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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
PROLOGUE
THE SHIP SWUNG SLOWLY in its hidden orbit, matching the course of the local moon, shadowed by that greater shadow. Power output had been pared to the bone, only the cloaking device fully operational; within the armored hull, in the crew's quarters and on the dimly lit bridge, the air was stale, and cold. The captain bent, intent, over the tabletop sensor display, watching the lights that were the Cardassian battle fleet as it swept through the system. He had timed their passage carefully, aligned his own orbit to keep his ship perfectly concealed from their sensors. As long as the cloaking device worked—and it would, or he would know why—they were safe; even so, he kept his eyes on the screen, and his crew huddled in the forward section of the bridge, giving him a wide berth, until the last Cardassian ship had shrunk to a mere pinpoint on the screen. Only then did he lean back, working his shoulders—the long wait, and the unacknowledged tension, had tired his back—and motioned to his first officer, waiting at the command console.
"Bring us back on line."
The first officer nodded, her hands already busy on the controls, and there was a sound like a sigh as life-support whirred back up to full capacity. The lights flickered on a moment later, and the navigator leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands together against the cold. "Course, sir?"
The captain looked at him for a long moment, long enough to make the navigator shudder, certain he'd gone too far, and then the captain turned away, crossed to the plotting table. At his gesture, the first officer rose to her feet and came to join him, stood respectfully silent at his elbow until he deigned to speak.
"We've made the Cardassian reaches a little hot for us," he said, and the first officer gave a slight, ironic smile in answer.
"Ten ships in as many months," she said. "It has attracted attention."
The captain returned the smile, but his eyes were on the plotting table. "Traffic in the Bajor Sector has increased significantly in the past year."
"The wormhole," the first officer answered, and shrugged. "Everyone wants to be in on the opening of the Gamma Quadrant."
"So do I," the captain said.
The first officer frowned. "That's Federation space—"
"I know," the captain said, and the first officer went abruptly silent, braced for the explosion. To her surprise, it never came. "But here and here—" The captain's hand reached out and into the illusion of space re-created on the plotting table, drew a pair of intersecting lines just on the Cardassian side of the invisible border between Cardassian and Federation space. "I've been analyzing local traffic. The border isn't well defined, a lot of Federation shipping slips over into Cardassian space here—one might call it a shortcut, I suppose. But we can take them there, and still remain in Cardassian space."
The first officer studied the image for a moment, her face carefully neutral in the reflected light. "The Cardassians will still be hunting us. May I remind you that Gul Dukat wants your head and several other parts of your anatomy served to him on a gilded tray?"
The captain laughed. "They haven't caught us yet."
"They haven't really tried." The first officer looked for a moment as though she wanted to bite back the words, but the captain laughed again, and she relaxed slightly. "And the Federation?"
The captain touched keys on the edge of the plotting table, conjured up a new image, a star system, and then, at its edge, a shape like some strange sea creature, a disk within a ring that held three curved pylons. "Their presence hardly matters. There are no starships in the vicinity, no planetary bases. A single space station—what can it do, to stop us—to stop Helios?"
He walked away to stand over the navigator's shoulder, gave him the course and watched the Andorian key it in. The first officer stared for a moment longer at the plotting table, and the space station displayed above it, then shook her head, and turned away. The image remained, rotating almost imperceptibly against the illusory starfield.
CHAPTER 1
COMMANDER BENJAMIN SISKO stared in some bemusement at the report flashing on his desk screen. He wasn't sure that he'd seen that particular set of Cardassian characters before, or the scrolling band of—was it really decoration?—that seemed to accompany it, but the message from his own software was perfectly clear, and one he couldn't remember seeing since he had taken command of Deep Space Nine. His schedule, for the next four hours, until the end of his working day, was completely clear. He considered it for a moment, thinking of baseball, of an afternoon game played in the holosuite, and pushed himself to his feet. He went to the office door and looked out and down, already framing his request to Dax—she would understand his need to take a brief rest, to spend some unscheduled time with Jake, and maybe keep him away from that blasted Nog—and stopped abruptly, staring down into Ops. The space was all but deserted, only a single Bajoran technician busy at the engineering station. Sisko's face drew into a sudden frown. And not that busy, either: if he wasn't very much mistaken, there was a game, one of Quark's sleight-of-hand games, playing on the technician's screen. Neither Dax nor O'Brien was anywhere in sight.
Sisko's frown deepened, and he came down the short flight of steps into Ops. The Bajoran technician heard his footsteps and turned hastily, one hand fumbling with the controls to abort his game. Sisko drew breath to point out the Bajoran's error—one did not play video games on duty, not on Sisko's watch—when the turbolift rose into Ops, and the science officer emerged. Sisko looked at her, at the sudden, spontaneous smile that formed on Jadzia Dax's face as she recognized what had happened, and was not amused.
"And where the hell is everyone?" he asked.
"Chief O'Brien is on the Promenade working on the modifications to Garak's tailoring equipment, Major Kira is escorting some visiting Bajorans on a tour of the station, and I—" Dax's smile widened even further, became at once good-humored and conspiratorial. "I have been playing truant, Benjamin. I confess. I've been borrowing computer time for a project, and I stopped in to check on its progress." She did not sound in the least repentant.
Sisko sighed, and admitted to himself that he was angry primarily because his crew had beaten him to the punch. Still, this was no way to run a space station—and if he himself was succumbing to temptation, it was definitely time to shake things up a bit. "I think we need to talk, Dax," he said, and turned back up the stairs to his office. Dax followed him, still smiling slightly.
Sisko seated himself behind his desk, waited until Dax had seated herself opposite him. "We're getting slack," he said, and saw Dax's smile widen.
"I'm not sure that that's the problem, Benjamin," the Trill answered. "Or even a problem. The fact that we've finally got the station running at something close to Starfleet standards seems to me to be something of a cause for celebration."
"And I agree," Sisko said. "In principle, anyway. But I'm not pleased to come out of my office and find Ops deserted, and the one tech still on duty playing video games." Dax was watching him steadily, an all too familiar expression in her dark eyes, and for an instant Sisko thought he could see the ghost of the former host looking
out from behind the mask of Jadzia's face. It was at times like this that he understood, not just intellectually, but emotionally too, that Dax was truly three hundred years old, and alien—and, he admitted silently, a good and honest friend. "And, yes, I suppose I'm annoyed because I would have liked to take the afternoon off myself."
"I can take over for you, Benjamin," Dax said. Her expression didn't change, but Sisko thought he heard a fleeting note of approval in her voice.
Sisko hesitated, tempted—it had been a long time, too long, since he'd felt that things were enough under control even to contemplate taking an unscheduled holiday—but shook his head, not bothering to hide his regret. "I know. And I appreciate the offer. But there are still a few things I need to do."
"Such as?"
"The Bajoran delegation," Sisko answered promptly. "And I'd like to see how far ahead O'Brien is with the repair schedule. And—" He smiled suddenly, the expression lighting up his rather somber face. "And I intend to draft a notice to all station personnel, to remind them of the procedures that are to be followed if they have to leave their stations. It really won't do, Dax. We can't afford to get careless."
"I do agree, Benjamin." Dax tilted her head to one side, the mottling on her temple just below the hairline suddenly vivid in the office's lights. "I don't like to suggest it, but I suppose we should consider running some surprise exercises."
"If I had suggested that," Sisko said, "you would have called it malice."
Dax nodded, not quite suppressing her smile. "That's why I suggested it."
Sisko grinned, acknowledging the point. "I admit, I'm not eager to do it—I've been enjoying the peace and quiet as much as anyone aboard. My God, this will be the first time since Starfleet took over that we've had the leisure even to think of relaxing. But we can't afford to get slack."
"Shall I—"
Sisko shook his head. "No, I'll take care of it, Dax. If I'm going to break up everyone else's rest, I should at least have the grace to do the work myself."
"As you wish, Commander." Dax levered herself easily out of her chair. "I'll leave you to it, then."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Sisko began, but his words were interrupted by the sudden shrilling of an alarm in Ops. "What—?" He froze for a fraction of a second, automatically assessing—not environmental failure, not hull damage, not a threat to the reactors—and then thrust himself away from his desk. The technician was already at the communications console, all business now, video game forgotten, his hands delicate on the controls.
"What is it?" Sisko demanded, and came down the short flight of stairs to stare over the technician's shoulder. The Bajoran looked up for a second, acknowledging Sisko's presence, but his attention returned instantly to his controls. "Commander, I'm picking up a subspace distress call, very faint. I'm trying to boost the pickup."
"I'll take it through my console," Dax said, and the technician nodded, willingly relinquishing the controls.
Sisko watched just long enough to be sure that Dax had taken over, and stepped to the intercom. "Go to yellow alert. Major Kira, report to Ops at once. Chief O'Brien, report to Ops at once." He looked back at the multiple screens. "Well, Dax?"
"It's a distress call, all right," Dax answered, her eyes fixed on her screen. "Not automated—and not Federation, I'm fairly sure. I'm trying to get a clean signal to put it on the main viewscreen."
Sisko nodded, knowing better than to press her further, no matter how much he wanted to, and the turbolift rose into sight, carrying the chief of operations.
"Trouble, sir?" O'Brien asked, and took his place at the engineering console.
"We're receiving a distress call from an unidentified ship," Sisko said. O'Brien nodded, but Sisko was pleased to see that he kept his eyes on the station controls, automatically checking system status. It was a small thing, but one of the reasons he was glad to have O'Brien on board.
"Where is it? Can the runabouts reach it, do you think?" O'Brien asked.
Sisko looked at Dax. "We don't know yet, Chief—"
"I have it, sir," Dax interrupted. "I've routed it through the tactical scanners to boost the signal."
"Put it on the main screen," Sisko ordered. Behind him, he heard the turbolift hiss softly, but did not turn his head as Kira took her place at the operations table. He fixed his eyes on the main screen instead, staring as the image slowly swam into focus. It was streaked with static, but the picture was plain enough: an alien, an amphibian by the look of him—her?—with mud-colored skin and half a dozen fleshy barbels at the corners of its wide, lipless mouth, looked back at him from the bridge of an unfamiliar starship. From the arrangement of the consoles, and the unmatched gear of the crew people visible behind the speaker, Sisko guessed that it was not a military ship, but he didn't recognize the makers.
"—ship Gift of Flight," the alien who spoke—he or she did not belong to any of the species Sisko knew by sight—was saying. "We are under attack from an unknown vessel, request any assistance possible. I repeat, we are under attack and require assistance."
"Can you open a channel to the ship?" Sisko asked.
O'Brien answered, "Aye, sir. I'm working on it."
Sisko nodded. "Dax, can you identify him?"
"Yes, Commander." Dax touched keys, brought a file onto her working screen. "According to the computer, he's a Xawe—they're an independent race, with a couple of colonies on the Cardassian border of this sector. Xawen hasn't joined the Federation yet, though there are perennial negotiations."
"I've never heard of them," Kira said.
"The Xawe keep pretty much to themselves," Dax answered. "They don't engage in much commerce, but when they do…" She looked at Sisko, her face very serious.
Sisko nodded. "But when they do, their ships are heavily laden. And rich pickings. I remember them now." In the background, the Xawe captain's voice droned on, repeating his appeal. "See if you can get a fix on the ship, Dax. O'Brien, have you got a channel open yet?"
"No—yes, sir." O'Brien looked down at his console. "Open now."
Sisko faced the screen image, locking eyes with the Xawe captain. "This is Commander Benjamin Sisko, in command of the Federation space station Deep Space Nine. We are receiving your distress call, how may we be of assistance?"
"A space station—?" The Xawe's barbels writhed, a gesture that Sisko could only read as anger and despair. The Universal Translator added the same tones to the hoarse voice. "We are under attack, Commander, we need military assistance."
"What's your position?" Sisko asked, and the Xawe's barbels twisted again.
"I am not familiar with Federation mapping conventions—"
"I have a fix on them, sir," Dax interrupted. "There's no sign of another ship in the area."
"We have you on our sensors, Captain," Sisko said, in what he hoped would be a reassuring tone, and looked at Dax. "Well, where are they?"
"They're just inside the Federation's borders," the science officer answered. She touched controls, and a two-dimensional map appeared, superimposed on the lower corner of the main screen.
Sisko studied it, said aloud, "Captain, what's your top speed?"
"We can make warp five if we have to," the Xawe answered. The barbels curled inward, and the translator tinged his voice with grim humor. "We are doing warp five now."
Sisko nodded. "Still no sign of the other ship?" he asked.
Dax shook her head. "But if it's cloaked—"
Which would mean the attacker's a Klingon, Sisko thought, or maybe a Romulan. Or someone who trades with them. He shook the thought away as unproductive, fixed his eyes on the screen. "Captain, come to course—" He looked down at his own console, touched keys to slave his screen to the map on the main viewer. "—one-nine-six mark fourteen. That puts you on the most direct route for the station. Proceed at your best speed—"
"Warp five," the Xawe interjected.
"That'll still take him six hours," Kira whispered, as much to herself as to any of the others. Sisko
glanced at her, startled, to see her eyes locked on the Xawe's image, her mobile face set in an expression almost of anguish.
"We don't have that much time, Commander," the Xawe said. He looked down at his console, out of sight below the edge of the viewscreen, and his barbels twitched again. "We will proceed as you suggest, course one-nine-six mark fourteen, but we are only lightly armed. If the ship attacks again, we will surely be disabled."
In the background, Sisko could see the crew moving to obey the new orders, could see red lights flicker across one console—engineering, perhaps?—before one of the other Xawe did something to the control board and the red faded again. "I understand, Captain," Sisko said. I understand only too well, I've been in your shoes, and I never want to be there again, or to see anyone else faced with those choices—He clamped down hard on those memories. They weren't important now; what was important was to find out what he could about this invisible attacker, so he could save other ships, if not Gift of Flight. He said, faintly surprised to find his voice so steady, "What information can you give us about your attacker, Captain—?"
"I understand," the Xawe said, and Sisko was suddenly perfectly sure that he did. "I—my name is Arrishan fin'Yrach, and my ship is called Gift of Flight. Remember us to Xawen if all goes ill."
"I will," Sisko said. But I'll be damned if I'll give up without a fight. Too bad the Defiant is at Utopia Planitia for repairs.
Again, the Xawe seemed to read his thoughts. The barbels curled again, and fin'Yrach said, "I'm afraid I don't have much data on our attacker, Commander. The ship is large, and travels cloaked; our sensors cannot follow it at all. We came under fire as we crossed the border into the Bajor Sector, photon torpedoes and phasers both—very powerful phasers. We took evasive action, fired three of our own torpedoes, and ran. The ship disappeared again, but it is following. We have seen it uncloak half a dozen times, and we have been fired on repeatedly. We are continuing evasive action."
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