Obsidian Alliances

by Various

  Moments later, a voice, deep and rough-edged, cut through the spatter of static.

  “Attention, officers and crew of the Capital Gain. This is Captain Kurn of the I.K.S. Ya’Vang. Surrender and prepare to be boarded.”

  9

  K urn walked the decks of the Capital Gain hunched over and pulled in on himself. The captured rebellion vessel was every bit as spartan in its amenities as a Klingon ship, but its passageways were even narrower and its overheads lower. For Klingon warriors accustomed to wearing armor with bulky, broad shoulder pads, navigating the interior of a Defiant-class ship was a slow and awkward process. For Kurn, who towered over many other Klingons, it was an even clumsier proposition.

  Krona was in command of the boarding party, which had beamed over to the disabled rebel ship more than an hour ago and made quick work of subduing its crew. Only a few rebels had tried to put up a fight. Most had abided by their commander’s declaration of surrender. Now the prisoners were segregated in two holding areas; senior personnel—the rebels did not have officers, as such—were being held on the bridge, and rank-and-file personnel had been rounded up in main engineering.

  Following in single file behind Kurn was a retinue that included, in order, Kira Nerys, tactical officer Qeyhnor, and a trio of armed shock troops. Ahead of Kurn, the portal to the Capital Gain’s bridge was open. He stepped inside.

  At the front of the compartment were the rebel ship’s commanders and bridge crew. Their hands were bound behind them, and all were seated with their faces to the wall and their tied wrists visible to their two armed guards. First officer Krona and second officer Garvig bowed their heads slightly to Kurn as he entered and took stock of the situation. “Report,” Kurn said.

  “The ship is secure, Captain,” Krona said. “All enemy personnel accounted for and disarmed. Chief engineer Hervog has command of the enlisted crew in main engineering.”

  Kira slipped past Kurn and strolled slowly behind the prisoners. Kurn looked around at the charred companels. Smoke lingered along the ceiling, and a fine crystalline dust sparkled on the carpeted deck. Curious to know the value of this prize he was bringing home to the empire, Kurn asked, “How much of the ship is intact?”

  “Severe damage to propulsion and tactical systems,” Garvig replied. “Hervog says most of it’s been slagged.”

  Krona added, “And the rebels managed to wipe their computer core before we could access it.”

  Kurn wondered sometimes if his men deliberately omitted the most important information he required as a subtle means of testing his patience. “What about the cloaking device?”

  Garvig and Krona traded conspiratorial smirks. “Intact,” Krona said. “Damaged, but Hervog says he has enough to reverse-engineer it within a few months.”

  Unable to suppress a broad grin, Kurn chortled. “Good work, men,” he said. “Very good work.” He turned back toward the forward end of the compartment, where Kira stood scraping her fingernails slowly on the backs of two prisoners’ necks. Kurn called out to her, “Found a new plaything already, Intendant?”

  “Better,” she replied, with a sadistic glee that Kurn had not seen before. “Heroes of the rebellion.” She tossed an invitational look over her shoulder. “Perhaps I could introduce you to them?” She looked to the two armed soldiers and pointed at the prisoners in front of her. The guards looked to Kurn for their orders. He nodded his assent. They stepped forward and yanked the two hapless rebels to their feet: a scruffy, spindly, dark-haired Terran and a shriveled, trembling old Ferengi.

  It seemed like a joke. “These are the heroes of the rebellion?” Kurn asked derisively, as he stepped closer.

  “My lord,” Kira said, “allow me to present Julian Subatoi Bashir, and Zek, two of the leading generals of the rebellion.” She pinched Bashir’s chin between her thumb and forefinger and glared into his eyes. “General Bashir is also one of the rebellion’s premier inflictors of pain and suffering.” Then she looked at Zek. “And you…I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.”

  “The feeling’s not mutual,” Zek said. The nasal quality of his voice annoyed Kurn greatly.

  “Do you even know who your counterpart is in the other universe?” she asked Zek. “Would you like to know?”

  “Not really.”

  “He was the Grand Nagus of Ferenginar,” she proclaimed, as if that was supposed to mean something. “He was the leader of the Ferengi people, the chief executive of an economic empire, the richest Ferengi in the galaxy.” Changing her evil gleam to a sinister sneer, she continued, “And what are you in charge of? A band of criminals. Pathetic.” She gestured at the smoky rubble of the bridge. “We’ve decoded the message you received from Terok Nor. We know that O’Brien warned you to retreat. You should have listened to him. Instead, you walked right into a trap, one that you’d already seen with your own eyes! What were you thinking?” She shouted with mock outrage to the rest of the room, “This is the greatest tactical thinker of the rebellion? This is the vaunted Zek, the strategic genius of—”

  “Oh, shut up already!” Zek bleated over Kira’s tirade. “We both know how this’ll end. Just get it over with, you whore!”

  Kira spun and struck with the speed and grace of a serpent. Despite the fact that Kurn had ordered his people to make certain she remained unarmed at all times, a flick of her wrist produced a blade from the sleeve of her borrowed uniform. She plunged it into Zek’s throat, mauling his carotid artery and trachea. Gouts of blood surged over the ragged gash in his flesh as he pitched forward and fell dead at Kira’s feet. By then, one of the guards had disarmed Kira, but it was too late to do anything for the Ferengi.

  Kurn advanced on Kira and locked his hand around her slender throat. “Why did you do that?” he demanded. “He could have had valuable intelligence!”

  Defiantly, Kira pulled free of Kurn’s grip. “Anything you could have learned from Zek you’ll get more easily from him, and without all the whining,” she said, pointing at Bashir. She batted her eyelashes at Kurn. “What’s more, if you let me question him, I promise not to kill him…. Not for years.”

  Ro became livid the moment that Duras had deigned to summon her like a common servant to the bridge in the middle of her sleep cycle. As she worked her way through the corridors of the ship, she grew even more agitated at the uncharacteristically boisterous mood that seemed to have infected the crew. Roars of celebration echoed inside almost every compartment she passed. Soldiers stumbled past her with half-filled steins of warnog or bloodwine, their breaths pungent with alcoholic fumes.

  What’s wrong with these animals? she wondered during her turbolift ride to the bridge. The doors opened, and a guttural chorus of male voices, lifted in half-inebriated song, assailed her as she stepped out. At the center of the song circle was General Duras himself, surrounded by his bridge crew and senior officers. What’s next? Ro wondered. An orgy? She pushed her way into the midst of the raucous, chanting Klingons and snapped at Duras, “Explain yourself, General! Why did you send for me?”

  Duras replied, “It’s a celebration, Intendant! A glorious victory worthy of song!” Deep, droning voices resumed their chanting in sharp notes and minor chords, the lyrics full of hard consonants and rough subvocalized noises. The general waved his stein of bloodwine out of synch with the singing, like a deaf conductor trying to lead a choir.

  “Whose victory?” Ro asked, shouting over the din.

  Laughing maniacally, Duras answered, “Kurn’s! Kurn, son of Mogh, scion of my enemy—but today I honor his name as a Hero of the Empire.”

  Ro didn’t understand. “Because he killed Worf?”

  “It was never about Worf,” Duras said, as if she was stupid for ever thinking that Captain Kurn’s stated objective had been truthful. “Kurn and Kira found a rebel shipyard at Empok Nor and faced more than a dozen Defiant-class enemy ships! All but one was destroyed. And guess what they captured on that ship.” He grinned. “A Romulan cloaking device, like the one on Defiant.” He bell
owed to his crew, “To the crew of the Ya’Vang, who broke the rebellion, and put us back in the arms race! Qapla!” Another rousing cheer rocked the bridge.

  Scowling at Duras and his rowdy underlings, Ro said, “Is that why you called me to the bridge? To tell me this?”

  Shaking his head, Duras replied, “No, Intendant, of course not. I summoned you for a completely different reason.” In the middle of a note, the singing stopped and all the Klingons on the bridge turned to face her. She was surrounded. “I called you here to place you under arrest.”

  Unwilling to back down, Ro retorted, “On what charge?”

  “Treason,” Duras said. “A crime that Captain Kurn warned me you would attempt, out of spite against your predecessor, Kira.” He reached down and pressed a button on the arm of his chair. The text of the coded message Ro had sent to Terok Nor scrolled up the main viewer behind Duras. “You provided the enemy with critical, detailed, and classified information about a military mission. You put the lives of Klingon warriors in peril for your own political gain.” The viewscreen went dark. Duras continued, “As an official of the Bajoran government, your conduct falls under your planet’s independent jurisdiction.” He looked to his communications officer. “Put them on-screen.”

  A moment later, the viewscreen hashed momentarily with snowy static and wavy interference. When it cleared, the face of First Minister Li Nalas was looking back at Ro. “Is she with you, General Duras?” Li asked.

  “Yes, First Minister,” Duras said. “The charges have been read and the evidence presented to the accused.”

  Li nodded. “The Chamber of Ministers has finished its own review of the evidence. Intendant Ro Laren, come forward.” Prodded by disruptors against her back, Ro advanced in halting steps until there was no one between her and the viewscreen. First Minister Li’s face, larger than life, eyed her with stern contempt. “Ro Laren, by a unanimous vote of the Chamber of Ministers, you have been convicted of high crimes against the Alliance, in violation of the Treaty of Regulon. In accordance with the law, you are hereby ordered removed from office, stripped of title and diplomatic privileges, and remanded to Alliance custody aboard the I.K.S. Negh’Var, pending formal extradition to Qo’noS for a war crimes tribunal.”

  Ro began to panic. “I have the right to present a defense,” she protested. “It’s a setup, the Klingons can’t be trusted!”

  “Actually,” Li said, his manner so calm that it terrified Ro, “the one who can’t be trusted appears to be you—and, by extension, your sponsor, Legate Dukat. If his counsel is going to send us more traitors such as yourself, Cardassia’s role in advising Bajoran policy will have to be…reevaluated.”

  “Regent Martok has asked me to express to you,” Duras said to Li, “his personal recommendation that you re-appoint Intendant Kira to her former office, in recognition of the great service she has rendered to the Alliance.”

  Li nodded. “The Chamber will take Regent Martok’s recommendation under advisement.”

  “Thank you, First Minister,” Duras said, and the main viewscreen blinked back to a vista of stars. The general gave a half nod in Ro’s direction. “Take that taHqeq to the brig.”

  Two guards seized Ro’s arms, and immediately she was dragged backward, away from Duras, toward the bowels of the ship and its pit of horrors. “Duras, stop!” Ro pleaded. “We can make a deal! You don’t have to do this!” She wrestled in her captors’ grip, but there was no breaking free. Her grunts of exertion became wordless shouts of rage as they neared the turbolift. Its doors opened. Duras and the others on the bridge all turned their backs on her as she was shoved into the lift car.

  One of her guards smiled like a demon at her. “Welcome to Gre’thor.”

  As the lift doors closed, and Ro began her descent into a cycle of torture and abuse that would last for the rest of her life, her cries of fury became screams of terror.

  10

  T he door signal buzzed. “General,” Sloan said over the closed-circuit comm, “Sito Jaxa is here to see you.”

  “Tell her to wait a moment,” O’Brien said. He and Eddington sat beside each other at the table in the wardroom, reviewing information from a pair of handheld data padds. In the middle of the table was a tray on which a decanter of amber liquid and four glasses were neatly arranged. Keiko stood to one side and watched the men read. Looking up, O’Brien said, “Keiko, you really don’t have to be here. Eddington and I can handle it.”

  “No,” she said. “I should stay. The physicals were my idea. I want to see it through.”

  “All right,” O’Brien said, not interested in provoking a debate about the matter. He looked at Eddington. “Ready?” For a few seconds, Eddington said nothing. O’Brien continued, “If you think I’m doing the wrong thing, tell me now.”

  Eddington sighed and put down his padd on the table. “No, you’re doing the right thing. It’s just a shame, that’s all.”

  “No argument here,” O’Brien said. He pressed a comm switch on the table in front of his seat. “Send her in.”

  The door unlocked and then opened. Sito Jaxa walked in, looking relaxed and casual. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  O’Brien and Eddington smiled warmly at her. “Yes, thanks for coming,” O’Brien said. “Have a seat.”

  Sito sat down opposite the two men. “What’s going on? Was there something wrong with my physical?”

  “No, you’re in perfect health,” Eddington said.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard the news about what happened at Empok Nor,” O’Brien said to her. “About the loss of the fleet, and the other leaders.”

  The young blonde nodded. “Everyone has.”

  Eddington said, “Not exactly the outcome we were hoping for, obviously.”

  “No, sir,” Sito replied.

  O’Brien’s brow creased with concern as he leaned forward. “Times like this,” he said, “morale can start to suffer. It can seem like we’re fighting a losing battle.”

  Sounding surprised, Sito replied, “That’s not how I feel, sirs.”

  “Good,” Eddington said. “We’re glad to hear that.”

  Sito watched O’Brien as he picked up the decanter and a glass. “I wish I was taking it as well as you are,” he said. “News like this makes me want a drink.” He half-filled a glass with the liquor and offered it to Eddington, who nodded and accepted the glass. As O’Brien reached for another glass, he made eye contact with Sito. “Care to join us?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said.

  While O’Brien poured her drink, Eddington asked with a teasing grin, “You’re not allergic to whiskey, are you?”

  “No, sir,” Sito said with a smile, then took the glass of spirits from O’Brien. He looked back at Keiko, who declined his offer with a wave of her hand. O’Brien poured himself a drink and leaned back in his chair. He, Eddington, and Sito sipped their whiskey, whose flavor was a complex medley of peat, smoke, sour notes, and sweetness.

  Setting down his glass, O’Brien mustered a friendly grin and said to Sito, “Have you ever heard of the idea that it’s impossible to prove a negative?”

  The young woman nodded. “In school as a child,” she said. “It’s a basic precept of logical reasoning.”

  “That’s right,” O’Brien said, sounding impressed. “Smart kid, this one,” he remarked to Eddington. To Sito, he continued, “My first officer told me the same thing not too long ago. It was the first I’d ever heard of it, but it made sense.” He picked up the padd in front of him. “But if it’s true, then I’ve got myself quite a conundrum.”

  Sito looked quickly back and forth between O’Brien and Eddington, whose unblinking stares were fixed squarely on her. Her glass was stopped halfway between her lips and the table; she appeared frozen in place. “Sirs?”

  “Well, you and Keiko are both telling me it’s impossible to prove a negative,” O’Brien said, “but I’ve got a doctor who assures me that he’s done exactly that.” He gave his padd a gentle shove, sending
it across the table to Sito. She glanced down at its screen as O’Brien added, “Your physical proves you’re not pregnant.”

  Reactions competed for control of Sito’s face, coming and going so quickly that each one barely registered before another took its place. First came confusion, then terror, then panic, followed by a poor imitation of anger. O’Brien imagined the rapid-fire sequence of thoughts that Sito must be grappling with. His simple declaration had made it clear that he was aware of the message she had been compiling, and that her medical exam had exposed her missive as a lie.

  She took a deep breath. “Sirs…am I being questioned because I terminated my own pregnancy?”

  Eddington just shook his head in disappointment.

  In a low voice, O’Brien said to her, “Is that really how you want to play this?” He sighed. “Read the doctor’s report. It’s all there. You’re not pregnant, and you never have been. All the tests were run twice, double-blind.” He put out his hand and Eddington placed another padd in it. “What’s more, you don’t have a sister named Tera. Hell, you don’t have a sister, period. And your mother died when you were nine.”

  Eddington leaned forward. “We checked your quarters. There are no jossa flowers planted there, as you wrote in your letter. Which leads to some rather awkward questions, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sirs, I was just…that letter, it wasn’t a real letter, it was just—”

  “Fiction?” O’Brien offered with a sardonic grin.

  Sito looked hopefully at him, only to be rebuffed by his discouraging glower, which asked with a look, Who do you think you’re fooling?

  Eddington folded his hands on the table and spoke with icy courtesy. “If I may, Miss Sito,” he said, “I’d like to offer my interpretation of your letter.” O’Brien handed him back the padd and sat back while Eddington worked. “Let’s start with who ‘Tera’ is, shall we? I’m guessing that’s your handler? Probably someone in the Ministry of Security on Bajor?” He scrolled through some more text on the padd. “‘Tell Mom and Dad that I’m okay,’” he quoted. “A reference to the Alliance, maybe? Or to a joint effort of the Obsidian Order and Imperial Intelligence? ‘Comfortable’ and ‘safe’—I presume that’s your way of telling them that we believed your cover story. You wrote that we take what we’re doing ‘really seriously.’…A warning that the rebellion is better organized than expected, perhaps?”