Star Trek - DS9 Relaunch 04 - Gateways - 4 of 7 - Demons Of Air And Darkness

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  "Where is that?"

  "The computer can direct you."

  "What computer?"

  Ezri quickly described the shortest route from this section of the Habitat Ring to the infirmary, then moved on.

  The next door: "Where's the kitchen?"

  "These quarters have food replicators."

  "What're they?"

  Sighing, Ezri tried not to dwell on the irony of ex­plaining the concept of food replicators to someone who lived in a society that relied on them.

  "Oh, okay. So how do I cook food, then?"

  Ezri explained the concept a second time, which seemed to take, and she took her leave.

  The next door: "The lights are too bright."

  Next: "These beds are terrible!"

  Next: "I can't get the sonic shower to work."

  Next: "The lights are too dark."

  Next was Ms. Bello, a small, timid-looking woman who said, "Lieutenant, someone stole my necklace."

  Before Ms. Bello could elaborate, some insensitive jackass cried out, "How could you let someone steal your necklace? Why were you wearing a necklace anyhow? You knew you'd be crowded in with a bunch of other people and going to a space station! Any idiot knows to keep an eye on your belongings when you come to a space station like this! I can't believe you'd be so completely idiotic!"

  Ezri realized two things as this diatribe went on. One was that Ensign Gordimer had just turned the comer. The other was that the insensitive jackass was in fact Ezri herself.

  "Lieutenant," Gordimer said quickly, "are you okay?"

  Catching her breath, feeling like the most horrible person who ever walked the halls of the station, Ezri said, "Yes, I'm fine. Can you do me a favor, Ensign? This woman has had some jewelry stolen. Can you take her statement?"

  "Of course, Lieutenant," Gordimer said quickly.

  Turning to the small woman, who looked like she wanted desperately to curl herself up into a ball, she said, "I'm very, very sorry, Ms. Bello. My behavior was completely uncalled for."

  Ms. Bello simply flinched and nodded.

  Gordimer gave a reassuring smile. "I promise we'll try to get to the bottom of this theft, ma'am."

  Again, she flinched. Ezri decided to get the hell away from the woman before she did any more damage.

  / desperately need a break, she thought, wondering if perhaps Dr. Renhol didn't have a point.

  No, that's silly. I've been dashing about full-tilt since we got the distress call from Europa Nova. I've barely slept in the last fifty hours. I just need to relax. "Computer, time?"

  "The time is 1445 hours."

  Damn, she thought. Only fifteen minutes until Shakaar.

  Ezri entered a turbolift. "Wardroom," she said after a moment. That room was likely to be empty—she could get a cup of tea, compose herself, and still make it to ops in time.

  As the turbolift wended its way mid-core, she wished Julian had stayed behind. After all, the Intrepid and the Gryphon had full medical staffs that could work just fine with the Europani medical authorities. But they decided to play it safe and have as many med­ical personnel available on-site as possible, which cer­tainly made sense. Besides, Simon Tarses and Girani Semna were handling the load back here just fine.

  Speaking of medicine, I wonder if Mr. Amenguale actually found his way up to the infirmary. She tapped her combadge. "Dax to Tarses."

  "Go ahead." The doctor sounded exhausted.

  "You okay, Simon?"

  "Nothing eight days of sleep won't cure. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

  "A Mr. Amenguale should be reporting to you with

  a case of arithrazine rash. If he isn't there hi the next five minutes or so, send someone from security to find him—I think he might get lost."

  "Got it. And hey, you don't exactly sound hale and hearty yourself."

  "I promise to get some sleep as soon as I can, Simon."

  " Why am I not reassured? "

  Ezri chuckled as the turbolift arrived at the ward­room level. "Dax out."

  As she exited the lift, she heard the familiar voice of Shar.

  "I understand, Zhavey."

  "No, Thirishar, I don't think you truly do. You mustn't, if you're going to insist on acting like this."

  The second voice wasn't immediately familiar, but given the way Shar addressed her, it must be the infa­mous Councillor Charivretha zh'Thane. They were obviously right around the corner from where Ezri was walking—or, rather, standing, since she had stopped short of proceeding once she heard the voices.

  "I am acting like myself, Zhavey. I don't know any other way to act. I am sorry for that, but—"

  "In Thori's name, Thirishar!" zh'Thane cried out in a voice that, Ezri suspected, had intimidated many on the Federation Council floor, "you cannot afford to take such risks when you know what is at stake!"

  "Exploring the Gamma Quadrant is hardly a 'risk,' Zhavey."

  "Please don't tell me you're that naive. If you want, I can quote casualty figures on starships exploring un­mapped space for the last two hundred years."

  "That won't be necessary."

  "Then what will it take?" zh'Thane snapped. 'To what part of you should I appeal? Clearly you feel no sense of duty to your own kind, nor to me. You have no fear of what may befall you before the window is closed. Have you even considered what your obsti-nancy is doing to Anichent, to Dizhei, to Thriss? Are you even thinking about anyone besides yourself?"

  There was an unexpected sound, like a bulkhead being struck, and Dax almost moved to see what had happened, to intervene, but the sound of Shar's voice, raised to a hiss and seething with emotion, stopped her in her tracks.

  "I have thought of everyone but myself my entire Me, Zhavey! That's how you raised me, isn't it? How all Andorian children are raised? We don't live for ourselves, we live for the whole, always the whole.

  "You ask me if I love them ... as if I had a choice. As if every cell in my body didn't long to be among them every day."

  "The why are you doing this?"

  "Because it isn't working! I've kept track, Zhavey, more closely than you imagine. I've seen the num­bers, and I see what we're doing to ourselves as a peo­ple because of them, because of our desperation to delay the inevitable. We're so consumed with keeping ourselves alive, we have no conception of what we're living for."

  "And so your answer is to turn your back to us? On everyone and everything?"

  "You don't understand. You never did," Shar said in a deadly whisper.

  The last time Ezri had heard an Andorian use that tone of voice was thirteen years earlier, when she was

  Curzon. The person to whom the Andorian had spo­ken was dead five minutes later.

  There was a terrible silence. And when zh'Thane broke it, her voice was firm. But also, Ezri thought, tinged with sorrow. "Don't force me to act, my chei."

  "Stop meddling in my life, Zhavey."

  "Don't walk away from me, Thirishar!"

  Uh-oh, Ezri thought, and she immediately started walking forward in a pointless attempt to cover up her eavesdropping.

  Shar turned the corner just as Ezri approached it, and the two almost collided. Shar's antennae were standing straight up, and his eyes—normally the in­quisitive eyes of the scientist that Ezri knew quite well from Tobin and Jadzia—were smoldering with emotions Ezri couldn't begin to read.

  At the sight of Ezri, though, the antennae lowered slightly, and he regained his composure. "Lieutenant! I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."

  A tall Andorian woman with an impressively elabo­rate hairdo came around the corner, and she was simi­larly brought up short by the Trill's presence.

  Well, this is awkward, Ezri thought. She supposed she should have turned and walked away the minute the first words came within earshot, but her own cu­riosity—and her counselor's training—had kicked in.

  Finally, after the pause threatened to go on for days, Ezri offered her hand to the tall woman. "You must be Councillor zh'Thane. I'm L
ieutenant Ezri Dax."

  The councillor took it. "Dax—you used to be Cur­zon Dax, yes?"

  "Two hosts ago, yes."

  Sourly, she said, "Well, I'll try not to hold that

  against you." Turning around, obviously unwilling to air her family's private affairs in public, she said, "If you'll excuse me."

  She walked off. Idly, Ezri tried to recall what, ex­actly, Curzon might have done to offend Andor's rep­resentative to the Federation Council. She couldn't remember ever having met her, but that was hardly conclusive—Curzon had annoyed plenty of people he had never met.

  Shrugging, she turned to Shar, who looked as un­happy as Ezri had ever seen him. In fact, it was really the first time Ezri could ever remember seeing him unhappy.

  Based on the conversation, she could guess why.

  "Do you want to talk about it, Shar?"

  "I'm afraid I can't, Lieutenant, but thank you for asking."

  Ezri thought a moment, then decided to go for broke. "I take it there are three people on Andor waiting for you to come home to take part in the shelthreth?"

  Shar whirled around, his antennae raised. In a quiet, stunned voice, he asked, "You know about that?"

  "I've been around for three centuries, Shar—I've known a few Andorians in my time."

  Nodding, Shar said, "Yes, of course you have."

  "And I know how important the shelthreth is."

  Shar's face hardened. "Not you as well, Ezri. I know that I have a duty to Andor. And whether any­one back home understands this or not, I'm fulfilling it in my own way. But now Zhavey is making threats."

  "What can she do?"

  "She can have me reassigned to Andor."

  Ezri frowned. "Last time I checked, Federation

  Councillors didn't have any influence over Starfleet personnel assignments."

  "Respectfully, Lieutenant, I don't think you fully appreciate the power of politics. And she knows Com­mander Vaughn."

  Dax's frown deepened. "You think she'd convince Vaughn to transfer you? I think you underestimate him, Shar. You've been doing superlative work. I ought to know—I sort of used to have the job," she added with a smile.

  "Thank you, but unfortunately, I think you underes­timate Charivretha. It would be just like my zhavey to talk him into transferring me. She might even go so far as to explain why."

  "Even if that's true, Vaughn doesn't strike me as the type who'd authorize transfers for personal reasons. And even if he did, I can't see Kira approving it."

  "Your confidence is touching, but I've only been here a few months. I haven't done anything to com­mand that land of loyalty—certainly not enough to refuse the request of a Federation Councillor. Besides, why do you think I'm not on the Defiant? "

  "That's a good point," Ezri said. "Why aren't you on the Defiant?"

  "Because Zhavey asked the commander to leave me behind so we could talk." Some of Shar's coarse white hair fell into his face, and he brushed it out of the way. "Although the talk accomplished nothing that we haven't already said in our private communications."

  Remembering how much more painful it was to deal with her own mother in person than over sub­space, Ezri could see Councillor zh'Thane's logic in believing that an in-person plea might be more effec-

  tive. Saying that, however, would not help matters, so she tried another tack:

  "Shar, maybe you should consider what she's say­ing." At the Andorian's sharp look, she added, "I'm not taking her side. Believe me, I can quote you chap­ter and verse on the subject of parental guilt and not doing what they expect you to do. I'm not saying you should reconsider your position because it's what your zhavey is telling you to do. What I am saying is that you should examine the situation without consid­ering her at all. Forget about what she wants. Think about yourself—and think about the three people waiting for you back home. They deserve some con­sideration, yes?"

  Shar said nothing.

  "Just think about it, okay?"

  Sighing, Shar said, "I have thought about it. I ap­preciate what you're trying to do, Lieutenant, but I've already made up my mind. Being in Starfleet is what I want—it's all I've ever wanted, since I was a child. I'm not going to give it up now, and I'm certainly not going to let Zhavey hold me personally responsible for the fact that the Andorian species is dying."

  12

  TH€ DELTA QUADRANT

  THE STARS ARE WRONG.

  Kira had that same thought every time she left the Bajoran sector. For years in the resistance, she had de­pended on the stars in the sky over Bajor. It was better to move at night when they were on the run from Car­dassian patrols. Scanners could fail or be jammed, but all she had to do was look up to know precisely where she was. Even when most or all of the moons were visible, she still could see enough of the constellations to orient herself.

  In space, it was the same thing. Navigational equip­ment wasn't always reliable, particularly when you were being fired on. Again, the stars were always there for her—as long as the Prophets provided a view of the other suns hi the galaxy, she could find her way.

  Before becoming first officer on Deep Space 9, she had spent very little time out of the Bajoran system, and even when she did, she'd had other things on her mind—picking up supplies, or some other errand re­lated to the resistance. For most of the first twenty-six years of her Me, the stars as they were seen from Bajor were her anchors. It was something she could depend on in a hie that had precious little of that

  The first time she went through the wormhole and into the Gamma Quadrant, the disorientation had been almost painful. Her anchor was gone. Everything was arranged differently, and Kira—at the time, still not accustomed to working with reliable Starfleet equip­ment—found herself in the uncomfortable position of being forced to depend on technology far more than she was used to.

  Now, seven years later, it was hardly an issue. She'd made dozens of trips to the Gamma Quadrant, and had traveled all over the Alpha Quadrant, from Cardassia Prime to Earth. Still, every time she found herself far away from home, there was that feeling that the sky was somehow lying to her.

  As the Euphrates came careening through the gate­way, piercing the the thick green jet that choked the passage, the sky told her a new lie, one as big as the one it told her when she went through the wormhole.

  She kept going at full impulse when they cleared the gateway—she wanted to get away from the ra­dioactive waste as quickly as possible. Taking up a position about a hundred thousand kilometers from the gateway, Kira did a sensor sweep.

  Her eyes went wide and she felt her jaw go slack. "Oh no..."

  "I assume," Taran'atar said, "that you have just no­ticed the waste concentration bearing 273 mark 9."

  Kira nodded. "That single mass is putting out more radiation than everything that's in orbit of Europa Nova right now combined. If we let that go through, the planet's as good as dead."

  "Can we destroy it?"

  Kira shook her head as she studied the readings. "Best we could do is blast it into smaller pieces. Im­pact damage might be less, but it wouldn't alleviate the radiation." She didn't have to remind Taran'atar that they no longer had a tractor beam, so trying to alter its course as they'd done before wasn't an option.

  "Colonel, I'm picking up a vessel," Taran'atar an­nounced. "It's the source of the jet."

  "Do you recognize it?" Kira asked.

  Taran'atar said, "No. It does not match anything in Starfleet records, nor any ship I have knowledge of." He peered at his sensor readings. "Length, seven thou­sand meters. Hull is made of an unidentified alloy that appears to include elements of duranium and holi-vane." Kira had no idea what holivane was and, just at the moment, didn't care. Taran'atar continued, "Inde­terminate weapons capacity. They appear to operate on channeled matter-antimatter reactions but, based on what I have been able to read through the interference from the radiation, it's an inferior engine design."

  "If they're producing antimatter waste on this scal
e, that's not surprising. Anything else?"

  "Fully ninety percent of the ship is dedicated to cargo space. Based on its size and configuration, I be­lieve the ship is a barge for the hazardous material."

  "And they decided they had a perfect dumping

  ground." Kira felt revulsion build up in her gut and work its way to her extremities, which she had to keep from shaking. Even at their absolute worst, the Cardas­sians never did anything so repugnant as to dump highly toxic material into a populated region. "It must've thrilled them when the gateway opened. I wonder if they even bothered to see if mere was an inhabited planet on the other side." A brief urge came over Kira to lock the runabout's phasers on the ship and destroy it just to teach these people—whoever they were—a les­son. She set the impulse aside. "What else?"

  "There are no docking ports. They also have an un­usual shield configuration."

  "Unusual how?"

  "There are seven of them, though most are offline right now. They appear to have been enhanced in some way. I've never seen a design like this."

  Kira noticed that there was none of the scientific curiosity she would expect from, say, Nog or Shar in Taran'atar's tone. He was simply reporting the facts as he saw them.

  The Jem'Hadar continued, "At present, most of their systems are offline. I am not reading any life signs."

  Blinking, Kira said, "None at all? That ship's got to have a crew of at least several hundred. Could the ra­diation be interfering?"

  "The radiation could not interfere so much as to mask that many Me signs, Colonel."

  Shaking her head, Kira looked down at the display. They had a little over two hours before the mass would go through the gateway, so there was time to figure something out. But what? With no tractor beam and no way to destroy it effectively...

  Then she noticed something. "I'm reading some debris. Sensors say it's primarily irradiated monota-nium—along with organic matter. Looks like a ship was destroyed by the waste."

  "A ship with a monotanium hull," Taran'atar mused. "Even the Dominion was never able to refine enough monotanium to make spacecraft from it."