He materialized inside the transporter room of the shuttlecraft, with three Jem’Hadar guards training their weapons at him. “Move!” ordered one of them, brandishing his phaser in a threatening manner.
Sam staggered off the transporter platform, suddenly clumsy and leaden in his space suit. His captors looked particularly edgy today, and usually he was met by only one or two of them, not three. Under the cold gaze of their pinched, spiny faces, Sam quickly stripped down to nothing. He dropped his suit into a chute in the deck and stood there, shivering in his nakedness.
Modesty and decency had long been abandoned in this weightless and silent hell, and Sam was ushered into a holding cell where three male and four female prisoners huddled, all naked. They looked wild-eyed and spooked from their recent brush with disaster.
At one time, seeing young women nude would have excited the handsome lieutenant, but now they were nothing but victims, stripped of their humanity and will. They were his sisters in this dark tragedy, not objects of desire. All of them needed a bath, and there was no pretext of trying to maintain proper appearance. Like most of the males, Sam sported a dark, ragged beard. Even Taurik, who was normally as fastidious as any other Vulcan, looked unkempt as he sat stoically with his naked back resting against a cold bulkhead.
Sam nodded wearily to his fellow prisoners as he slumped down beside Taurik. Just outside the forcefield entrance of the cell, an armed Jem’Hadar stood watching them. Sam wondered if he would allow the prisoners to talk. Some Jem’Hadar guards didn’t care, while others strictly forbade talking among the prisoners until they were locked safely in their pods. Cardassian guards, who loved to be overbearing, would often beat prisoners for talking.
Deciding to test the guard, Sam turned to Taurik and asked softly, “What did you think of that explosion?”
The Vulcan cocked his head thoughtfully, as if he had been asked a normal question under normal circumstances. “It appeared to result from the mishandling of a very volatile material. Possibly a stasis field was disturbed. I could only speculate on the material they are using to build the mouth of the wormhole.”
A loud shuffling grabbed their attention, and the prisoners looked up to see two Jem’Hadar guards dragging an injured human with burns over most of his naked body. They carried the injured man like a bag of garbage and flung his body into an open cell. If he was still alive, it couldn’t possibly be for long—unless he got treatment soon.
One of the male prisoners began to weep. They all knew the man would never get treatment, or even a funeral. He would die, alone and forgotten, in a cage.
Sam turned to the man and said, “It’s all right. Stay alive, so we can remember this.”
“I don’t want to stay alive,” rasped the man in despair. “And I certainly never want to remember any of this!”
“He’s a collaborator,” hissed a woman, glaring at Sam.
“That is inaccurate,” replied Taurik. “Lieutenant Lavelle has volunteered to be Liaison Officer of Pod Eighteen, which does afford him more access to our captors than a typical prisoner has. But in no sense is he aiding and abetting the enemy as a true collaborator would do. He argues on our behalf.”
“Never mind, Taurik,” muttered Sam. “Let them think what they want.”
“This one is all right,” grumbled the oldest of the four women, a lean Klingon with scars over most of her body. “You want a collaborator, you take that turncoat Trill—Enrak Grof! Give me a knife, and I will slice the worm right out of him!”
“I believe Professor Grof is an unjoined Trill,” said Taurik. “But I agree with you—he is a collaborator in the accepted sense of the word.”
Sam looked at his friend, wondering if he had detected a trace of bitterness in the Vulcan’s tone. He couldn’t blame Taurik if he was bitter, because Enrak Grof was close to solving one of science’s most elusive puzzles, unraveling the mysteries of wormholes and actually re-creating a tunnel through space and time. In exchange for this privilege, Grof was collaborating with the enemy. His name was all over schematics and memos, and he seemed to rank in importance with the Vorta engineers. He was particularly useful in telling the Dominion what kind of work best suited their prisoners.
Come to think of it, maybe Grof did deserve to be gutted with a dull Klingon knife.
Taurik shook his head. “It is highly unlikely that any of us will get an opportunity to harm Professor Grof. To my knowledge, few prisoners have seen him since his capture on Deep Space Nine.”
“How was he captured?” asked the youngest woman. Swapping capture stories was a favorite pastime among the prisoners.
“He refused to abandon his experiments on the Bajoran wormhole,” answered Taurik, “and was captured when the Dominion took over. This would indicate that his work is more important to him than anything else.”
“Even his honor,” hissed the Klingon woman. “He may not have a worm inside of him, but he is a worm.”
“They pulled me out of an escape pod,” said the youngest woman with a haunted look in her pale eyes. Her freckles went all the way down her back.
A clank and a slight shudder informed Sam that they had docked at the pod complex. Although he had never seen it from the outside, he imagined that it looked like a giant model of a complex molecule, with long, narrow shafts connecting large, windowless spheres in which both they and their jailers lived. The place felt decentralized, with easily defended modules instead of a central hub. At any rate, it was unheard of for anyone to escape from the pod complex. Where would they go, surrounded by freezing space?
Sam often thought about stealing a ship, but their captors never left the shuttlecraft docked for more than a few seconds. Both the Jem’Hadar and Cardassians were skilled and experienced jailers, and they considered every possibility.
“Lucky devils,” muttered one of the men. “The ones who died, I mean.”
No one disputed the man’s morbid assessment. Some days, it did seem as if death was a preferable option to numbing, soulless labor that would only benefit the enemy. The war and imprisonment had made death a constant fixture of their lives, like the darkness of space.
Armed Jem’Hadar gathered around the cell, and one of them turned off the forcefield. Waving their weapons, they ushered the prisoners out of the cell and into the gangway. Most of the prisoners made a point of not looking at the dying man in the adjoining cell, but Sam pointed at him.
“Can’t you do something to help him?” demanded Sam.
“He is damaged,” replied a Jem’Hadar. “Move along.”
Sam thought about arguing, but the Jem’Hadar treated their own with the same disregard. The strong survived, and the weak were best weeded out. Besides, to die in the service of the Founders was the greatest reward of all for a Jem’Hadar, and why should prisoners be any different? Did they grieve the loss of their comrades in the accident? No. Their only reaction was to increase security and cut short the work shift.
He followed the others down the gangway, through the hatch, and into the freight pod. Situated near the outer bulkhead, the hold was freezing, and the prisoners hurried to grab frayed white jumpsuits from a rack of used clothing. They gratefully covered their shivering bodies.
The woman who had accused Sam of being a collaborator gave him an embarrassed glance. He nodded, knowing the glance was as close as he would ever come to receiving an apology. In this place, distrust was easier to come by than hope. The guards motioned the females into the turbolift marked with vertical red stripes, and the men shuffled silently toward the turbolift with the horizontal blue stripes. There was a good chance they would never see each other again.
Sam had once demanded that the women and the men be housed together, but a Jem’Hadar had informed him that pregnant women would have to be killed. That was as far as the request went.
Taurik, Sam, and the other man entered the lift and waited for the door to close. The Jem’Hadar guards were smart—they never rode the turbolifts with the prisoners, preferrin
g to avoid tight places where their charges could jump them and take their weapons. Come to think of it, Sam had never known the Jem’Hadar to be careless or make mistakes. They would fight to the death if ordered to do so, but it would be a controlled, measured suicide.
As the men rode in the cramped turbolift, Sam wondered for the hundredth time if there was any escape from the seamless chamber. A prisoner named Neko had once told him that he could escape from the turbolift, but Sam had never seen Neko again after that boast.
The door opened, and a gruff voice said, “Prisoner three-six-one-nine, this is Pod Fifteen. Exit now.” The man who envied the dead shuffled off the lift and vanished down a narrow corridor.
When the door shut, Sam and Taurik continued their diagonal journey. The long turbolift rides were the main reason why Sam envisioned the complex as being individual pods separated by long shafts. Not that it made much difference, but it was something to think about when a person was trying to avoid thinking.
“It has been a difficult day,” said Taurik in the Vulcan equivalent of small talk.
“Yes, it has been,” agreed Sam. “And the most difficult days are ahead of us.”
Somehow, before their work was done, they would have to revolt and try to destroy the artificial wormhole. Certainly it would be the day they all died in utter futility, but the effort had to be made—or they couldn’t live with themselves. But each day, if they could be called days, slithered by with lethargy and hopelessness as the prisoners’ constant companions.
The door slid open, and a gruff voice said, “Prisoners zero-five-nine-six and zero-five-nine-seven, this is Pod Eighteen. Exit now.”
Sam and Taurik filed off the turbolift into the dimly lit corridor which led to their barracks. After a walk through a featureless hallway, they came upon a narrow metal hatch, which snapped open at their approach. Sam entered a high-ceiling room which always reminded him of the gymnasium in the basement of his church in Brooklyn. It had the same sort of Spartan, no-nonsense utility.
Five hundred bedrolls lay on the floor, and most of them were occupied with bored male prisoners representing a score of Federation species, from blue-skinned Andorians to beaked Saurians. They sat staring at the observation lenses along the ceiling, from where, it was assumed, the guards stared down at them.
Half a dozen prisoners rushed Sam and Taurik as they entered. “Did you see it? We heard there was an accident! What exactly happened out there?” they demanded in a babble of voices.
Sam motioned them to be calm, then he told them what he had witnessed, not mentioining how many prisoners had been caught in the explosion.
“Were there many casualties?” asked a young ensign.
Sam shrugged. “Only a few of ours, but they lost a tanker full of Cardassians and a bunch of Jem’Hadar guards.”
“All right!” crowed a prisoner, thrusting his fist into the air. An excited discussion ensued.
Taurik shot Sam a look that said that he recognized the lie but wouldn’t correct it. Like all of them, the Vulcan had learned to deal differently with the world since becoming a slave laborer. Taurik was willing to overlook the truth if it gave some comfort to his dispirited comrades.
A twinge of pain reminded Sam that he had crashed hard into the metal supports, and he rubbed his shoulder. “What time is it?” he muttered. “Time for chow?”
“More than an hour to go, we think,” answered a prisoner. They were driven by chronometers while outside working, but timepieces were not allowed inside the prison pods. There was no day or night to measure the passage of time, and the jailers never changed the lighting. Still the prisoners kept a running estimate, as best they could, based on changes of shifts and meal delivery.
A klaxon blared, causing Sam to jump nervously. He stared up at the observation lenses in the ceiling, as did hundreds of his fellow prisoners. The excited conversation dissolved into an apprehensive whisper.
“Prisoner zero-five-nine-six, prepare to exit,” said a voice.
Sam licked his lips nervously and stepped toward the door. With a jovial smile, he told the others, “I’ll see you later at chow.” They stared at him with a disconcerting mixture of fear, distrust, and envy.
The door flew open, and Sam stepped into the dimly lit corridor. When the door slid shut behind him, leaving him alone, he felt ostracized from his fellow prisoners. It was getting harder and harder to cap his temper and remain cordial to everyone—when all of them expected so much of him. More than anything, Sam just wanted to keep the lines of communication open between captors and captives. They weren’t animals, as long as they could communicate their needs and wants.
He heard footsteps, and he turned to see an armed Jem’Hadar marching his way. The guard was flanked by a short Vorta named Joulesh, whom Sam had met only twice before when making official requests. He was not in the habit of meeting with the Vorta; usually a Cardassian glinn was as high as he got.
“This is quite an honor,” said Sam, keeping his sarcasm in check.
“You have no idea of the honor,” replied Joulesh with an enthusiastic smile. “It is only the beginning.”
The little humanoid turned on his heel and strode briskly down the corridor. Under the stern gaze of the guard, Sam followed him. To his surprise, the Vorta stepped into the turbolift and motioned him aboard. Sam entered, expecting the Jem’Hadar guard to follow, but he remained behind in the corridor, glowering at them. The door shut, and they began to move.
Joulesh wrinkled his nose at Sam. “I wish we’d had an opportunity to clean you up somewhat, but this is an emergency. We’ll make do. I advise you to behave.”
“That depends on what you plan to do to me,” said Sam.
The Vorta’s silvery eyes twinkled. “What happens to you depends entirely on your interview. You aren’t the only candidate for this post. However, I have been keeping an eye on you, and I believe you are the one.”
“May I remind you that I’m a prisoner of war,” said Sam, “not an employee of the Dominion, Incorporated.”
The Vorta brushed some lint off his elegant, silver-brocaded jacket. “You are an asset of the Dominion. Whether you fulfill your potential or end up as waste is your decision. Thus far, you have proven yourself an able worker, and you have tried to improve relationships between our people. These traits could take you far in the Dominion.”
Sam forced himself to keep still and not argue with the popinjay. The fact that the Dominion operated under the guise of business and mutual cooperation didn’t make them any less a dictatorship. He wondered how long it would take the Cardassians to realize that they were the lackeys in this operation—temporary help until more fleets of Jem’Hadar warships arrived.
“I wish the Federation could understand that we only want to bring them under our protection and influence,” said Joulesh, sounding like a used shuttlecraft salesman. “Your people don’t do us any good if you are dead or imprisoned.”
“Then let us go,” suggested Sam.
As the door slid open, the Vorta gave him an amused smirk. “We might do so, one at a time. Follow me.”
They walked down a well-lit corridor that actually had doorways and multiple exits … and no Jem’Hadar guards. Sam followed Joulesh into a second turbolift, which had diagonal yellow markings on it. This lift was the deluxe version, Sam decided, as he inspected the plush carpeting and tasteful instrument panel. The lifts he rode were controlled from outside, and this one was controlled by Joulesh’s deft fingers. After a trip so smooth that Sam couldn’t tell they were moving, the door opened.
“Remember,” warned the Vorta, “you are about to meet a god.”
The words didn’t register until Sam stepped off the turbolift and found himself in a large observation lounge, with a spread of food and drink in one corner and a lovely window in the other. A few people were scattered about, but the scent of food commanded Sam’s attention. Halfway across the room, he saw a remarkable creature—a slim figure dressed in a sparkling beige robe�
�standing like an angel at the head of the table. His features were hairless and oddly unformed, as if this incarnation were so simple that it didn’t require much detail.
A Founder! thought Sam with alarm. It was the first Changeling he had ever seen, and he wasn’t certain how to react. Joulesh was practically scraping the floor, so Sam gave his host a respectful bow. He couldn’t offer his hand as he could scarcely imagine touching such an ephemeral creature. Despite his halfhearted attempt at a humanoid appearance, the Changeling looked more like an illusion than a real being.
Sam reminded himself that a handful of Changelings had nearly destroyed the Klingon Empire from within. It was disconcerting to know that the creature in front of him could morph into any object or person in the room.
There were other persons in the lounge, and Sam looked at them, wondering if they were really what they seemed. Two Jem’Hadar guards were stationed near a golden basin, and a second Vorta conferred in whispers with Joulesh. Standing by the observation window was a hulking man in a white laboratory coat; he had an uncouth brown beard and brown spots running down his forehead, temples, and neck into his collar.
Enrak Grof. It has to be him, thought Sam. This was quite a meeting. If his cellmates knew he was in this company, he would never be trusted again.
Sam edged toward the food. “Excuse me,” he asked the Changeling, “may I eat?”
“Not until the Founder has blessed the food,” cautioned Joulesh, sounding aghast at his impertinence.
“It is allowed,” said the Founder in a silky voice, nodding at his minion. Bowing low, the Vorta backed away.
Sam attacked a plate of what looked like ham. He didn’t care what it was, as long as it was solid food that wouldn’t kill him. Assuming he would probably say no to whatever proposal they offered him, Sam figured he should eat as much as he could before they kicked him out.
Behind Enemy Lines Page 5
