“Perhaps later,” said Picard. Geordi was leaning forward, anxious to say something. “Mr. La Forge?”
“In my opinion,” said the chief engineer, “the biggest problem is not the size of the thing but the exotic construction material you would need to establish a permanent site. At the mouth of an artificial wormhole, the outward radial pressure would be tremendous—like the tension at the center of the most massive neutron star. We haven’t got a building material that would stand up to that kind of pressure.”
“Geordi, are you forgetting Corzanium?” asked the android.
The engineer grinned, his pale artificial retinas glowing with mirth. “Come on, Data, there isn’t more than a teaspoonful of Corzanium in the whole Federation. It has to be quantum-stepped out of a black hole with a tractor beam run through a metaphasic shield enhancer. But if you had enough Corzanium, I suppose, it would do the trick.”
“The Dominion has considerable resources,” muttered Picard. “I’m afraid they also have the personnel, some of it ours. So this artificial wormhole could be a reality?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Data. “I believe we should take Captain Ro’s report seriously.”
That simple declaration dropped a pall over the meeting in the observation lounge. No one had to reiterate what a disaster it would be if the Dominion could bring through more Jem’Hadar warships, more unctuous Vorta, and more shapeshifting Changelings.
“We’ve got to go there and see for ourselves,” declared Picard. “If it exists, we have to destroy it.”
“Captain,” said Riker, stroking his beard thoughtfully, “I feel I should point out that what you’re proposing is … a suicide mission.”
The captain sighed. “And if we fail to go, and she’s right? That would be suicide for the entire Federation. I’m sending a message to Starfleet, asking them for permission to investigate Ro’s report. Thank you for your opinions—you are dismissed.”
Ro Laren sat in a small therapy room with Shon Navo, helping the young Bajoran exercise the repaired tendons in his right elbow and right knee. Of the injuries her crew had received, his were fairly mild, but the youth felt ostracized on this ship full of humans flying under the despised Starfleet insignia. Shon had known nothing but hatred for Starfleet for most of his life, and now he was being forced to depend upon their protection.
He bent and straightened his elbow as Ro monitored his progress on a medical tricorder. “Very good,” she said. “Ten more times, and we’ll work on your knee.”
Shon let his arm flop onto the table. “What’s the point? We’re all going to be killed, anyway—or put in prison.”
“We don’t know that. In our case, there’s a good chance we could be repatriated to Bajor.”
“If we could ever get close to it,” muttered Shon.
Ro frowned, unable to refute the fact that they were a long way from home, if indeed they could call anyplace “home.” Being homeless had taken its toll, and Shon was much like her—cynical, disillusioned, with no respect for authority. Now there would be more refugees, more prisoners, more damaged and neglected lives.
She took a sip from her glass of tomato juice and replied slowly, “The humans and their allies are not bad people. In fact, they trust too much, always looking for the best, even in Cardassians. If they survive this war, perhaps they won’t take so much for granted. The important thing is to realize that we’re all on the same side now.”
Shon’s bravado slipped for a moment, and he looked like the frightened youth he was. “But won’t they send us to a camp or a prison … just to wait until the Dominion finally gets us? Everybody says they’re losing the war!”
“Then look out for yourself. Fight if you have to, save people if you can, but survive. For once, it’s a good time to be Bajoran.” She rubbed his shoulder in a friendly gesture.
The door slid open, and Ro turned to see Captain Picard standing in the corridor, a concerned look on his face. Out of habit, Ro stiffened, tempted to bolt to her feet and stand at attention. Then she relaxed as she realized that they were now both captains of their own ships, a respect he had shown her in front of his crew. If she could only be sure that the rest of Starfleet would be as forgiving as Captain Picard, she would feel more comfortable about this new alliance.
He smiled at the boy as he entered. “I’m sorry to intrude, but it’s rather urgent that I speak to Captain Ro. I’m sure one of the orderlies would be happy to help you with your therapy.”
Ro gazed at the young Bajoran and nodded. With barely concealed hatred, the boy glared at Picard as he left, but the stalwart captain was too absorbed by more pressing concerns to notice.
“What’s going to become of my passengers and crew?” asked Ro.
“They’ll be protected, but if we lose the war—” Picard’s glower finished his sentence. “All I know is, if you’re correct about the Dominion building an artificial wormhole, then all is lost. Unless we destroy it. I’ve asked Starfleet for permission to investigate your report, and their response was … not entirely to my liking.”
He sighed. “They refuse to allow us to risk the Enterprise on such a mission. That leaves us the option of using another ship, preferably one which isn’t Starfleet and won’t arouse suspicion.”
Ro cocked her head and smiled. “Such as the Orb of Peace?”
“Precisely. Mr. La Forge says it can be repaired in thirty hours; that includes adding several improvements. A small, handpicked crew could slip into Cardassian space and deal with this threat, being careful not to endanger Federation prisoners.”
Ro’s smile grew larger. “Now you’re talking about a dangerous spy mission, followed by a major act of sabotage. If we’re captured, do you know how long the Cardassians will torture us? We’ll be begging for death.”
“I’m well versed in Cardassian torture,” answered Picard grimly. “If you’re worried about your crew and passengers, I’ll make sure they’re treated fairly; they’ll be compensated for the Orb of Peace. I’m only asking for the ship, not your participation—although I would welcome it.”
“I go with the ship. Besides, none of you know the Badlands like I do.” Hesitantly, Ro asked, “What will be our chain of command?”
“You’ll be captain of the ship, as you are,” answered Picard. “I’ll be in charge of the mission. I often find myself in your position with somebody else in charge of the mission, so this will be a nice change of pace for me.”
“Do you have any Bajorans on board?”
“No, but Dr. Crusher has gotten remarkably good at disguises over the years. She can alter humans to pass for Bajorans, even on scans. We’ll have a crew of fifteen, which is all I can spare. You know this mission has to succeed, don’t you?”
The smile faded from Ro’s gaunt face, and she looked like a soldier once again. “Yes. But you’re asking for too much if you think we can sneak into Cardassian space, find this thing, blow it up, and save all the prisoners. We have to be realistic—the prisoners are lost.”
“The mission comes first,” agreed Picard somberly. “All we can do for the prisoners is to scout the situation. Only by defeating the Dominion can we avenge the suffering of our comrades.”
Ro lifted her glass of tomato juice and gazed into the disheartened but determined eyes of Captain Picard. “Here’s to vengeance.”
Chapter Three
SAM LAVELLEFLOATED WEIGHTLESSLY through the void, his tethered space suit feeling like a gown of the finest silk against his chapped, grimy skin. The umbilical cord brought him air, security, and close scrutiny. Only when he tried to lift his arms too far above his head did he feel the restrictions of the cumbersome suit. Then he would relax and let himself float until he had found a better position in which to work on the exposed metal joint. He avoided using the jets on his suit, because they often caused him to overshoot his mark, losing precious seconds.
The large spanner in his hand had no weight—it felt like a feather—but it would make a formidable weapon, i
f he could only plant his feet. For the hundredth time that day, Sam fantasized about bringing the wrench crashing upon the head of his Jem’Hadar overseer.
“Number zero-five-nine-six,” said a gruff voice in his ear. “You are falling behind the prescribed timetable. You have fourteen minutes to tighten that seal, or you will lose your privileges.”
Sam held up his hand and waved, wondering if they could see that his middle finger was extended above the others. Probably not, with the thick, segmented gloves covering his hands. “Privileges” was a euphemism for food, water, oxygen, and a bunk—the bare minimum that was needed to stay alive. Those who lost their privileges only did so once or twice before they were expelled into space with the garbage.
His mind still wandering, Sam Lavelle stared down the length of the massive verteron collider, a skeletal tube over ten kilometers long and two kilometers wide. It was hard to envision the entire structure when all one could see of it were a few meters of spindly supports, surrounded by the daunting blackness of space.
The sight of thousands of space-suited workers, clinging to the structure like an army of inept spiders, gave him some perspective on its incredible length. The spectre of sleek Cardassian shuttlecrafts patrolling the center of the tube gave him some idea of its immense width. The fact that he hadn’t moved since the Jem’Hadar had ordered him to do so made Sam think that he was prepared to die.
But he couldn’t die, not now, when so many of his mates depended upon him. Through default and the force of his own personality, Sam had become the spokesperson for five hundred prisoners in Pod 18. He harbored few illusions that he was any more noble than his fellow captives, or any more likely to survive his imprisonment, but he was willing to speak up for them. For some reason, his jailers hadn’t been troubled enough to kill him … yet.
He latched on to the bolt with his spanner, read the digital printout on the handle, and tightened until the seal reached the prescribed tension. Two meters away, a cylindrical verteron accelerator looked down at him like a bizarre cannon, reminding him of the war. As far as he knew, the war could be over and the entire Federation enslaved. On the other hand, the frenetic pace of the work and the Dominion’s single-minded adherence to its schedules made it clear that the Federation was still a threat. The Dominion needed this wormhole.
And a remarkable achievement it was—a bridge to another quadrant, tens of thousands of light-years away. The artificial wormhole was a true mixture of Dominion and Federation technology, built by Federation and Dominion hands. It should have been a symbol of peace and cooperation; instead it sounded the death knell of the Federation.
Like thousands of other men and woman drifting inside the verteron collider or slaving in the laboratories or factories of the complex, Sam wondered how he could sabotage his own labor. Unfortunately, their work was tightly supervised, then inspected by Vorta engineers. Only when they started actual tests would they know if anyone had been successful in sabotaging the artificial wormhole. Sam waited for his moment to play the hero, but each passing day only brought the Dominion closer to its goals.
Like a robot trained to labor without thinking about the consequences, Sam finished checking the seal and logging it as completed. This was the last task to be completed on this segment, and he pushed himself away and drifted in space. There was no sensation in his body except lethargy and a gnawing hunger that could have been either his stomach or his soul.
Sam straightened his umbilical tether, watching it stretched back to the maintenance pod in the junction of six supports. “Ready to come in,” he reported.
“There will be a delay in retrieval,” answered the gruff voice of his overseer.
Sam breathed a loud sigh, which echoed in the hollow recesses of his helmet. He had just been threatened that if he didn’t finish on time he’d be punished, and now he had been told to continue drifting in space. Wondering what the delay could be, Sam twisted around to look in the opposite direction.
That’s when he saw it—a Cardassian tanker moving into position at the mouth of the verteron collider. Sam was no physicist, just a decent helmsman and navigator, but he knew that the gravitational and temporal forces would be greatest at the exit point of the wormhole. Only a few prisoners, kept in isolation, had seen the plans to construct that section of the collider. He assumed that it had to be a weak point in the machine, where sabotage could be very effective. Now he was about to watch an important development—from a distance of half a kilometer. He turned his dark brown eyes upon the figures in the distance.
Using the miniature jets on their suits, a squadron of workers maneuvered themselves into tight formation around the freight hatch at the aft of the tanker. There had to be fifteen white-garbed prisoners and an equal number of Jem’Hadar guards in gray space suits. Something big was coming off that tanker. With thousands of workers spread across ten kilometers, it was impossible to say that one spot was the center of attention, but Sam could feel the work halt as every eye and every viewscreen focused on the activity at the tanker.
The hatch opened, and what looked like a gleaming beam of sunlight emerged from the recesses of the tanker. Sam wished he could see more, but he also had a feeling that he didn’t want to be much closer than he was. When it cleared the hatch, the stack of pure energy looked to be about ten meters long and a meter wide. Like the pallbearers at a funeral, the workers took positions around the blazing object and guided it away from the tanker.
Sam guessed that the mysterious material was encased in a stasis field, or perhaps a forcefield. He didn’t think even the Dominion could use antimatter as a building material, but they treated this substance with the same respect.
The Cardassian tanker suddenly fired thrusters and tried to pull away. It got only a few meters when the space between the tanker and the glowing cargo rippled like a Texas highway in the summer heat. Sam caught his breath, knowing this chain reaction couldn’t be planned. Sure enough, the glowing material increased in brightness until it seared his eyes.
Squinting, Sam could see the white-suited workers firing their jets and fleeing in panic. Ignoring the danger, the gray-suited Jem’Hadar began firing on the fleeing workers. Phaser beams crisscrossed the blackness of space, and several of his colleagues exploded in their suits like helium balloons set afire. He gasped and held out his arms, unable to do anything but watch the tragedy unfold.
Those who escaped the massacre did not escape the deadly chain reaction that followed. The stasis field flickered out, and the glowing material within it expanded like a solar flare, engulfing the workers, the Jem’Hadar, the Cardassian tanker, and the collider. The tanker exploded in a vivid burst of silver confetti and golden gas clouds, and the mouth of the collider was consumed by a monstrous fireball.
Sam braced himself as the wake of the explosion struck him and flipped him over and over like a leaf caught in the wind. He could feel a momentary warming in his suit, which worried him until he crashed hard into a metal pylon. He caromed off the structure and spun to the end of his tether, which jerked him like a puppet on a string. He watched the tether stretch to a dangerous length, and he jammed on his jets in time to compensate.
Now Sam was hurtling in the opposite direction as debris from the explosion shot past him. Miraculously, none of it ripped his suit, and he was able to pilot himself back into a controlled drift behind a thick pylon. He finally had time to glance behind him, where it was complete chaos along the entire length of the collider.
Quickly Cardassian and Jem’Hadar ships converged on the scene of the disaster, but there was no one and nothing to be saved. People who had been his shipmates and fellow prisoners now floated in the void, little more than scraps of charred flesh and cloth. The Cardassian tanker was a quickly expanding sphere of dust.
“Stay where you are!” bellowed an angry voice in his ear. “Do not move!”
Sam barked a macabre, frustrated laugh. Scores of lives had been snuffed out in an instant of Cardassian carelessness, and al
l his captors could think about was preventing the escape of their slaves, most of whom were floating helplessly in space. Where could they go? How far could they run in a space suit containing a few minutes’ worth of breathable air, minus the cord?
If it weren’t so tragic, it would be funny, thought Sam Lavelle. Maybe this accident was a harbinger of good luck, and the artificial wormhole would never operate as planned. That might be good news for the Federation, but thousands of Federation prisoners would then become expendable, even more so than they were already. If it failed, no doubt the Dominion would take out their anger and frustration on the prisoners.
We’re all dead anyway, Sam decided as he floated aimlessly, watching a misshapen dust cloud in the distance. That massive cloud was called the Badlands, and it had once been a refuge of the Maquis. Now it was a tempting mirage, promising them escape and freedom, when there was little point in thinking about such goals.
His life had ended with the capture of the Aizawa, the cruiser on which he and his best friend, Taurik, had been serving as bridge officers. Sam couldn’t help but wonder if their previous ship, the Enterprise, had survived the war so far. He hadn’t met any prisoners from the Enterprise or heard of its fate, but that didn’t mean much. By now, the Enterprise could be a cloud of space junk, like the Cardassian tanker which sparkled all around him.
He thought back to those days aboard the Enterprise, where his closest friends included Taurik, Sito Jaxa, and Alyssa Ogawa. With all their neurotic fretting over crew evaluations and promotions, those days couldn’t be called carefree, but that group had real camaraderie. They were gung-ho. Jaxa’s death on a covert mission had been their first taste of reality, and of the sacrifices they would be called upon to make.
Something twinkled in the corner of his eye, and Sam was glad to turn his attention elsewhere. He twisted around to see a squat, bronze shuttlecraft hovering over his head. “Uncouple,” commanded a voice. “Prepare to be retrieved.”
Sam sighed and closed off the intake valve of his umbilical cord. He attached the spanner to its holder, unscrewed the valve, and watched the cord retract slowly into the maintenance pod. Sam floated free in space for a few seconds, thinking this was as close to freedom as he would ever come. A familiar tingle along his body alerted him that the transporter beam was scrambling his molecules.
Behind Enemy Lines Page 4
