Behind Enemy Lines

by John Vornholt

“Log her position,” ordered Picard glumly. “Someone can tow her in later. Alert sickbay and the transporter rooms to stand down—there’s no one to save here.”

  Data frowned at his readouts. “I am receiving two new distress signals in the same vicinity at a distance of six parsecs. One is Starfleet; the other is … Bajoran.”

  “Set course, maximum warp,” ordered Picard. “With all this killing, it would be nice to save even one life today.”

  Within minutes, the Enterprise was closing in on another pocket of death and destruction in the unforgiving bleakness of space. Picard could only hope that this time they would arrive soon enough to help.

  “Long-range scans show hostilities in progress,” reported Data. “An Ambassador-class starship, the Aurora, and an unknown Bajoran transport are engaged with a Jem’Hadar cruiser.”

  “Shields up,” ordered Picard. “As soon as we come out of warp, fire phasers and keep firing. Don’t give the Jem’Hadar time to react.”

  “Yes, sir,” snapped Ensign Craycroft on tactical. “Phasers ready.”

  “Coming out of warp in thirty seconds,” said Riker from the auxilary console. “I thought the Bajorans were neutral.”

  “This war doesn’t play favorites,” replied Picard. “On screen.”

  The Jem’Hadar battle cruiser looked like a bullet with short fins and a vibrant blue glow along her hull. She was chasing the Aurora through a thin, purplish gas cloud, exchanging fire with the crippled ship. Above the fray, a rectangular transport fired a photon torpedo at the Jem’Hadar cruiser, rocking it slightly. But the enemy had its sights set on the bigger ship, and was ignoring everything else.

  The captain tapped the comm panel on his chair. “Sickbay and transporter rooms, stand by for casualties.”

  With skillful piloting, the Enterprise dropped out of warp matching the speed and course of the enemy, and they bombarded the cruiser with phaser fire. Suddenly, the Dominion warship was caught in a three-way cross fire, yet the single-minded Jem’Hadar continued to pound the fleeing Aurora. To her captain’s credit, Aurora never stopped firing, even as a brace of torpedoes dissolved her port nacelle. The once-proud Starfleet ship fizzled like a dud firecracker before it lurched into a fatal spin.

  Picard wanted to commence rescue efforts, but they were too far away to use transporters. Unless they eliminated the Jem’Hadar cruiser, they would all suffer the same fate as the Aurora.

  “Target quantum torpedoes,” he ordered. “Ready to lower shields.”

  “Torpedoes targeted,” reported Ensign Craycroft.

  “Shields down. Fire!”

  Picard could only hope that the cruiser’s shields had been sufficiently softened during the battle. Nobody breathed on the bridge of the Enterprise as the torpedoes slammed into the Jem’Hadar craft. The first two shots blistered off the enemy’s shields, but the second two found their mark, chewing up the aft fins on the sleek craft. Even as explosions racked the Jem’Hadar ship, she came about and unleashed a withering blast of phaser fire that engulfed both the Enterprise and the plucky Bajoran transport.

  As the bridge rocked, the captain hung on to the arms of his chair. “Keep firing!” he shouted.

  Craycroft staggered back to her feet and pounded her console. At once, another bracket of torpedoes streaked from the saucer of the Enterprise into the Dominion ship. Energy rippled along the hull of the doomed cruiser, finally reaching her antimatter core, and she exploded in a violent shower of gas, flame, and debris.

  “Captain,” said Data. “The Bajoran craft is severely damaged. They are losing life-support.”

  “All transporter rooms, lock on to the Bajoran craft and begin transporting,” ordered Picard. “Med teams, report to transporter rooms.”

  He turned to Data. “The Aurora—”

  As if in answer to his unfinished question, the Ambassador-class starship erupted in an explosion greater than that which had claimed the Jem’Hadar ship. All of space seemed torn apart by the blast, which sent waves of sparkling confetti swirling into space.

  Picard’s shoulders slumped, and he turned away from the tragic sight on the viewscreen.

  “No survivors,” said Riker glumly.

  “Log it.” Picard turned back to the viewscreen, half-expecting the Bajoran transport to explode as well. But the small, unassuming vessel just hung there in space, still intact.

  “Captain,” said Data with a trace of puzzlement, “we have transported ninety-five wounded people off the Bajoran ship, and most of them are human.”

  “Human?” asked Picard. “Not Bajoran?”

  “Two of them are Bajoran,” replied the android.

  Riker frowned. “Maybe that explains why they were fighting the Dominion.”

  “Is the transport salvageable?” asked Picard.

  Data nodded. “Yes, sir. Except for the failure of life-support and artificial-gravity systems, it is relatively undamaged.”

  “If they’re civilians, they’ll need their ship,” suggested Riker. “She’s small enough that she won’t slow us down.”

  “Ready tractor beam,” ordered Picard. “Let’s be thankful that we were in time to save a few lives. Set course for the Kreel system. Maintain subspace silence.”

  The captain wasn’t anxious to find out how the battle had fared. From what he had seen today, he hardly expected victory. No doubt they had widened the front and won a few skirmishes here and there, but he couldn’t be optimistic that they had dealt a serious blow to the Dominion and Cardassian forces. They were fighting now to keep from being overrun, nothing more.

  “Tractor beam locked on,” reported the conn. “Course laid in.”

  “Maximum warp,” said the captain. “Engage.”

  The crew of the Enterprise were as brave as they come, yet there was a palpable sense of relief on the bridge once they were headed back to Federation space. Picard knew they could keep fighting—there was no shortage of Dominion ships along the ragged front—but his crew was exhausted. Sickbay was full of wounded civilians, and the Enterprise still had damage to repair. Despite a gnawing sense of guilt over having survived when so many other brave captains and crews hadn’t, Picard knew it was time to call it a day.

  He was rubbing his eyes and wondering if he had the energy to get up and get himself a cup of tea, when the comm panel beeped. “Picard here,” he answered wearily.

  “Jean-Luc,” said the familiar voice of Beverly Crusher. “I think you should come to sickbay.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “We’ve got gurneys spilling out into the corridor, but that’s normal these days.” She paused. “We beamed over somebody you know from the transport. I’ve sent for a security team.”

  That piqued his interest, and Picard rose to his feet. “I’ll be right there. Number One, you have the bridge.”

  Ro Laren! Picard stared in amazement at the unconscious figure stretched out on the observation table in sickbay. As if it wasn’t crowded enough, four gold-collared security officers stood guard around her table and the beds of several prominent Maquis officers. The captain never thought he would see his former lieutenant again, not in this lifetime, but here she was.

  Unbidden, a host of memories came cascading back to Captain Picard. He remembered when young Ensign Ro had first come aboard the Enterprise-D—she was already under a cloud and barely hanging on to her Starfleet commission. With her independent attitude and spotty record, Ro had instantly earned the distrust of Will Riker and half the crew, but they needed her to infiltrate a cadre of Bajoran terrorists. She had succeeded in that difficult task as she had in so many others, until she had finally become one of his most trusted officers.

  Then she had betrayed him and Starfleet.

  Or was it Starfleet that had betrayed Ro? After promoting her and training her in antiterrorist tactics, Admiral Nechayev had thrust her into a volatile situation in the Cardassian Demilitarized Zone. Perhaps it was inevitable that a renegade and underdog like Ro would sympathize with the
ultimate underdogs—the Maquis. At any rate, she had refused to betray them, opting instead to betray Starfleet. Fighting Federation colonists and former comrades had been the most painful duty of Picard’s career. But like so many other chapters of his life, it paled in comparison with the awful conflict that now engulfed them.

  He turned to Beverly Crusher. “Will she be all right?”

  “She’ll recover,” answered the doctor. “Another few seconds without air, and none of them would have survived. I can bring most of them back to consciousness, but do you think they’ll be a security risk?”

  Picard shook his head. “They were fighting the Dominion when we rescued them. I’m inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt.” He turned to the security officers. “Wait outside, on alert.”

  After the security detail had cleared out, it was a bit easier to move in sickbay, and Picard stationed himself at Ro’s bedside. He nodded to Beverly, and she administered a hypospray to the Bajoran’s neck.

  Slowly, wincing with fear and confusion, Ro Laren opened her eyes and struggled to sit up. When her vision focused on the concerned face of Captain Picard, she smiled weakly.

  “Then it’s true,” she said in amazement, “this really is the Enterprise. Am I under arrest?”

  “At the moment, you’re under my care,” said Beverly. “But I wouldn’t worry too much about Captain Picard—he went to considerable trouble to rescue you and your shipmates.”

  “Thank you.” Ro sat up and looked around. “How are my passengers?”

  “We saved all but five,” answered Beverly. “Should I log you down as captain?”

  “Yes,” she answered hoarsely. “Can we talk somewhere?”

  “Of course,” said Captain Picard. “We have a lounge on this ship, much like the old Ten-Forward room. It’s not the same as it used to be—with the war and all—but we could still go there.” The captain looked at Crusher, who nodded her assent.

  He tapped his comm badge. “Picard to Troi.”

  “Yes, Captain?” answered a lilting feminine voice.

  “Counselor, meet me in the lounge right away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ro swung her long legs over the side of the table and stood uneasily, holding the table for support. “Don’t trust me, Captain? Have to make sure I’m telling the truth?”

  “We are at war,” said Picard gravely.

  “Understood. Do you mind if I hold your arm? I’m a little wobbly.”

  “Of course.” Like the gentleman he was, Picard offered a steady arm to his former foe.

  It sure isn’t like it used to be, thought Ro Laren as she surveyed the deserted lounge. Only a small corner of the cavernous room was lit, with only a handful of tables open for business. Even so, there was nobody in the lounge but herself, Captain Picard, and Deanna Troi, who looked as confident and beautiful as always. Like Picard, Troi was dressed in a different Starfleet uniform than the ones she recalled. Evidently Starfleet’s sartorial requirements had changed since Ro’s departure.

  Captain Picard returned to their table with a tray full of beverages, dispensed from a replicator. “It’s self-service, I’m afraid,” said the captain apologetically. “Table service is a luxury we don’t have anymore. Nor do we have much time to sit and chat.”

  “I never thought I would say that it was good to see someone from Starfleet,” said Ro, grabbing her glass of tomato juice. “But it’s awfully good to see someone from Starfleet.”

  Deanna folded her hands and smiled pleasantly. “Suppose you tell us, in your own words, what happened to you?”

  Ro set her jaw and nodded. “To keep from incriminating myself, I won’t tell you what I was doing while we were still fighting the Federation. But life became peaceful for us after the Klingons went to war with the Cardassians, and Starfleet was fighting the Borg and others. Everyone forgot about us—we were even able to return to some of our old settlements.”

  She took a sip of tomato juice and smiled wistfully. “I used to grow my own tomatoes—they were much better than this.” Ro paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “You can guess what happened to us. When the Dominion came, they rearmed the Cardassians and turned them loose on their old enemies. We tried to be neutral, like the Bajorans, because we were all tired of fighting. It didn’t work. They destroyed our settlements and massacred us by the thousands.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Deanna with heartfelt sympathy.

  Ro shrugged. “It’s happening everywhere, isn’t it? The Maquis are nothing special anymore—just a bunch of pathetic refugees. Fortunately, I’m experienced at being a refugee—I know there’s a time to run and a time to fight. We set out to run to Bajor, but we decided to fight instead. When we came upon that starship in trouble, we joined in.”

  “That was either very brave, or very foolish,” said Picard.

  “That’s the story of my life,” answered Ro, leaning back in her chair. “So … am I under arrest?”

  “No,” answered Picard resolutely. “We haven’t got the luxury of holding grudges. I don’t need to tell you that the war is going badly.”

  Ro scowled. “I’m afraid I have some more bad news for you, Captain. The Dominion is building an artificial wormhole deep in Cardassian space.”

  “What?” asked Picard, a stricken look in his face. “Are you certain about this?”

  “I’m certain.” She looked at Deanna Troi. “Tell him I’m certain.”

  Deanna sighed. “She’s certain.”

  “They may be using Federation prisoners to build it,” added Ro. “Slave labor.”

  Picard rose to his feet, his cup of tea untouched. “Could you repeat this for my staff? They may have questions.”

  The Bajoran nodded solemnly. “I will, but I want clemency for all my passengers.”

  “That’s not mine to grant,” answered the captain. “But we have your transport in tow, and Data says it can be repaired. Excuse me.”

  He strode from the lounge, his back stiff with resolve. Ro watched him leave, then shook her head in amazement. “Still the same Captain Picard.”

  “Yes,” agreed Deanna. “Still the best there is.”

  Ro Laren finished her report and dropped her hands to her sides, gazing expectantly at the officers gathered in the observation lounge. In her face was that odd mixture of intensity and indifference which Picard had come to expect from her. She hadn’t given them any more than a secondhand account, hadn’t furnished any proof, yet her statement was chilling, especially the account of ships full of Federation prisoners. They all knew that to be a tragic fact.

  Still the captain could see doubt in the eyes of some of his staff, especially Will Riker’s. Or perhaps Will’s troubled expression was due to the disastrous implications of Ro’s story. If the Dominion possessed an artificial wormhole in Cardassian space, then the mines in front of the Bajoran wormhole would be worthless. In fact, the Bajoran wormhole itself would be worthless, and ripe for destruction. The Dominion could stop protecting Deep Space Nine and move on to other objectives, such as Earth.

  “Any questions?” concluded Ro.

  “Why would they build this thing so close to the B adlands?” asked Riker suspiciously.

  “I would guess that they assumed the Badlands would obscure it from your long-range sensors.”

  “That would do it,” agreed Geordi La Forge.

  “Could you locate this artificial wormhole on a chart?” asked Riker.

  “Approximately,” answered Ro. “I’ve never seen it, but I know Sector 283 fairly well.”

  Riker scowled. “You’re sure of the reliability of the person who told you this?”

  Ro’s jaw stiffened, and her eyes became flint-cold. “I’m sure of everything that man told me. He never lied, had no reason to. He was certain that the Federation was going to lose this war, which is why he wanted to make friends with the Dominion.”

  After an uncomfortable silence, Picard managed a smile. “Thank you, Captain Ro. Ensign Crayc
roft will escort you back to sickbay. I believe that most of your passengers have recovered.”

  The lean Bajoran glanced at the gleaming models encased on the wall of the observation lounge—all ships named Enterprise—and she smiled wistfully. “Many times I thought about how I was such a fool to throw all of this away. And what happens? I find you—the Enterprise—in the same condition as me; we’re all fighting for our lives. It’s funny how time reduces everything to the essentials.”

  “I don’t see anything funny about it,” muttered Riker. His scowl softened slightly. “But I’m very glad that we were able to rescue you, and thank you for coming to the aid of the Aurora.”

  “We can’t choose where to die, only how to die.” Ro Laren glanced at the security officer at her side. “I’m ready to go.”

  Ensign Craycroft touched a panel. The door opened, and she escorted the Bajoran out.

  As soon as the door snapped shut again, Riker declared, “She’s still a traitor. On top of that, we have absolutely no proof of her story. It could be a trap.”

  “Counselor Troi detected no prevarication.” Troi nodded in confirmation. Captain Picard paced the length of the gleaming conference table. “We knew they were taking prisoners, but we didn’t know why. Ro is the first person we’ve interviewed who has actually been living behind enemy lines.”

  “Judging by her general health,” said Beverly Crusher, “she hasn’t been living in luxury.”

  “I believe she is telling the truth,” added Deanna Troi. “At least as far as she knows it.”

  “That’s the catch,” said Picard. “Is this fact or rumor? Either way, we can’t ignore it. Data, is an artificial wormhole even possible?”

  “In theory, yes,” answered the android. “Three years ago, a team of Trill scientists, led by Doctor Lenara Kahn, set out to answer that very question. Using the Bajoran wormhole as a model, they determined that constructing an artificial wormhole would be possible, although there are many problems to be overcome. Without any working prototypes, one would have to construct a verteron collider of at least eight kilometers in length. I could give you a more exact estimate, if you wish.”