Proud Helios

by Melissa Scott

  "Can you get a fix on them?" Sisko demanded. He leaned forward, hands braced on her console, his gaze riveted to the screens as though he could force the alien ship to identify itself by sheer force of will.

  Dax didn't answer, too busy with her controls, letting the computer handle the secondary tasks, but directing the main probe herself, tuning the Cardassian sensors as tightly as she could. A series of telltales went from orange to green, indicating that the system had acquired its target, and she thought for a moment that she might have them, but then the lights winked out, and the alien ship vanished completely from her screens. She ran her hands across the controls again, but knew already that it was in vain. "I've lost them. They've recloaked."

  "Sir," O'Brien said. "Gift of Flight reports that the attacker has fired on them again. They took one hit, no damage, and are taking evasive action."

  "Acknowledge," Sisko said, and schooled his voice to betray none of the frustration he felt, observing this battle from a distance. "Dax?"

  "This was the attacker's position when it fired," Dax said. A second bright blue cross appeared on her screen, and she traced a line joining the two positions. It matched the projected course almost perfectly, and she felt a small, guilty thrill of pride. "I have a preliminary estimate of their speed and course, based on direct observation and on elapsed time." Her hands were working as she spoke, conjuring numbers from the computers. "You're not going to like this, Benjamin."

  "Try me."

  "If the attacker stays on this course and speed, he will overhaul Gift of Flight a full eighteen minutes before Ganges reaches transporter range."

  "Damn." Sisko stared at the screen, the intersecting courses, and the numbers that scrolled beneath them. The Xawe ship had already reported that it was making its best speed, and fin'Yrach's engineers would be doing everything in their power to coax a few more ergs of power out of their engines. But Ganges— "O'Brien, open a channel to Major Kira."

  "Aye, sir."

  An instant later, Kira's voice crackled from the speakers, her thin face vivid in the main viewscreen. "Kira here, Commander."

  "The attacking ship has fired again," Sisko said. There was no time for preliminaries, and, of all his officers, Kira was least in need of them. "We managed to get a good fix on their position, and a course projection. At present speeds, you're going to be about eighteen minutes late to your rendezvous."

  There was a little silence, and O'Brien cleared his throat. "Sir—"

  Kira interrupted before he could finish. "It must be possible to push these runabouts a little, sir. Isn't there an emergency factor?"

  "Sir," O'Brien said again. "She'll make warp four-point-seven if you push her."

  "For how long?" Sisko asked, and gave a bleak smile as he saw the realization strike Kira. The Bajoran, at least, hadn't quite thought through all the implications of emergency power.

  O'Brien fiddled with his controls, running a quick series of calculations. "Long enough," he said, after a moment. "You can reach the rendezvous and make it back to the station before any appreciable strain sets in."

  "Permission to go to emergency power," Kira said instantly. "Sir."

  Sisko looked at Dax, who nodded slowly. "That increase will bring Ganges into transporter range ten minutes before the attacker overhauls Gift of Flight. If, of course, the attacker maintains its present course and speed."

  "Sir," Kira said again.

  "Do it, Major," Sisko said.

  "Acknowledged," Kira answered, the relief plain in her expressive face before her image vanished from the screen. Numbers shifted in Dax's screens, reflecting the increased speed.

  "I can confirm the revised projection," Dax said softly. "Ganges will reach Gift of Flight first."

  If the attacker maintains its present speed, Sisko thought. And they'd have to be fools to do so—it will be obvious what we've done. But then, the cloaked ship was unusually massive, Dax had said; maybe that would restrict their speed, too. Not for the first time, he wished for a proper starship, or at least that a starship were stationed in this sector. He stared at Dax's screens, and then up at the main viewscreen, where the intersecting courses wove across dull black. Nothing yet, he thought. Maybe, just maybe, fin'Yrach will be one of the lucky ones.

  "Commander," Dax said, and Sisko turned to her instantly. "I'm picking up wave emissions now, faint but definite. I think—I'm sure it's the attacker."

  "Put it on the screen," Sisko said, and instantly a pale blue wedge appeared, tracing a line very close to the course Dax had predicted. "Speed?"

  Dax shook her head. "I'm not—no, I have it now." Her voice was suddenly very tired. "Warp seven-point-five-three, Benjamin. They'll overtake Gift of Flight with nearly thirty minutes to spare."

  "Damn," Sisko said again. He stared at the image in the viewscreen, his mind frantically juggling numbers even though he knew that the laws of celestial mechanics had already defeated him.

  "Commander," O'Brien said. "Ganges is hailing us."

  "Put it on the main screen," Sisko said. "Yes, Major?"

  Kira's face appeared again, her expression taut with an agonized fury. "Commander, we have Gift of Flight on the sensors now, and what looks like a wave source at extreme range, bearing down on us at seven-point-five."

  "I know, Major." In spite of himself, Sisko sounded immensely tired, and knew it.

  "Is there any way we can get more speed out of this thing?" Kira looked as though she wanted to hit something, was restraining herself only with an enormous effort.

  "Mr. O'Brien?" Sisko spoke without hope, already certain of the answer.

  The engineer shook his head slowly. "No." As if he felt Kira's stare accusing him, he burst out, "It's a machine, it has limits—"

  "Yes," Sisko said, cutting him off, but the abrupt voice was not without compassion. He had faced this situation before, or ones so like it as to make no difference, the absolute knowledge that there was nothing one could do to prevent a disaster, and that all one could hope to do was to salvage something from the wreckage. He had faced disaster directly, too, and that memory was ashes in his mouth, so that he had to clear his throat before he spoke again. "Mr. O'Brien, see if you can raise Gift of Flight."

  "Yes, sir," O'Brien said, his voice restored to its normal state. He worried his controls, repeated the movements, and shook his head. "Sir, they're not responding."

  "They may have taken damage," Kira said. "Let me try."

  "Wait," Sisko said. "Major, you can't reach Gift of Flight before the attacker overtakes it, but you may be able to rescue her people. Tell fin'Yrach to abandon ship—they must have lifepods of some sort. With any luck, the attacker will be more interested in the cargo than the crew, and you can pick them up once the attacker has cleared the area."

  "And if they aren't?" Kira demanded, but it was more pro forma than anything. He was right, and she knew it.

  "If they aren't," Sisko said, grimly, "it won't make any difference."

  Kira nodded. "Yes, sir," she said. "Kira out."

  CHAPTER 2

  KIRA REACHED ACROSS the console to slam her hand down on the communications controls, silencing her link with DS9. Bashir flinched back, startled, but, to her regret, made no comment. The gesture had done nothing to relieve her frustration; she would have been glad of an excuse to rage at him—and that, she reminded herself, was counterproductive, bad leadership. It had been bad leadership in the resistance, and she had conquered it then; she would not succumb to that temptation now.

  "Isn't there something we can do?" Bashir asked.

  Kira glared at him—you were here with me, you heard O'Brien—but heard her own anger in the younger man's voice. "If you can think of anything, Doctor, I'm open to suggestions."

  Bashir looked away, but not before she had seen raw pain in his eyes. It was an expression she recognized all too well, had seen before each time she had had to take new recruits out against the Cardassians, that moment when you knew absolutely and for certain that
no decision would be a good one, that no matter what you did, someone was going to die for it. Bashir, she thought, striving for her old dislike, was coming to that realization a little late. That was all. And Sisko's plan was the only chance they had of saving the Xawe crew. She braced herself to impart the bad news, and nodded to Bashir.

  "Open a channel to Gift of Flight."

  "Yes, Major."

  He sounded definitely subdued, but there was no time to worry about that. The viewscreen lit, and displayed an erratic image, the colors slightly adrift, the edges of objects faintly blurred. Fin'Yrach peered out at her.

  "This is the Federation runabout?"

  "Yes." There was no point, Kira thought, in trying to explain political subtleties now. "I'm Major Kira, commanding. Captain, we have your attacker in our sensors now, and it will overtake you before we can reach an intercept point. We're running at our absolute maximum now. Can you increase speed at all?"

  The Xawe looked back over his shoulder, the barbels twisting as he turned, and there was a musical hum of conversation that the translator did not process. "My engineer says we are already at warp five-point-two. She will try to gain more speed, but she is not confident."

  Kira bit back a curse. "All right." It probably wasn't much of a chance anyway. "My commander suggests that you stand by to abandon ship. If you take to your lifepods, the attacker may ignore you. We should be able to pick you up safely once we reach your position."

  Fin'Yrach's barbels contorted, drawing up into tiny clenched knots, then relaxed. "We have responsibility to our people for this cargo."

  "Damn the cargo," Kira began, and bit off the rest of her words. "Captain, your lives are surely equally important to your people—"

  Fin'Yrach shook his head, the barbels writhing. "There are consequences. I cannot commit to this without discussion." He turned away, cutting sound but not visuals.

  "Fine," Kira said, to the mud-colored back. But don't take too long, she added silently. We none of us have that much time. "How long does the computer say they have left?"

  Bashir studied his readouts. "If the attacker maintains its present heading and speed, they'll be in close range in seventy-nine minutes—and they'll be in transporter range in ninety."

  Kira sighed. Close range was the range at which the attacker's weaponry would definitely overwhelm Gift of Flight's shields; there was a good chance that a persistent attack would damage the Xawe ship long before that point.

  "Major," Bashir said. "It occurs to me that the attacker has no reason to spare the lifepods. The Cardassians have a reputation for ruthlessness in such matters."

  "I know." Kira controlled the urge to snap at him, to remind him that she had experienced Cardassian "ruthlessness" at first hand. He wasn't doing badly, so far; he deserved at least the consideration she would have shown a new recruit. "First, we don't know that the attacker is Cardassian. Second, we don't know the attacker's real intent. If it's only after the cargo, there's no reason to attack the crew—they must know we're in contact with the ship, so there's no need to hide evidence."

  In the viewscreen, the silent image, two Xawe huddled close over a console, barbels twisting in what was obviously a secondary level of communication, jumped abruptly. The Xawe staggered, and one of the two turned abruptly to a different console, where a third Xawe struggled with controls. Streaks of static coursed across the screen, briefly obscuring the image.

  "They've been hit," Bashir said, and Kira was startled by the desolation in his voice.

  "Wait and see what the damage is." She could see lights flickering on her own console, indicating a transmission from the station, but did not acknowledge it, waiting instead for fin'Yrach. A few moments later, the Xawe captain turned away from his officers and moved slowly forward until his image filled the viewscreen again.

  "Federation runabout, I am forced to report that we have received a direct hit on our engineering section." At the corners of his mouth, the barbels hung stiff and still; the translator's voice was too controlled, full of unvoiced pain. "My engineering crew is dead. We are reduced to impulse power, and I see no hope of escape. We have therefore decided to fight."

  "Fight?" Bashir repeated, and Kira waved him to silence.

  "Captain, we're still—" She looked down at the course plot, checking the numbers a final time. "—we're still more than two hundred minutes from your present position, and we're lightly armed at best. You can't hope to hold them off until we get there. I suggest you prepare to abandon ship."

  "No," fin'Yrach said, and the translated voice was filled with sorrow. "It is our obligation, to Anabasi and to Xawen. We will keep transmitting as long as possible, so that you can record all information about this pirate."

  "If they're pirates, they want only your cargo," Kira said, through clenched teeth. "Let them have it, save your lives."

  "It is a matter of responsibility," fin'Yrach answered. Improbably, his barbels twitched again, curling into something Kira interpreted as a smile. "Remember us to Xawen."

  "Captain—" Kira stopped as the image vanished, and was replaced by an empty star-scape. Unfamiliar symbols flickered at the bottom of the screen, wriggling past like the Xawe's barbels.

  "We're receiving a direct feed from their sensor lens," Bashir said. "I'm recording everything."

  "Good," Kira said, and reached across him to acknowledge the transmission from DS9. "Kira here."

  "Major." Sisko's voice held a blend of concern and anger. "Why didn't you respond?"

  "Sorry, sir," Kira said, and knew she didn't sound particularly repentant. She stared down at Sisko's face, framed in a secondary viewscreen. "We've just received a transmission from Gift of Flight. They suffered a direct hit on their engines, and are reduced to impulse power."

  Sisko blinked, but made no other movement. "Yes, our sensors picked up a sudden drop from warp," he said. "We haven't been able to raise them. Tell Captain fin'Yrach that his people are to abandon ship."

  Kira shook her head. "I already told fin'Yrach that, sir. He says they're going to fight."

  Sisko's eyes narrowed. "Can't you talk him out of it? He doesn't stand a chance—none of them do, not in a fire-fight."

  "I tried," Kira said. "They've channeled all their sensor input through to us, we're recording it now. He's cut all other transmissions."

  "All right, Major." Sisko took a deep breath. "Proceed at all possible speed to rendezvous with Gift of Flight. If they do manage to make a fight of it, there may be survivors. Bring them back, Major, any way you can."

  "Yes, sir." Kira hesitated. "If there's anything left to bring back." She closed the channel before Sisko could answer. She was aware of Bashir watching her, eyes wide, his expression torn between protest at her treatment of a superior and reluctant agreement. She made herself ignore him, brought the intercept numbers onto her working screen, and ran the calculations again, just in case she had overlooked something. The answer flashed back almost at once: exactly the same, nothing overlooked. Ganges would reach Gift of Flight—or whatever would be left of it—nearly two hours after the attacker overhauled it, far too late to do anything except pick up the pieces.

  Bashir said, "My God. It's—" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head, swallowing whatever else he would have said. "I'm going to check my equipment," he said, in a choked, unfamiliar voice. "Excuse me, Major."

  Kira let him go, heard the soft chirps of a data-pad as he moved around the main compartment, but did not look back. She could give him at least that much privacy: she knew what he would have said—It's unfair, it's not right—and she understood all too well the helpless anger. Maybe it was good for him, would do him good to see that the Federation doesn't win all the time, she told herself, but the thought was perfunctory, the old anger missing. The only person to be blamed here was the attacker, whether it was Cardassian or something else. And I promise you, she vowed silently, her eyes fixed on the empty screen, the blank starscape that was the image from Gift of Flight's sensors.
I promise you, fin'Yrach, we'll get whoever did this. I'll save your people, any of them that survive, and I will see this killer ship utterly destroyed.

  Bashir returned to his place some minutes later. Kira glanced once in his direction, and looked away, but not before she'd seen the angry scowl. Good, she thought, you'll need that anger, it'll give you the edge you need. She said, "What are the current positions?"

  Bashir scowled at her, but controlled whatever he would have said. "I'm putting them on your screen, Major. The attacker is just coming into standard phaser range."

  The ex-resistance fighter nodded in grudging approval—Bashir was doing his job, and better than she had expected him to—but she said only, "Can you get a better fix on the attacker?"

  "All I have to work with is the wave emissions," Bashir answered. "They are—very imprecise, Major. This is the best I can do."

  Kira sighed. The viewscreen still showed empty space, the unreadable Xawe characters still flickering past at high speed. The minutes ticked by, slow agony. The ship's in range, she thought, why don't they attack? She knew the answer perfectly well, of course—the attacker, whoever it was, wanted to be certain of inflicting as much damage as possible on its first salvo, to put Gift of Flight out of commission quickly so that they could loot at their leisure—but the knowledge didn't make the waiting any easier. She kept imagining the scene on the Gift of Flight's bridge, fin'Yrach and his people gathered there, perhaps to try and orchestrate repairs, perhaps hoarding their power to make their hopeless retaliation as effective as possible, perhaps preparing for near-certain death in some unimaginable way. It was too painful, too much a reminder of her own past, of similar situations that she had miraculously, guiltily, survived, and she put the image firmly from her mind.

  "Dr. Bashir—"

  She never knew what she would have said to break the silence. The image in the viewscreen shimmered then, the familiar distortion effect of a starship uncloaking, and, quite suddenly, the attacker hung before them, caught in the Xawe ship's sensors. Even without anything to give it scale, it looked huge, the hulking, ungainly shape studded with angular projections—a Klingon hull, Kira thought, striving for perspective, and those look like Cardassian phaser emplacements, but the rest of it…The ship looked as though it had been cobbled together from a dozen different technologies, without regard to aesthetics, or perhaps according to an alien, brutalist sense of form and function. Most of the hull was bare metal, or painted only in pale grey primer, fresh welds showing stark against the dulled background. Only the central projection, rising up out of the center of the hull like a tower—the bridge? Kira thought—was painted, a solar face, grim, unsmiling, humanoid, looking out from the towering metal.