by Diane Carey
“You were thinking,” Jake said instantly, “that everyone in uniform on this station is just like you—wanting to stand three watches in a row because you can’t get work off your mind and you know the Dominion or the Jem’Hadar or the Cardassians or somebody’s going to come out of the darkness at us at any given time. And you also know that the longer the quiet, the louder the attack. You know they’re not just sitting out there quietly contemplating the stars. They’re building up for assault.”
Sisko drilled him with a glare. “Who told you that?”
“Nobody. I just know how you think.”
“Hm … that’s what I get for being such an open and forthcoming fellow.”
“Oh, brother.”
“Got myself into this,” Sisko miserated. “Now even I can’t come back to my office after my watch without breaking my own order and setting a bad example. And even today, of all days, I have to keep up a sense of order and not come out of that door one minute early. I’ve been up for two hours.”
“When everything breaks loose,” Jake said, “you’ll be glad your crew is rested.”
“I know, I know. But weeks of making every morning seem normal—it takes its own kind of toll. I see it in their faces. He nodded as two young officers passed by, offering their commander a curt good-morning. “They’re not fooled by the illusion of normalcy. It’s like we’re all lying to each other a little more every day, Jake. They know this can’t go on, but no one knows when it’ll break. The tension’s growing. I know how to fight a battle … but there’s nothing I can do to hurry an incoming tidal wave that I really hope never gets here. Here we are in the middle of a war, suffering from actually not having enough to do, hour by hour. It’s like the Alamo, waiting to be attacked, unable to prepare any more, and knowing it’s coming.”
“The Alamo,” Jake droned. “You’ve been listening to Miles and Julian, haven’t you?”
Sisko gazed down the long curve of the Promenade, and noticed that the clutter of activity wasn’t as noisy as usual. “The irony of their little project hasn’t been lost on me, let’s just admit.”
“It’s only their way of …”
“Coping, I know. That’s what I mean. They can’t do any more to get ready for what we have to face, and we have no idea when we’ll have to face the next wave. A war of intrigue is a lot harder to fight than a war of battles. Unfortunately, we’ve settled into the intrigue stage. There are fewer casualties, but the price is still high. We’re being eaten by millimeters instead of in gulps. Look at them, Jake … trying to live their lives as if nothing’s wrong. As if sector-wide communications blackouts happen every day.”
“They’re brave,” his son attempted as they passed the shops, rounding the bend toward Quark’s bar.
“They’re lying to themselves,” Sisko reminded. “And to each other. There’s nothing normal here, certainly not today. They can’t even write home to their relatives about it. We’re under a general alert—no private communiques, no advances to the news service, and not even a DS9 update. Not today, and maybe never again.”
He stopped walking, and took his son’s arm. “I don’t want you to see me off. I want to say goodbye right here.”
Jake seemed briefly insulted, then instantly knew better. “Why?”
Sisko paused. “Finally the Cardassians and the Jem’Hadar are going to have to face all of us—together—rather than just the Klingons in a single growly line. This is the kind of thing that makes history, Jake. I’d rather you remember me here, the way we lived together. Just in case history gets a little too personal.”
“Dad …”
Determined to keep this on a higher plane, Sisko reached for his son’s hand and clasped it firmly, but not tightly. “Take care of my family and my station. I’ll be back if I’m lucky, but dying doesn’t mean you lost. Understand? Don’t follow me.”
* * *
“You’re up early today.”
As Quark plunked a drink in front of him, Worf pretended it was an ordinary morning. The only other customer in the pub besides himself was Morn, over there in his giant slug mode, sitting alone as always, his big shapeless paw around a mug of klapri drippings.
Here at the bar, Worf stewed over his drink, but said only, “I am always up early.”
In his periphery he saw Quark lean closer, pretending he could keep a secret. “It’s a good day to die,” the Ferengi barkeep whispered.
Worf felt fury burn in his eyes. “Every day is a good day to die.”
“But some days are better,” Quark baited, “than others. Like today, for instance. The day the Federation-Klingon-Romulan Alliance launches its invasion of Cardassia. The final push in the long struggle to rid the Alpha Quadrant of the Dominion … and save my bar in the process.”
Though he fought to mask his anger, Worf knew his withholding was in itself a giveaway.
But how could the Ferengi know?
“Who told you that?” he demanded.
Quark nodded toward the mulchy figure of Morn. “He did.”
“Morn? And how does he know?”
“He’s friends with Admiral Ross. Or maybe Sisko told him while they were having dinner. I don’t know how he knows! He just knows.”
Worf slugged his drink. “I have to go.”
Without another glance at the clever and annoying Quark, Worf wheeled full about and beat it for the door. The gulp of bloodwine had galvanized him for what was to come, on this very important day they were all trying so hard to make appear ordinary. Yet his stomach rebelled as he headed for the airlock.
He was grateful for solitude, but in this proximity—a space station that seemed large upon approach and quickly showed itself for the small town it was—soon caved to Odo’s appearance.
The shapeshifter floated into being at Worf’s side before the Klingon had even noticed someone was walking with him.
“Mind if I walk with you, Commander?” Odo asked, as if reading his thoughts.
“Not at all,” Worf accepted. “Captain Sisko informed me you were joining us on our mission.” He paused, then offered a morsel of empathy. “I hope that when we reach Cardassia we find Colonel Kira alive and well.”
“So do I, Commander,” the shapeshifter said with unmasked fear. “So do I. Everyone’s taking the blackout with great courage,” he added. “I find it disconcerting—the waves are full of normal chatter, but it’s all a lie.”
“It is a tactical disguise. We have filled our communications channels with recordings. The enemy would notice a total blackout. Our assault would sacrifice its surprise, Constable.”
“Yes, but it’s surreal to monitor the channels and hear people talking whom I perfectly well know aren’t even on the station, and others whom I know are boarding ships to join the Allied Fleet. As the security officer, I still have to listen. It’s like … hearing ghosts.”
Worf winced, then hoped the constable was not watching at that instant. Ghosts haunted his every moment, the dead of his past constantly with him. His father, his shipmates, his fellow warriors, his wife—ghosts all.
Today they would create many more.
The two men fell to silence. It was a relief. Worf found himself instinctively leading the way, with Odo a step behind him, as they came through the airlock and boarded the muscular deep-space endurance battleship that had been the other half of their existence for so long.
* * *
The Defiant. Latest descendant of a line of proud fighting ships of the same name, leading back into the past of Starfleet, and even farther back to the planetary service from which Starfleet had grown. Not so graceful as a heavy cruiser nor so crude as a fighter, this new Defiant, like those before her, was something in the middle—built exclusively for the hard punches of close combat, without labs or comforts. The essence of minimalism and survival, she had more weaponry ordnance than any other provision, even more than food and engine power. She knew her purpose. Today she would fly her finest.
Ben Sisko stood o
n the upper level, surveying his bridge thoughtfully, absorbing the newness of this ship, the updates and fresh technology that his tough old ship hadn’t possessed. It was time to put some scratches in her hull. Finally, the allied powers would make a singular strike!
Months of preparation, secret coordinations, meetings, councils of war, spies, trickery, subterfuge—finally! An assault fleet was moving laterally across Deep Space Nine, gathering strength as it flowed, plucking grains of sand which it would soon fling at the enemy. Even now, before they’d left the docking pylon, Defiant’s forward screen bristled with a thousand ships passing by in loose coordination—Federation starships, Klingon cruisers, Romulan war wings, combat support tenders and picket ships, supply freighters and medical packets—vessels from all over the plagued quadrant swarmed together before him. A grain of sand is nothing, but together they make a mighty stone. But beneath his pride in this moment, Sisko feared where the crack might appear.
Oh, well, that was the adventure, wasn’t it?
Silently he counted the crew. Worf, O’Brien, Bashir, Ezri Dax, all at their posts. Nog at the helm, Odo standing beside the command chair. They were pretending to be powering up the ship, but it was already powered up. They were waiting for him, really.
“All right, people,” he began. All eyes turned to him. “What do you say we end this war?”
O’Brien couldn’t quite muster a smile. “Sounds good to me.”
“To me too. I have something very important for you to keep in mind for the time to come. We’ve been out here at Deep Space Nine for many years, usually on our own, depending only on each other and no one else. We’ve become a family, and I appreciate that very much. Today something different is happening. We aren’t on our own anymore. We aren’t the spearhead of the final frontier. Today we have to do something even more important—we have to remember what it means to be part of a fleet, one of many. The goal isn’t to be heroes today. The goal is to be one strong muscle in a much bigger body. We have to work together with a lot of strangers to take back our quadrant. That’s not easy for people who’ve had to be pioneers as long as we have. We’re used to defending our own fort, all by ourselves. Today, that kind of spirit will not only get us killed but might ruin a good effort I’m counting on all of you to have the humility and courage to let others be the heroes for a change. We all think we have that in us, but when the moment comes, it’s hard to do. I know you’re all grownup enough to understand what I’m saying. Today, I want to be proud of you for something that might not make headlines. I promise you, though … it’ll matter.”
For a moment his words had no effect. Then he started to notice a subtle change. Worf’s posture eased a little. Odo gazed at him more kindly. Bashir was smiling. O’Brien closed his eyes briefly. Nog seemed less afraid. Ezri’s eyes shined with embarrassing affection, as if he’d given them a charm they could put in their pockets. Yes, they understood.
He drew a sustaining breath and stepped down to the command deck. Odo offered a nod of encouragement. Sisko almost paused, but managed not to. He couldn’t absorb—never had—the idea that by looking at Odo’s homogeneous face he was actually looking at the very face of the Dominion, the eyes of his enemy.
Without breaking stride he slid into his chair and swiveled to face the forward screen.
“Docking clamps released,” Nog reported, without waiting for an order.
“Ensign,” Sisko began, “I believe you know the way to Cardassia.”
The young Ferengi gingerly touched his helm. “If I get lost, I’ll just follow the ship in front of me.”
With a hum of confidence, the Defiant smoothly swam out toward the crowded spacelane. There she fell into formation with the largest combined invasion fleet ever amassed in the Alpha Quadrant.
And out there, far before them, the enemy would soon awaken.
CHAPTER
2
“She’s got a concussion. Look at that head wound.”
“Can’t you bind it up and save her?”
“She could be bleeding in the brain, Damar. We’ve got to get out. Ten minutes in the infirmary and she’ll be fine.”
“I’m glad you have the problem solved. Colonel! Don’t go to sleep. You may not wake up. Do you understand?”
Colonel Kira Nerys of the Bajoran Military Guard moaned and forced her eyes open. Her head swam and pounded from inside her skull. The side of her neck was wet.
“Am I bleeding?” she asked. “Because … it’s getting on my clothes. Garak, make me some new clothes.”
“Kira, can you see me?”
She blinked again, and saw—surprisingly clearly—the goofy face of Garak bending over her. Those wide buggy eyes, that funny flat mouth, and all that Cardassian gray snakeskin, like bathroom tiles. Yup, that was Garak.
“I see you fine,” she complained. “Where are we?”
“We’re trapped.” The other Cardassian—why was she lying around with so many Cardassians?—was dirty and covered with soot as he climbed a tallus of broken bricks and shattered wood and metal support bars. “The whole building has come down on us. We miscalculated the explosion.”
“I didn’t miscalculate anything,” Garak protested as he put a pad of wet cloth to the side of Kira’s head. “My fuses were perfect. It was your calculation of the escape route that failed us. We should’ve gone out from the north entrance, as I first suggested.”
“If you don’t come over here and help me lift these blocks, the south entrance will be your tomb.”
“You better go help him,” Kira told Garak. “I’ll be right over there in a minute, as soon as I sew my feet back on.”
“That’s right, Kira,” Garak told her soothingly. “You rest right here on this plank. Keep sewing your feet and don’t go to sleep. I’ll help our illustrious leader dig us out of the hole he’s gotten us into.”
Kira let her shoulders sink back against the slab of wood they had laid her on. This was a nasty place, some kind of basement room. They’d fallen right through the ceiling when the bomb went off. It was a good bomb, big enough to take out half a city block. Another ten minutes and BOOM….
Or had it already gone off?
“Oh, sure,” she said. “I remember the sound. Three buildings fell at the same time, and four more in a row afterward. We’re in the fourth one, isn’t that right?”
Across the room, Garak and Damar hefted the two-foot-long blocks of conglomerate and metal bars one at a time—it took both of them to lift a single block, and there were hundreds of blocks collapsed in the corridor … that was a corridor, wasn’t it? Oh, yes, there was the lintel. Neither of them responded to her question. Oh, they were busy.
“That’s all right,” she said. “You’re busy. Just keep working. I’ll sit here and paint a phaser.”
That was all they needed to get out—one phaser. No hand weapons, though. The Breen patrols would pick them up on scanners. Seemed so silly. Why couldn’t she just go out and talk to the Breen and tell them that she and her team of conspirators and saboteurs had work to do and couldn’t be bothered going to the brig and facing a firing squad. They’d understand.
“She’s going to die like this,” Garak said, straining as he pitched one of the blocks sideways. It splashed to the floor with a dull clunk. “She deserves better.”
“Everyone deserves better. Quit complaining. An invasion tomorrow, and we end up in a stone box underground.”
“I thought you said quit complaining.”
“You quit. I’ll say what I please.”
Damar was on top of the pile of bricks, up by the lintel, trying to stick his arm through to open air. Kira watched him for a few moments, fascinated by the action of his belt as it rode on his hips, and the way his boots scratched at the uneven mess he was standing on.
What a funny thing. Here they were, Garak of the Obsidian Order and Damar of the Cardassian Military, two important natives of this condemnable planet who had both turned against their planet and its allies—and
they were dying like squirrels underground while the big invasion prepared itself light-years away, unable to get through ten feet of rocks.
Hah.
Kira laughed out loud, then winced when her head started hurting again. She should get up and go help them move the rocks so they could all get out of here and go invade something. She felt like taking over a province or subduing a fleet.
Of course, standing up would help.
Nope, couldn’t do that. No feet.
Garak was coming toward her now. Wow, were his hands huge! They were two feet long! He could smother her with those!
“Your hands are big,” she commented as he probed her head.
“Just lie still,” Garak told her. “You’ve got a cracked skull. If you move, you’ll cause more bleeding. I have nothing with which to cauterize the wound. We should start bringing medikits with us on these raids.”
“You always were pampered,” Damar said, without turning for a caustic glance. “You enjoy comfort too much, Garak. It makes you weak. The Obsidian Order was perfect for you. Sneaking and hiding, never confronting your enemy except to lurk behind him and find some way to bring him down before he even knew you were there. Even here, in the midst of a resistance squadron, you want your tea and biscuits every day.”
“The Obsidian order, my primate friend, was the elite of the Cardassian intelligence network, feared and respected across the entire Alpha Quadrant, unlike, I should mention, the rest of Cardassia’s authorities.”
Garak’s musical tone betrayed an irritation that Kira recognized. Was he frightened? She couldn’t tell that much, but something was bothering him.
“Yes,” Damar droned, “and if you don’t elite yourself over here and lift some stones, you’re going to be respected very deeply. Ten meters deeply, I estimate.”