Commander Elias Vaughn sat forward in his seat, one hand absently stroking his salt-and-pepper beard. His eyes were intent on the Defiant’ s main viewscreen, where he could see a large, bulbous ship pursuing and firing on a somewhat smaller, gracefully tapered vessel. The pitted, scarred hulls of both vessels bore mute testament to countless previous battles.
“Any luck hailing them?” Vaughn growled at Lieutenant Sam Bowers, who was running the tactical station.
“No, sir,” Bowers said with a shake of the head. “I’m hailing them on all frequencies, but nothing’s coming through.”
“Take us in closer, Ensign Lankford,” Vaughn said, nodding to the blond woman who sat at the conn. Vaughn then turned his head slightly, speaking over his shoulder toward the tactical station. “Keep all shields at the ready, Mr. Bowers. This is obviously a touchy situation, and until we can get some idea of what’s happening and why, we need to see to our own protection first.”
“Aye, sir,” Bowers said.
The turbolift doors whooshed open, and Vaughn saw his daughter, Ensign Prynn Tenmei, tug momentarily on her tunic as she stepped out onto the bridge. They locked eyes for an instant. “Sorry to cut your lunch short, Ensign,” Vaughn said, then mimed wiping his hand across his mouth.
Tenmei got the hint and subtly removed the remnants of red sauce from her lower lip as she took her post at the conn. Lankford moved aside for her, taking a secondary post at the back of the bridge.
“I wonder what this fight is about?” Vaughn said to no one in particular.
On the viewscreen, the heavily damaged alien ship flared with crackling electrical energy, then spun toward them at a dizzying speed.
“I think it’s about to land in our laps,” Tenmei said dryly.
“Evasive maneuvers!” Vaughn shouted. The Defiant lurched to the side, tossing the bridge crew along with it as the ship’s inertial dampers struggled to keep the artificial gravity field stable.
A split second later, something slammed into the Defiant, and Vaughn heard an unmistakable rending sound coming from the port side of the navigational deflector.
“Shields holding!” Bowers yelled. “We’ve taken a glancing hit from the pursuing vessel.”
Vaughn thought he would decide later whether or not the pursuing vessel’s attack on the Defiant had been deliberate. “Damage?” he barked.
“The pursuer’s weaponry didn’t do anything to us,” said Bowers.
Tenmei checked a conn display. “But that near collision cost us our portside targeting sensors.”
“What’s the status of the damaged alien ship?” Vaughn asked, turning toward the science station.
“It survived its brush with our shields and is now headed deeper into the Oort cloud, Captain,” said science specialist Kurt Hunter. The eager-looking young officer quickly consulted a readout before continuing. “But it’s losing power rapidly, no doubt because of all the damage its pursuer has inflicted on it. My scans show that both of these vessels have only rudimentary warp capabilities.”
“Well, I can’t just let the underdog die without any clue as to what this is all about,” Vaughn said. “Mr. Bowers, I need to talk to somebody out there. Fast.”
“Still hailing on all known Gamma Quadrant frequencies,” Bowers said, putting his hand up to his earpiece. “And on most of the Alpha Quadrant frequencies as well. They don’t seem to…Wait, I’m getting something.”
Abruptly, the viewscreen image transformed from the serenity of trackless space to a vision of utter chaos. Vaughn caught a few disjointed glimpses of what appeared to be a ship’s bridge manned by more than half a dozen slick-carapaced, insectile creatures. Most of them were apparently panicking, and several seemed to be yelling into the viewscreen simultaneously. Their narrow, chitin-covered heads were mounted on stick-thin bodies; the creatures scuttled about on tripod legs, some of them walking upside down on the ceilings.
“I’m trying to figure out what they’re saying, Captain,” Bowers said. “But the universal translator isn’t having an easy time of it. All I’m getting is gibberish.”
“Well, it’s clear enough that they’re pretty agitated,” Vaughn said, feeling a surge of sympathy for the hapless insectoids. During almost eight decades as a Starfleet officer he’d survived enough shipboard disasters to feel that he understood their plight on an extremely visceral level.
“Which of the ships is this transmission coming from?”
“The one that isn’t firing on us, Captain!” Bowers punched several buttons and braced himself. The ship rocked to the side. “Shields still holding. The aggressor ship is using some kind of disruptor weapon. Not too much of an immediate threat to us, but the smaller ship isn’t so well shielded.”
Vaughn leaned forward in the chair again as Tenmei touched her console, splitting the viewscreen’s image into two. A smaller, inset image displayed the gibbering aliens on their manic bridge, while the rest of the screen showed the attacking ship and its prey.
“Hail the attacker again,” Vaughn said.
“No response, sir,” Bowers said after nearly another minute had elapsed. “I take that back—they’re firing again!”
Vaughn watched as the disruptor’s searing light pierced the darkness. From the positions of the multiple plasma blasts, it was clear that the aggressor had several hull-mounted weapons.
The screen flashed for a moment, and the ship rocked gently. “Shields down to ninety percent,” Bowers said.
So their hitting us before was no accident, Vaughn thought. They don’t seem to want us here. Why?
“Let’s give them some encouragement to back off. Mr. Bowers, Ensign Merimark, target only their weapons systems. If I’m not mistaken, they’re mounted on several external armatures, three dorsal, two ventral.”
As the young ensign took her place behind Sam at a secondary tactical station, a grinning Bowers drew a bead on his targets. “Good eye, Captain. Targets locked.”
Vaughn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Fire.”
A series of blasts from the pulse phaser cannons streaked toward the attacking vessel. Within seconds, all had found their mark, and five small, tightly targeted explosions detonated on the other ship’s hull. Other than those specific points, the alien vessel appeared to have suffered no damage.
“Good shooting,” Vaughn said, complimenting the two tactical officers behind him. His eyes still narrowed, he began a mental countdown. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
“Captain, the attackers are veering off and reversing course,” Tenmei said. “Should I pursue?”
“No, Ensign. There’s a ship in distress, and that has to take precedence. Besides, we still have no idea what prompted either their attack on us or their pursuit of the damaged ship.”
Vaughn turned toward Bowers, who was working the controls with calm alacrity, one hand touching his ear-piece. His silent frown of concentration spoke volumes to Vaughn. “Anything intelligible coming from that damaged vessel, Mr. Bowers?”
“I’m getting a lot of audio-channel chatter, sir, some of it on some pretty unusual frequencies. But the UT doesn’t seem able to parse their language.”
Hunter spoke up then, punching a button on his console that restored the screen image solely to that of the noisy aliens. “Captain, it looks like some of the aliens are wounded. Whether we can understand them or not, I think they could use our help.”
Vaughn studied the viewscreen and could see that Hunter was indeed correct. In the background, some of the aliens were staggering, clutching appendages that were slickened with dark, viscous fluids that appeared to have leaked out of compromised exoskeletons. One hovered over a fallen comrade, clearly trying to tend to its injuries.
Vaughn punched a button on his armrest, opening a communication channel. “Nurse Richter, muster up whatever medical staff you can. You’re about to have company, and some of them appear to be in a bad way. Ensign Gordimer, please have an armed security detachment report to the medical bay. Chief Chao, prepare to
beam wounded parties directly there on Lieutenant Bowers’s signal.”
Vaughn turned back to Bowers and nodded curtly. The tactical officer began recording transporter coordinates from the crippled alien vessel. On the screen, several of the wounded aliens began to shimmer out of existence, causing even greater consternation among their spindly fellows.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” Vaughn put his fingers to his forehead, wincing. “Mr. Bowers, patch a visual feed from the medical bay to the other ship so they know we’re trying to help their crewmen and aren’t just kidnapping them. And keep trying to find a way to communicate with them.”
“Yes, sir,” Bowers acknowledged and set immediately to work.
Vaughn turned back to the front of the bridge. “Prynn…Ensign Tenmei, please find out where the shuttlecraft Sagan is and get her crew back here on the double. Dr. Bashir certainly picked a fine time to go out on a survey mission.”
Easing back into the captain’s chair, Vaughn sighed heavily. He studied the screen for a moment, watching the panicked, herky-jerky movements of the aliens. The image summoned an unbidden recollection of a comical children’s holovid he had seen during his youth.
“I can’t raise the Sagan, Captain,” Tenmei said, breaking his brief reverie. “In fact, I’m getting no signal from the shuttle at all.”
Comedy was suddenly the furthest thing from Vaughn’s mind.
3
Colonel Kira Nerys had hoped to wend her way through the Promenade without being noticed. She had only been back from visiting Bajor—and Kasidy Yates—for a short time, and she felt certain that she would find every trauma in the quadrant metaphorically stacked on her desk when she reached her office. Thus, when she heard the clipped and slightly reptilian voice calling her name, she had to muster her resolve not to ignore it.
“Colonel Kira, may I have a moment?” the Cardassian said, catching up to her.
“Certainly, Gul Macet. What do you need?” Kira felt a surge of relief at the prospect of being reprieved from her office backlog, however briefly. She smiled; it was gradually getting easier to do that around Macet, though the fact that he was a virtual double of Gul Skrain Dukat—visually, if not morally—still made any sort of exchange of pleasantries a bit tense.
“I wanted to revisit our previous discussion regarding the Cardassia–Bajor peace talks. It’s been two weeks now since the negotiations stalled. Two weeks since I had to ferry Ambassador Lang back to Cardassia Prime empty-handed.”
This wasn’t news to Kira, though she found it hard to believe that two weeks could have passed so quickly.
Nodding, she said, “Yet you’re back here, even without the ambassador.”
“To do whatever I can to hasten the time when she and our other official representatives might be invited back to the bargaining table. I have waited patiently while you have—I presume—applied pressure on the Chamber of Ministers to bring this about. But how much longer must I wait, Colonel? How much longer must my people wait?” Macet opened his eyes wide, a nonverbal signal that, Kira had learned, was common to Cardassians who had just said something provocative and expected a response.
Kira wasn’t at all surprised by Macet’s question, nor by his obviously mounting impatience. Shortly after Second Minister Asarem Wadeen had taken a hard line with newly appointed Cardassian ambassador Natima Lang during the last round of peace talks—thereby causing their collapse—Macet had asked her to weigh in on the matter with First Minister Shakaar Edon, using whatever political pull she could muster.
What a joke, Kira thought. She was well aware that the problem of Bajor’s intransigence extended all the way to the highest levels; culpability for the failure of the talks lay not with Asarem, but with First Minister Shakaar himself. This, of course, wasn’t something she could reveal to Macet, no matter how much she had come to trust him of late.
Macet cleared his throat. “Well?”
Kira sighed, her smile collapsing as she shook her head. “I’m afraid we may have to resign ourselves to waiting a while longer.”
“A while,” Macet repeated, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“A very brief while, if that’s any consolation.”
“Ah. After Bajor officially enters the Federation, you mean. The talks will resume, but only after the Federation takes responsibility for them.”
A hard lump formed in Kira’s throat. She didn’t like this any more than Macet did. “I’m afraid so,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.
Macet was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, “I am very disappointed to hear you say that, Colonel. Especially given your renowned influence over your world’s leaders, both secular and religious.”
“You’re still giving me too much credit, Macet,” she said, shaking her head yet again. “You know what it means for a Bajoran to be Attainted. Even the secular authorities don’t have much use for someone who’s been cast out of the faith.”
Macet smiled as though hoping to offer encouragement. “Ah, faith. You have no shortage of that, Colonel. It is as abundant as your humility. The kind of personal faith you possess can move entire worlds.”
Kira couldn’t restrain a bitter chuckle. “Worlds are one thing. Ministers are different beasts entirely.” Especially Shakaar, she thought.
Seeing Macet’s sour expression, Kira continued. “Look, I know how much you need closure on a Bajor–Cardassia peace treaty before the Federation begins running Bajor’s diplomatic efforts. I feel the same way.”
“It’s the only path that leads to an honest rapprochement,” Macet said, looking thoughtful. His features took on a vaguely menacing cast as he added, “and to a permanent peace.”
Shaking off mental images of belligerent, paranoid, future Cardassians someday returning in force to menace her homeworld, Kira nodded. “You’ll get no argument from me, Macet. But the first and second ministers don’t appear to see the matter with the same urgency we do. They’re perfectly content to wait a few months.”
Macet stared across the Promenade into the star-spangled darkness visible through the large upper-tier windows. His face slackened and his eyes grew pained. “I don’t need to tell you how desperate things are back on Cardassia Prime. How many people are still homeless. How many children are still starving and disease ravaged. Those who weren’t killed wholesale during the last hours of the war, that is.”
Thoughts of Cardassia’s suffering children brought to mind painful recollections of the late Tora Ziyal, whose recovered artworks Ambassador Lang had brought to Bajor as a gesture of peace—a gesture that Shakaar had effectively rebuffed, through Asarem. Her paintings and drawings, of exquisite beauty and poignant expressivity, had gone on display in Elim Garak’s former tailor shop—where some faceless, Cardassian-hating vandal had despoiled many of them.
Macet continued: “It’s ironic, really. For as long as I can remember, we Cardassians had always regarded ourselves as more advanced than you Bajorans. We had believed ourselves to be more sophisticated intellectually, culturally, politically—by any measure we could conceive. Now, after all we’ve been through—after the great price the Dominion War has levied against Cardassia for its sins—Bajor is exacting its revenge not through war, but through petty politics. Your ministers are not just keeping our worlds from attaining a true and lasting peace. They may also be confirming some of Cardassia’s oldest and ugliest prejudices. Good day, Colonel.” And before Kira could say a word, Macet strode away toward the Promenade’s busy center.
He’s right, she thought. As she resumed walking toward her office, a great upwelling of sadness spread through her soul. If professional diplomats can’t find common ground, then what hope is there for the rest of us?
She was nearing the turbolift to ops when two Bajorans—an older woman and a younger man—approached her. Both were hooded, though not exactly in the style of her world’s clerics or worshipers. She steeled herself for what was to come. Ever since she had released the prophecies of Ohalu onto the Bajoran ci
vilian comnet, and had been Attainted by Vedek Yevir Linjarin, her interactions with most Bajorans had been frosty at best.
“Colonel Kira,” the younger man said. “May we have a moment of your time?”
“I’m late for an appointment,” Kira said, thinking ruefully of the mounds of work that awaited her. “Perhaps one of my officers can help you?”
“A moment is all we ask,” the woman said. She moved her hood back on her head, as did the man, and Kira could see their ears now. Their unadorned ears. They were not wearing the earrings that signified Bajor’s faith. Kira’s hand involuntarily moved to her own right ear, from which her own earring had dangled before her Attainder had stripped her of the right to wear it.
“We want to thank you for revealing the truths of Ohalu to us,” the man said. “The teachings of Bajor’s temples have always governed our lives, but the prophecies you disseminated answer so many more questions. You have helped us along our own spiritual path.”
“The truth of the Prophets cannot be monopolized by any one group of believers,” the woman said. “And the truth of the Prophets has been hidden for far too long. You have helped to reveal it. Do not mourn the loss of your standing in the Bajoran orthodoxy. Your pagh is obviously stronger than that.”
“You have revealed to us a destiny that was obscured for far too long by those in control,” the man said. “The Prophets are with you.”
Smiling, the pair recloaked their heads and continued on their way amid the bustle of the Promenade.
Kira stared after them, unsettled. What was that about?
The blood sizzled on his forearm, burning through his black coverall into his tough skin, but Taran’atar ignored the pain. He wielded the creature’s severed arm like a club, planning to use the clawed digits at its end as spear points.
Sensing that one of the giant arthropods was about to jump on him from behind, Taran’atar rolled to the side, tucking his limbs in close. In the past, he might have just stood his ground and let the alien attack him, but after fighting against forty-three adversaries from various species, he had begun to master a variety of fighting styles and strategies.
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