Ro’s thoughts. If Kira’s plan to put Worf back on the throne succeeded, the cost to Ro and her Cardassian sponsors would be catastrophic. But if Kira’s mission failed utterly, what would it really cost the Alliance? One Klingon battle cruiser from a fleet of thousands, and a disgraced Bajoran ex-politician. Negligible losses by any standard.
The loss of the Ya’Vang might also provide the impetus to justify a more aggressive strategy for the recapture of Terok Nor, and with it the liberation of Bajor from a years-long standoff with the Terran rebels. A success of that magnitude could fortify Ro’s power base for a decade or more.
In a moment of coldly reasoned spite, Ro walked to her desk, accessed the ship’s secure communications system, and began composing a detailed and anonymous message to be sent on an encrypted channel to Terok Nor.
8
O ’Brien hated being woken up in the middle of the night. His vision was blurry, his stomach was churning, and his clothes had been awkwardly pulled onto his body. Out of sorts, half awake, unshaven, and fighting against a leaden sensation in his limbs, he stepped off the lift into ops and walked toward Eddington. “What’s the bloody problem?”
“Have a look at this,” Eddington said, as he called up a screen of data on the main screen in the center of the situation table. “Just came in fifteen minutes ago.”
Squinting at the bright jumble of text, O’Brien struggled to focus his eyes. The words sharpened, and he read quickly. “An attack on Terok Nor?”
“That’s what I thought at first, too,” Eddington said. He pointed out another section of the message. “Until I saw this.”
It was a warning about the Alliance’s target for a covert infiltration and assassination scheme. “What is this, a joke?” O’Brien groused. “We moved Worf to the Badlands months ago.”
“Maybe the Alliance doesn’t know that,” Eddington said. “I raised the shields and ordered Luther to run a long-range sensor sweep to find any ships in silent-running mode nearby.”
“Good work,” O’Brien said. “So what are we talking about? A Klingon strike team or a direct assault?”
Eddington adjusted the display on the tabletop. “Neither,” he said. “The message was specific: Worf’s younger brother and Intendant Kira were going to be the only ones coming aboard to kill him. It didn’t say why.”
“Strangest bloody thing I ever heard,” O’Brien muttered. “Must be some kind of Klingon nonsense.” He tapped a few panels on the table’s control interface and skimmed over the text-only message again. “No sender identity,” he noted. “Looks like it got scrubbed clean on its way here.” O’Brien turned toward the science station, where a fair-haired, weathered-looking Terran named Sloan was manning the sensors. “Luther—anything?”
The older man shook his head, his steely gaze fixed on his console. “Nothing.”
“Keep looking,” O’Brien said, then he turned back toward Eddington. “Maybe we should pass along a warning to our people in the Badlands. This message might have been meant for them.”
From the tilt of Eddington’s head and the hunch of his shoulders, O’Brien saw that he wasn’t convinced. “It specifically identified Terok Nor as the target.” Noting O’Brien’s grouchy stare, he added, “But I’ll send the message.”
“Thank you.” Suspicion had pretty much become O’Brien’s default state, but this situation was making him edgier than usual. He reviewed the anonymous message again, mining it for clues. “None of our usual challenge-and-response phrases are in the text,” he observed. “This wasn’t sent by one of our people.”
Eddington said, “A new recruit, perhaps?”
“You’re optimistic all of a sudden,” O’Brien quipped. “If you ask me, this reads more like an Alliance trap.”
Calling up the sensor results on the display between them, Eddington said, “Well, if it is, it’s the best-disguised trap I’ve ever seen.” He enhanced the sensor results, revealing nothing but another blank screen. “There’s nothing out there.”
O’Brien rechecked the data. Eddington was right. There was no sign of any Alliance warship in the system. Even rigged for silent running, as the Klingons called it, their ships were not impossible to detect. Passive sensors might not register a ship operating in such a low-power mode, but active sensor-sweep protocols were still more than capable of pinpointing one.
“Why would someone in the Alliance send us this warning in the first place?” O’Brien asked. “If the threat is genuine, that would imply there’s a traitor in their ranks.”
Eddington chuckled. “Now who’s being an optimist?”
“I didn’t say I believed it,” O’Brien replied. “For now, let’s rule it out. What other scenarios does that leave us?”
“A disinformation campaign,” Eddington suggested.
O’Brien nodded. “It’s possible.” He stroked his stubbled chin while he considered the matter. “But why bother? They have to know we’d check and see there’s no ship out there.”
“Maybe they think we’re paranoid enough to believe they’ve built a new cloaking device,” Eddington said. “One we can’t see through.”
For all their sakes, O’Brien hoped that Eddington’s
words didn’t prove grimly prophetic. “Say you’re right,” he continued. “What’re they hoping we’ll do?”
“Panic?…Abandon the station?” Eddington rolled his eyes at O’Brien’s don’t even joke about that glare, then he added, “Maybe rally all our forces here to defend it?”
That made no sense. “Why in blazes would they want that?”
“Because,” Eddington said, “to bring everyone here, we’d have to leave other strategic assets undefended.”
O’Brien’s face scrunched with confusion. “But we don’t have any other strategic assets,” he exclaimed. That statement lingered between him and Eddington for a long moment, and they both arrived together at the same conclusion.
In unison, they said, “Empok Nor.”
“Bloody hell,” O’Brien grumbled. “Luther, get me a secure channel to Zek and Bashir on the Capital Gain!” Under his breath he vented to Eddington, “Assuming the ego-twins haven’t already gotten themselves blown to bits.”
“We should be so lucky,” Eddington said.
Zek loved sitting in the center seat of the Capital Gain’s bridge, but he hated the seat itself. It was too square, lacked adequate padding, and was too high off the deck for his feet to rest comfortably in front of him. Built by Terrans, for Terrans, he seethed. The circuit that automatically dimmed the lights when the ship’s cloak was engaged would also have to be disabled, he decided. How can anyone see where they’re going with the damned lights half off?
There would be time to make improvements once his ship docked at Empok Nor, which grew steadily larger on the main viewer. The blocky masses of scaffolding became more distinct. Zek swiveled his chair from side to side as he spoke with the other rebellion leaders who had gathered on the bridge with him for the arrival at the shipyard. “Eleven brand-new beauties, just like this one,” he crowed. “Bashir, what’re you going to name yours?”