Proud Helios

by Melissa Scott

  "If that meets with your approval, Major," Sisko said.

  Kira bit back her angry response, aware that she had deserved the reprimand. "Sir," she said, and moved to join Tama. The smuggler edged sideways without glancing up, and she stared at the complicated image spread out on his double screen. In the left-hand screen, Helios hung at the center of a web that she recognized as a schematic representation of its shields and sensor pattern; the right hand screen showed the same image, but in this one a blue triangle appeared and disappeared apparently at random in the spherical web.

  "That's the scan window," Tama said. "I've been trying to come up with a pattern, but it seems to be genuinely random."

  "What about your Trojan horse?" Odo asked.

  "I'm still looking for an opening," Tama answered.

  "Commander," Bashir broke in. "Transmission from the station."

  "Put in on my viewer." Sisko swung to face the communications screen as it unfolded. Kira glanced over her shoulder to see Dax's face taking shape in the little display.

  "I'm afraid it's bad news, Ben," Dax said without preamble.

  Kira couldn't see Sisko's face, but the commander's voice was even more expressionless when he answered. "Go ahead."

  "The Cardassian fleet has gone to its top speed," Dax said. "They'll be in battle range in one hour."

  "All right," Sisko said, after a barely perceptible pause. "Keep tracking them, Dax, and inform me the minute they enter this system. Sisko out." He turned back to face the others, his face smoothing to something like his usual expression, but not before Kira had caught a glimpse of the anger and determination that was hidden below the surface calm. "Now. Let's get that program installed."

  * * *

  O'Brien hauled himself out of the tube that gave access to the interior of the cloaking device, and stood, brushing shards of glass-like fused fiber from his gloves and uniform. Jarriel did the same, and stood picking pieces of bloodied fiber out of a rip in his left glove. O'Brien watched him without sympathy, and said, "That's beyond repair, and I think you know it."

  For a moment, he thought Jarriel wasn't going to answer, but then the other engineer said, "The projector took serious damage, and we couldn't risk shutting it down. When it finally blew, the explosion flashed back into the main compartment. Two of my techs were killed."

  That would explain it, O'Brien thought, and swallowed hard, tasting bile. He looked back over his shoulder at the access tube. The air smelled faintly of burned components, and other, less pleasant things; the smell had been worse in the crawl space, and the thick walls still held the heat of the flash fire. The circuits were mostly gone, or so charred as to be useless. It would take a fully equipped dry dock a month and a few dozen square meters of the millimetrically calibrated replacement boards even to begin to repair the damage. The floorplates below the mouth of the tube glittered with shards of fused fiber, like a rain of rainbowcolored ice.

  "Well, Jarriel?"

  That was Kolovzon's voice, and O'Brien turned slowly, hiding his hatred of the Trehanna. The captain was flanked by a phaser-wielding guard, and O'Brien made himself relax. This was not the time, not yet. . . .

  "How are the repairs going?"

  Jarriel shrugged, his thin face for once unguarded, revealing his exhaustion.

  "We need the cloaking device," Kolovzon said. "And we need it now." He waved his escort away, out of earshot, and O'Brien tensed, judging distances and angles. No, not yet, he told himself, wait for it… Kolovzon went on, in a lowered voice, "Gul Dukat's fleet is moving in. He'll be in range to open fire in an hour."

  O'Brien laughed in spite of himself, and Jarriel gave him a quick, warning glance. O'Brien ignored him, said, "You should've expected that, Captain." He gave the title an unpleasant emphasis, and was glad to see Kolovzon frown. "You didn't think they were just going to let you walk away, did you? Not the Cardassians. And by God I think I've finally met people who deserve what the Cardassians will do to them."

  "Let me remind you," Kolovzon said, through clenched teeth, "that your precious Deep Space Nine is in the middle of the battle zone." He took a deep breath, and continued in his usual tone, "So, the sooner you and Jarriel get these repairs done—particularly the cloaking device—the sooner all danger to your station and your family will be ended."

  "That piece of junk won't be fixed short of dry dock," O'Brien said, and gestured to the access tube. "If then. So if I were you, Kolovzon, I'd start running now. That's your only chance."

  "You will fix it," Kolovzon said, and O'Brien laughed.

  "Not me, Kolovzon. And not anybody on this ship."

  Kolovzon reached beneath his tunic, came up with a small and vicious-looking phaser. He pointed it at O'Brien's head, then, slowly and deliberately, lowered his aim until it was centered on the engineer's gut. "This is a very adjustable weapon," he said, almost conversationally. "And even these days, a belly wound can be a slow and very painful way to die. Particularly if you don't get medical attention quickly, or at all. It would be a shame, with so many miracles being worked by the Federation's doctors, to die this way barely a stone's throw from help."

  O'Brien held his ground, suddenly aware that he'd gone too far. He took a slow breath, searching for words that might help him out of this situation, and Kolovzon gestured with the phaser to the mouth of the access tube. "Now, get to work."

  "I can't fix it," O'Brien said. "It can't be fixed."

  Kolovzon's hand tightened on the phaser, and O'Brien braced himself for the searing pain. Then Jarriel stepped between them, blocking Kolovzon's shot. The Trehanna snarled wordlessly, and Jarriel said, "Demaree. I told you myself it could not be repaired."

  There was a little silence, O'Brien holding his breath, and then Kolovzon relaxed slightly. Jarriel said, "We'll concentrate on the things that can be mended."

  Kolovzon nodded, reluctantly, his great eyes still fixed on O'Brien. "All right," he said, through clenched teeth. "All right. For now."

  O'Brien watched him walk away, aware that his own hands were shaking. He folded his arms to hide the trembling, said, in a voice that he barely recognized as his own, "So, is it true about the Cardassians?"

  "Oh, it's true," Jarriel said, grimly. "But that's the least of your worries, kurin."

  O'Brien ignored him, mind racing. If the Cardassians were on their way in force—and Gul Dukat would do nothing less—then DS9 was in mortal danger. Dukat would like nothing better than an excuse to destroy the station, the only Federation presence in the area, and even if Kolovzon kept his word and moved away from his current position, it was more than likely that Dukat would take the excuse to fire on the poorly defended station. O'Brien sighed. He had no illusions about his own chances, had known from the minute he'd awakened in Helios's cells that his chances of survival were small indeed. But the station—and Keiko and Molly…It would be worth the loss of his own life if he could somehow save them. And if that meant helping Jarriel repair this ship, so that it could meet the Cardassians on a more even footing…so be it. O'Brien nodded to himself, mind made up at last. "All right, Jarriel," he said. "Let's see what we can do with your engines."

  * * *

  Bashir frowned at the chains of numbers filling his screen, flickering past in an ever-changing sequence. They came tantalizingly close to forming a recognizable pattern, something that he had seen before, in training…Kira leaned close above him, but he was barely aware of her presence, so caught up was he in the evolving sequence. He had seen this pattern before, at the Academy, on one of the older machines, and in that instant he was sure he knew where the break would come.

  "I've got it," he said aloud, and stabbed at the membrane, freezing the pattern at its most vulnerable point. "There."

  Tama grunted agreement, hunched over his own keyboard, his fingers flying as he adjusted Carabas's computers to transmit the Trojan horse to Helios's sensors. If he had calculated right, Bashir knew, the pirate would accept the program as one more piece of data, brought i
n through the constantly shifting sensor windows that pierced the deflectors. If he was wrong—It didn't bear thinking about.

  "We're queued," Tama said.

  "Stand by," Bashir said, his full attention fixed on the screen in front of him. "The window will open—now."

  "Transmitting," Tama said.

  Bashir held his breath. His memory was good, and this particular pattern had nearly beaten him, back at the Academy, it should have been burned into his memory as a result—but he could have gotten it wrong. He pushed aside that unworthy thought—he knew how good his memory was, just short of eidetic—but it took all his strength of will not to drum his fingers on the edge of the console.

  "Well?" Kira demanded.

  "Still transmitting," Tama answered. "No, they've taken it. They've accepted the program."

  Bashir grinned, and Sisko said, "Well done, Doctor. You have unexpected talents."

  "Yes," Kira said, and tapped him on the shoulder. "I thought you were a doctor, not a hacker."

  Bashir nodded, but his pleasure faded quickly. "So what do we do now, Commander?"

  "We wait for them to try to use their shields," Sisko said. "Assuming the program works, you and Tama will find O'Brien and transport him aboard. Then we return to the station."

  "Always assuming Helios doesn't decide to stop us," Möhrlein muttered.

  Sisko glanced at him. "I think they'll have other things to worry about, Möhrlein."

  "As may we," Odo said. He sounded, Bashir thought, almost as though he relished the prospect.

  "The Cardassians," Sisko began, and a tone sounded from his console. The communications screen unfolded, and Dax's face appeared in its center.

  "Dax to Carabas."

  Sisko swung back to face the screen. "Sisko here."

  "Sir, the Cardassian fleet is coming into phaser range now."

  "Damn." Sisko glared at the screen. "Warn them off, Dax. Remind them that this is Bajoran space, under Federation protection, and they've no right to interfere."

  "Shall I tell them we still have people on board Helios?" the Trill asked.

  "Try it," Sisko said. "If Dukat doesn't respond, take DS9 to battle stations and put up all the deflectors. Don't fire unless you're attacked first, but if you're fired on, you have my full permission to retaliate as you see fit."

  "Yes, sir," Dax said reluctantly. "Benjamin, if we raise the shields, there's nothing we can do to protect Carabas—we won't even be able to take her into the docking rings once the outer deflectors are in place."

  "I know that, Dax," Sisko said. For an instant, Bashir thought, it was as though there were no other people in Carabas's cabin, or in Ops, as though the two old friends spoke only to each other. "But the station comes first. Deep Space Nine and the people aboard are to be protected at any cost—and that includes Carabas, Dax. You know that."

  "I do," Dax said, quite softly. She held Sisko's gaze for a moment longer, then dipped her head in acknowledgment. "Very good, Commander. I'll attempt to warn off the Cardassian fleet, and go to red alert if Dukat doesn't respond."

  "Thank you, Dax," Sisko said. "Carabas out." He looked around the crowded cabin, gathering his people with his eyes. "All right. If everything goes to plan, Helios should be trying to raise her shields at any moment. And that is our only chance to rescue O'Brien. Kira, man the transporter. Beam him away the second you lock on. Bashir, Tama, keep scanning the pirate—try the cells and the engineering sections first, but keep looking. Bashir, you know what to look for."

  Bashir nodded, his mouth suddenly, embarrassingly, dry. He had brought O'Brien's latest medical scan, had already set the sensors to scan for that pattern, but now at the moment of truth he was abruptly uncertain of himself. Suppose he'd gotten it wrong—suppose he'd set Carabas's sensors badly, or failed to produce a workable dataset out of the incredible detail of the medical scan? For God's sake, he was a doctor—and a Starfleet officer, he reminded himself firmly, and touched his communicator lightly for the reassurance. He was a Starfleet officer, and he had done his best. That was all he could do. He saw Tama looking at him, a wry smile twisting his wide mouth, and somehow summoned a smile of his own in response.

  "The Cardassian fleet is in range of the station," Möhrlein reported. "The station is hailing them."

  "Can you pick it up?" Sisko asked.

  "No, it's tight-beamed," the smuggler answered. "There's no response from the flagship."

  "Keep me informed," Sisko said.

  CHAPTER 12

  "THE CARDASSIANS are still moving in," Möhrlein reported. "I count three, no, four, ships. Two frigates and a heavy cruiser; the fourth's a scout, and she's falling behind."

  "Range?" Sisko asked.

  "Coming up on phaser range," Möhrlein answered.

  Sisko nodded, watching the viewscreen. The Cardassian ships were just visible at standard magnification, sleek bright shapes moving fast against the stars. By comparison, Helios looked battered and ungainly, Leviathan turning at bay to face a pack of wolves.

  "The lead frigate is in phaser range now," Möhrlein reported.

  "Helios is trying to boost its shields," Tama announced, and gave a whoop of glee. "And the deflectors are down. It worked, damn it."

  "Get on it, Bashir," Sisko ordered. "Find O'Brien and lock on."

  The young man didn't answer, bent close over his console, his face drawn in fierce concentration. Patterns and symbols flickered in his screen, but he ignored them, searching for a single life-form among the pirate's crew. "Nothing in the cells," he said, after a moment.

  "Try engineering," Sisko said.

  "Sir." Bashir touched his controls, adjusting the scanners' focus. "Nothing so far—and I'm getting interference."

  "They're trying to raise their deflectors," Tama said.

  "How long?" Sisko asked.

  "Maybe another two minutes, maybe three," Tama answered.

  "The lead frigate has gone to battle status," Möhrlein said. "I don't think we've got three minutes."

  "Bashir?" Sisko asked.

  "Still nothing," the doctor answered. "No, wait, I'm picking up something, it might be him—" His voice trailed off as he bent over the controls, as though he could feel O'Brien's presence in the warmth of the membrane board beneath his fingers.

  "Open a channel to the flagship," Sisko ordered. "Try the cruiser first."

  "The channel's open," Möhrlein answered, "but I'm not getting an acknowledgment."

  Sisko ignored him, fixed his eyes on the communications screen as it unfolded for him. There was almost no chance that Gul Dukat would pay attention to his protest, or even respond, but anything that could delay their attack, even by seconds, might give them a chance to save O'Brien. "Gul Dukat," he said aloud, and did his best to project a threat he could not easily muster, a sense of the Federation's power waiting to back up his words. "This is Commander Sisko. I warn you, you are trespassing in Bajoran space. I suggest that you turn back at once to Cardassian territory." He paused, waiting for a response or for some further inspiration to strike, but the screen remained obstinately blank, as though he were talking to a mirror. "Sisko out."

  "No answer," Möhrlein said, softly.

  * * *

  Bashir swept the sensors across the ship once again, beams probing for the one particular pattern that would be O'Brien. For a long moment there was nothing, just the wavering multicolored static, and then the screen strobed, the numbers leaping out at him. "I think I've got him," Bashir said, and touched keys to lock the fix. "Yes, I'm sure of it." He swung in his couch, eyes wild. "Kira, I'm passing the coordinates—"

  "Got them," Kira answered. Her hands danced over the pad. "Damn it, Bashir, I'm losing him, can't you give me anything more?"

  "I'm trying—" Bashir broke off, stabbed at the console as the lines wavered and began to fade. "I'm at maximum now. . . ."

  "Helios is underway," Möhrlein said.

  "She'll have shields up in less than a minute," Tama said.

 
In the main screen and in his own smaller readout, the massive ship swung on its long axis, turning its torn side away from the oncoming Cardassians. The solar face turned toward the invisible wormhole, as though searching for its source.

  "Dukat," Sisko said, "I warn you—" He broke off. "Transport him now, Major."

  "I don't have him," Kira protested. "I'm not sure—"

  "Do it, Kira," Sisko said. "There's no more time."

  The Bajoran took a deep breath, and slapped her hand over the light bars, drawing them down into the energize position. The beam flared briefly, empty. Kira's mobile face contorted, and she touched more keys, slaving the transporter signal to the main sensors, then tried again. It was a risky maneuver, Bashir knew, even with Starfleet equipment, and he reached for his controls to try to help. The sensors were designed to provide a different input, and using them to direct the transporter beam risked scrambling its signal, but there was no choice, no other chance of rescuing O'Brien…The transporter hummed, its beam thickening to a brilliant swirl of light, far brighter than the new systems aboard DS9. A shadow appeared, a kneeling man, and Kira gave a little cry of satisfaction. Then it flickered out again, and Bashir swore, numbed by the sudden sense of failure.

  "Bashir!" Kira cried.

  "Reverse the field," he said, and held his breath. That was even more dangerous than slaving the transporter to the sensors, a last resort, used only when there was no other chance of retrieving the pattern.

  "Reversing," Kira said, and her voice betrayed the same fear and incipient despair.

  The transporter hum deepened, the light seeming to thicken momentarily, and then the kneeling man reappeared. The shape hung for a second between solidity and translucence, and then, with shocking suddenness, took full form. O'Brien knelt on the pad, hands outstretched as though to something on the platform in front of him. He looked around, visibly taking in his surroundings, and Bashir saw him draw a deep breath.

  "Bloody rough ride," he said at last, and his tone was less certain than his words. "You left that to the last minute, sir."