by Diane Carey
Before him his young heavyweights formed a barricade of shoulders and thick backs as they boldly charged the three stunned outposters. A few shots of energy creased the air, but no one fell.
There were shouts—not his men. The others. Wild shots of energy weapons sliced into the bulkheads and ceiling, blasting the construction apart and raining rubble and dust. Blades flashed. Cutthroat hacks drew blood—the High Gul saw the smears of it on the wall, but couldn't see Sisko or the others anymore. Was that Sisko's voice? The huff of deep physical effort?
The High Gul looked for the solid dark shape, so familiar in his mind now. Sisko was a big man, but these young ones were big also, and there were four on him. Umdol, Elto, Telosh, Koto.
At the far end of this junction the High Gul saw the shapeshifter, barely able to stand, huddled against a wall, raising his energy weapon and struggling for aim that would skewer one of the Elites and not his own commander or their nurse. The High Gul was gratified by the shapeshifter's depleted condition. From moment to moment parts of his body were blurring, changing color, dissolving and reassimilating. All his energy was going into holding his form.
Yes, it was gratifying, but there was also terror in it. What if he was too tired?
Three others, Clus, Coln, and Malicu, were after the woman, but she was slight and difficult to grab. Twice as the High Gul watched she was caught and still managed to slip out of the Elites' grips. The second time she spun away from them, lost herself in their massive legs, danced underneath and out of the way, then turned a weapon on them.
Orange bands of light, scorching light, crackled through the air. Coln shrieked with agony and shock as his arm was severed from his body at the point of his neck artery, and half his chest went with it. He grasped the empty air where his arm had been, stumbled, stared at the disaffected limb lying in its own twitches in the dust, then gasped over and over with shock and confusion. He fell against the bulkhead and stared, suddenly oblivious of the battle around him.
Now his eyes sank and turned icy. He sank toward the deck, his mouth moving in soundless words. By the time his haunches touched the vibrating deck, he was no longer close to life.
Coln, who had been the High Gul's wife's favorite. A son she wished were theirs. She had felt that way about Elto, too. And about Ranan, who died with Malicu's spear through his body when the shapeshifter changed before him.
Perhaps the Bajoran wasn't a nurse after all.
She fired again, but this time her shot went wild as Malicu caught her around one shoulder and dragged her off balance, and Clus knocked the weapon from her grip. It went flying. This enraged her and she bellowed against the beachhead that she'd struck.
As the bitter stink of seared flesh and bone puffed at the High Gul out of the dimness and through his grief, he realized the meaning of energy streaks randomly grazing the immediate area and what might happen.
"Don't shoot the shapeshifter!" he shouted over the scream of the energy weapons. When the sounds continued, he shouted louder, "Cease firing! Blades only!"
He stepped through the clutter of fighting forms, rushed to the shapeshifter, and kicked the energy weapon from the shuddering hand. The shapeshifter sank against the wall, helpless to chase the weapon, helpless to put up a fight or use his natural abilities to confound the enemies who had cornered him. This was a defeated being.
The High Gul gazed down at him in intimate silent warning. Then he turned to the grunting mass in the middle of the junction.
And he drew his own blade. It was time to move this drama forward to the next poignance.
He moved slowly. Each step was calculated, not a charge or plunge, but a stride. He knew his target. Somewhere among the bright tunics and flags of his own men was the form of Sisko.
He saw flashes of the right colors from time to time—Sisko's black head, his burgundy clothing, blunted by dust. . . . The High Gul moved closer, pressed in deeply on top of the struggling mass, but was shoved off as Telosh howled in shocked pain and suddenly collapsed, clawing at his throat.
Under Koto, Elto, and Gobnol, Benjamin Sisko was fighting viciously, holding Gobnol by the face with one hand, Elto by the head in his bent elbow, Koto up on a pointed knee, and with the other hand clawing at the deck for the energy weapon that had apparently been torn from his own grip, but he was nowhere near it.
Roaring, Malicu suddenly charged in, pushed Elto aside, and plunged onto Sisko. Beneath them, Sisko was a demon given life. A beautiful sight, such possessive rage, and the High Gul gave himself a moment to enjoy what he was seeing. Worthy foes were neither cheap nor common, and he had hardly expected to find one doing paperwork on a cargo station.
His thoughts snapped when Malicu yelped like an animal and staggered back.
Sisko had apparently gotten his grip on a chunk of marble—who could tell what piece of discarded construction material this was?—and had used it on Malicu.
Time to stop enjoying and start eliminating.
The High Gul placed one hand on Koto's shoulder, and very gingerly felt his way through the tangle of large arms and torsos with his knife until he thought he had the right feeling on the end of his blade.
Taking his time and sensing his way through to the best flesh, he leaned forward, pressed the heel of his hand to the hilt, pushed hard. He knew that sensation as it rushed up the hilt, and he inhaled deeply to savor it.
Below, Sisko threw his head back and those white teeth flashed in a terrible grimace. He shouted something unintelligible—a roar of anger, perhaps, a good sound.
The pile of strong bodies collapsed suddenly. The High Gul stumbled back, drawing his blade back with him. Red blood ran down the blade to the hilt, and drained over his arm. Just right.
"No!" the Bajoran woman cried fiercely from behind him, kicking and slapping Clus and Elto, who were just now managing to catch and hold all her many limbs.
A surge of energy—he recognized the last panic of a dying man—blazed where a moment ago there was only the mass of Elite Guards and one human. Two brown hands came up, caught Gobnol by the head. Gobnol suddenly lost his balance, threw his arms backward, and there was a ghastly crack. He fell forward onto Sisko's sagging body.
All at once, the pile of effort quite simply heaved once and collapsed like a great dying animal. Abrupt stillness washed over the corridor. There was no more movement, other than the haunting twitches that came after a battle.
Gobnol and Telosh lay plainly dead. Close by, Malicu flinched and sucked his few last breaths. His head was cracked completely open from his eye socket to the top of his skull ridge. His sad eyes rolled toward his leader. Still alive.
Lying across the gore of Coln, Koto struggled to get up, slipping in his own blood and Coln's.
"Help Koto," the High Gul snapped to Elto. "Leave Malicu.".
He paused briefly over the destroyed forms of his men, ignoring Malicu's gurgling pleas for help and the last pathetic wandering of his eyes.
"Malicu," he uttered. "My last student."
The syllables dissolved in his throat.
He turned away. He could look at the dead, but not the nearly dead.
Three of his Elites left. Three out of two thousand. A heavy price.
Stepping over the sheared pieces of flotsam left on the deck by the battle, the High Gul came ultimately to the site of his win, and looked down with appreciation on the dark lump in the rubble.
"Benjamin Sisko, leader of the outpost, king of the sector," he murmured. "A waste."
Dragging the Bajoran woman along with him, Clus drove his toe into Sisko's muscular side. When there was no reaction, he declared, "Dead."
"How do you know for sure?" the High Gul asked, almost quizzical. "You've never seen a human before."
"Looks dead," Clus offered.
"So did we." Enjoying his amusement at his soldier's expense, the High Gul moved a few steps to glower down at Odo.
Helpless, weak, the constable lay at the joint between a bulkhead and a support str
ut, unable to change shape, not strong enough to put up a physical fight, and stared up at his bane. The High Gul saw the struggle to remain in this form when it would have been natural for him to shapeshift into a whip or something and lash these invaders to a wall.
What a strange creature … his face was moving, melting in patches even as they watched.
Hoisting Koto at his side, Elto glared down at the creature too. "Kill him? I can do it."
"No," the High Gul said. "I wouldn't even know how to kill such as him."
"Bring him with us, Excellency," Clus suggested. "He can help drive the ship."
Tolerant of mood in the shade of his win, the High Gul turned. "Remember what we did to him, Clus? See how tired we've made him? He is a walking explosion. I don't want to have him anywhere near us."
"Then Garak," Elto said. "I'm sure he knows how to drive that ship."
"Garak?" The Bajoran woman came to life suddenly. Anger boiled in her eyes. "I knew that ball of spit's been helping you!"
The High Gul looked at her. "To his own purposes, you may be assured." Then he turned again to Elto. "I don't trust Garak entirely. I feel much more secure about this young woman. I do not trust her at all … so at least I know what I'm dealing with."
He held a graceful hand out toward the narrow end of the pylon, toward the main docking arm.
"Come now, my strong and young believers, and let us board our victory."
CHAPTER 16
"YOU ARE BAJORAN. What is that like?"
"Let go of me!"
"Please don't kick. It's unbecoming and will get you nothing. I've never been to Bajor, but I know the story of the place—Clus, don't clasp the lady so tightly. There's no reason for crudeness on any part. She's the first of these people I've been able to speak to in person and I'm very curious to have a conversation."
"Don't get your hopes up, mister."
"What is your name?"
"What's yours?"
"I am the High Gul of the Crescent."
"I'm the Mermaid of Flickernock."
In the dim shell of the lower pylon near where the Defiant lay off the docking ring, Kira Nerys cursed herself for getting caught before she could freeze the docking-clamp locks. She cursed herself for getting caught at all.
And it wasn't too hard to curse these guys in the clown suits either. Brigade of the dead.
Her left cheekbone hurt where they'd hit her. Was her lip bleeding or only swollen? Felt like both. She was still dizzy from the ambush, but fought to keep them from seeing that. In her periphery she saw a bruise rising under her left eye. Her hands were still numb, which was why she hadn't been able to fight them off.
Anyway, that was the story she was sticking to.
Before her, an elegant Cardassian man of indeterminate age scouted her placidly, as if he had a week. His face was sallow, but his eyes sparkled. There might be a lack of life in his skin, but there was plenty in his attitude.
He wasn't pacing, wasn't fidgeting, but simply standing, looking at her, almost eye-to-eye with her, a head shorter than any of his guards, princely in an alien way with his shoulders draped by a dusty dark purple cloak. Only when the ship, the whole station, was rocked by another hit did he put out one unconcerned hand to grip the corridor handrail for stability. He didn't seem particularly interested in the fact that the station was being pummeled every few seconds.
"My other two Elites—my men—are dead? Is that correct? I sent them to kill your leader, but I had to kill him myself. So I assume their deaths from that."
At first Kira thought to remain silent, but the answer blistered its way out. "You assume right."
That felt good.
He frowned openly, then motioned to his men. He led the way through the long docking pylon and without ceremony entered the husky fighting ship Defiant. Until now it had lain silent at its post.
Kira inhaled the cool air inside as they moved through the passage onto the bridge. I'm gonna peel Garak when I see him.
The bridge was quiet, cool, even pleasant in a tomblike way, as if waiting for rebirth at the conjuring hands of those who had brought it here to deep space.
The High Gul assigned his three remaining men around the bridge, then pointed at Kira.
"Put her at the helm."
One of the huskies stuffed Kira into the navigator's seat, and he wasn't gentlemanly about it. The physical roughness was designed to show her that she had no choice but to stay here and do as they bade.
The High Gul ran his hand along the back of the command chair. "You know, I'm confused. If Captain Sisko has had this ship at his disposal all along, why has he not launched it himself and done battle with my colleague out there?"
"He was waiting for the planet to turn blue," Kira dashed off, simmering.
"Docking clamps can be released from here," a Cardassian at her far left said, from the engineering subsystems station, "but I'm not sure how to do it, High Gul. It would take a day to learn."
"Don't worry, Elto," the High Gul said.
Something pressed against Kira's bruised cheek. She flinched and looked. A Starfleet hand phaser.
"Release the docking clamps," the brawny animal beside her said. "Launch the vessel."
Kira pressed her hands flat on her thighs and tipped her head sideways, into the pressure of the phaser. "Get stuffed," she said.
She felt foolish, sitting here, knowing Odo was back in that crumbled corridor, left weakened and unable to help, having to deal with the death-littered deck, to stare into the face of Sisko and think of the loss. It had been one of her biggest unspoken fears—to be wounded, weakened, helpless on the field, unable to move the future, waiting for capture or death, not knowing which would be worse, knowing that to be rescued meant a burden for her companions.
Those were thoughts she had banished daily, but thinking of Odo brought them all forward.
"If you do not help," the High Gul said, buffeting the rage of his young soldier, "I will go to warp anyway. Rip the station apart."
She pulled away from the phaser and turned to peer at him. "You aren't the type to do your enemy's work."
The High Gul smiled. "I like that," he commented. "I hadn't thought that particular item about myself, but it's something to live up to."
"Congratulations," she said, "but I didn't actually mean it as a compliment."
"No, of course you didn't. Clus, take Koto and go to the engineering deck. Learn what you can and get ready for battle mode."
"Yes, High Gul."
The big ugly one—now, there was a definitive choice—took the injured one and disappeared into the turbolift. That left only the High Gul and Elto on the bridge.
"Tell me about Sisko," the leader parried while Elto struggled at the engineering subsystems controls. "I've been collecting perceptions about him. To exercise my mind."
"You killed him," Kira condensed. "Isn't that enough for you? It's over, isn't it?"
"But I am a soldier. I gather enemies. The quality of them is how I measure myself. We are all reflections of our enemies."
"You're a reflection of a nightmare. Have you looked in a mirror lately?"
He smiled. "No."
"You might as well, because I'm not going to sit here and carry on a conversation with you."
"Then I will talk. You tell me if I'm right. Captain Sisko was a man with nothing to lose. Enduring, sometimes unremarkable, always shy of the collisions he has felt in his life, and this pocked nightwalk upon which we turn has been his sanctuary. That's why he defended it so fiercely. Am I close about him?"
"I wouldn't know," Kira rebuffed. "I didn't know him very well."
"Oh? Why not?"
"We didn't like each other."
"Are you an officer in the unit Starfleet? A field commission? To appease the Bajorans into letting Starfleet operate this outpost, I would surmise. What is your position in the rank structure here? At first I thought you were a nurse, but then I saw you fight, and you are no nurse. Why do you live upon
a Starfleet outpost and wear the livery of its sentinels?"
She swung the seat a little toward him. "Look, Mr. Crescent, your goons jumped us and that's fair, but you're not going to get any information out of me. If you're going to have your gargoyles kill me, then make your point and get on with it."
"Yes," the High Gul said patiently.
Was the patience real or was he a good actor? Kira tried to read his face.
"Let me guess about you," he said, looking at her as if regarding a painting in a gallery. "I fancy myself talented at this, so tell me if I'm wrong. You are a dauntless line-walker, yes? You have inborn vitality, sanded to perfection by the harsh fugitive life you once led on Bajor during the decades of struggle against my people's occupation of your planet. I have to confess to you I respect you and your people for throwing us off. Then, you grew up defensive. Fiercely self-willed. Ready to run on vague instincts when necessary. You're inquisitive. Let me see your eyes … they're cold, but in a hot way. You're diligent, demonstrative, and you possess a will of iron. Am I close at all?"
She stared at him and battled for control over her expression. She'd stopped saying yes, but he was still getting it out of her face somehow.
Though the invaders' leader was a smaller man than the other bruisers, physically he showed signs of once having been strong, and he had a confident kind of demeanor that didn't come from bashing heads. Every time he asked a question, he looked her square in the eyes and waited for an answer, gave her time, even though she might not say anything. He never made a threat, but simply went on to the next question. He had a nice voice, too, and that was somehow unsettling. Bad guys were supposed to rumble and rasp and cackle a lot. Even over the faint buzz of the translators that allowed them to speak to each other, his voice thrummed with easy drama. This guy could read poetry.
"I think your life on Bajor was a trial," the High Gul estimated. "The scars show beneath your youth."
How did he know?
Chilling thoughts of Sisko rang and rang in her head, echoed grimly by the frrruuuummm of Gul Fransu's hits on the station above them, vibrating down through the ship every thirty seconds or so. They were like heartbeats now, part of the life and death of Deep Space Nine.