“Yes,” snapped the Trill. “Being unjoined has never been a detriment here. They recognized me as a man of science. In many respects, the Dominion represents a clean slate for the Alpha Quadrant.”
“That seems to be what they’re going for—a clean slate with us wiped out. And you’re helping them.” Sam inwardly cursed his one-track mind. This was the very same conversation he had just tried to derail.
Grof stroked his beard and looked around. Then he lowered his voice to say, “Don’t you see, this technology cuts both ways—it allows us to attack them through wormholes of our making. It democratizes the galaxy.”
He shook his spotted head. “To depend on a natural wormhole inhabited by semi-mythological beings—only seen by one person—is absurd. What we’re creating here is the transportation of the future, as important as warp drive or artificial gravity! Ships won’t need to carry dangerous fuel like antimatter, because artificial wormholes will take you to the next solar system or the next quadrant in seconds.”
“And with slave labor, you’ll have plenty of people to keep building them,” muttered Sam. “But suppose I’m hardly any better than you. My friends think I’m a brave soul who disappeared fighting the good fight, and here I am with decent food and my own ship. That reminds me, where do I sleep?”
“Right here.” Grof motioned around the cramped, utilitarian bridge. “The captain’s quarters are quite nice, I understand. There is even a sleeping alcove directly behind us, off the bridge.”
Sam looked behind him and saw a small, curtained lounge where there would be a ready room on a Starfleet vessel. “Yes, this crate was built for long-range hauls. Well, if this is going to be home for a while, let’s see what kind of entertainment we have.”
He tapped the console, and the main viewscreen flickered on. A row of closed airlocks greeted Sam’s eyes for a few seconds; then the angle cut to a view of empty cargo holds, followed by vistas of the verteron collider and the prison complex. To Sam’s delight, the spheres and shafts of the complex did look like a giant molecule floating in space.
“Hey, we’re patched into the security feed,” said Sam. “There’s nothing like being part of the gang.”
They were treated to several tantalizing glimpses of various spacecraft docked around an outer sphere. Sam plied the console and found a way to cycle more quickly through the images until he found their own oblong tanker. Its hull was gray with yellow stripes, and it was mostly featureless except for the dents and pits.
“That’s us, huh? We won’t win any beauty contests.”
Sam continued paging through the images until they had inspected a number of interesting locations, including laboratories, factories, and guard posts. He could see Grof getting nervous about scanning the security channel, and he was about to stop when they were suddenly thrust into a women’s prison pod. Sam looked away with embarrassment, hoping the scene would switch soon.
A blur of action caught his eye, and Sam looked back at the screen to see a squad of twenty or so Cardassians rush into the pod. The Cardassians were wielding clubs and were wearing vests, helmets, and riot gear; they quickly surrounded the unarmed prisoners. The free-cycling program chose that moment to cut to another pod, which was full of bedrolls but otherwise empty. Sam frantically worked the controls, trying to page back to the first pod.
“Don’t,” said Grof softly.
Sam ignored him and finally cut back to the occupied pod. Two Cardassian guards were holding a woman by her arms and shaking her violently, while a glinn grilled her. There was no sound, and Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away from the viewscreen to find it on the console. The other guards herded the prisoners away from the action, but the women pushed closer, anxious to see what was happening to their comrade. It looked like a disaster in the making, and Sam gripped the handrail in front of him.
Sure enough, when the glinn struck the woman across her face, her fellow prisoners revolted. This resulted in a ruthless crackdown, as the club-wielding Cardassians waded into the women, forcing them against the walls. As Sam watched in horror, he was glad there was no sound.
Grof finally reached over and pounded the console, turning off the viewscreen. By the stricken look on his face, it seemed as if the Trill was about to have a heart attack, or maybe an attack of conscience.
“See, they have a good use for the Cardassians,” hissed Sam. “I’m not sure Federation personnel could replace them.”
Grof sputtered, looking as if he wanted to say something but had no words. He hurried off the bridge of the Tag Garwal, and Sam heard his footsteps clomping down a ladder to the lower deck.
Despite a rush of murderous impulses, Sam tried to stay calm. He thought about turning the viewscreen back on, but what was the point? His hatreds were already etched into his soul, and watching more atrocities wouldn’t change anything. He had to maintain his cool, jaded façade until there came a chance to strike hard against the Dominion—or die trying.
Eventually Sam put on the viewscreen, but he tuned it to an innocuous view of the starscape, dominated by the swirling gases and dust of the Badlands. In all of this vast universe was there no one to help them? Where was the might of Starfleet, and the vaunted resources of the Federation?
For all he knew, the war could be over, and no one was out there to give a damn. In which case, maybe he should be looking out for number one, as he pretended.
Sam reclined in the alcove off the bridge and tried to sleep, but his mind kept dwelling on images of space-suited prisoners, exploding like balloons in the cold darkness of space.
Ro Laren stood on the bridge of the Orb of Peace, marveling at the appearance of her crew. Dressed in rust-colored uniforms with dangling earrings and pronounced nose ridges, they could have been the cream of Bajoran youth. Of course, there was the older Bajoran sitting at the conn station. He was mostly bald except for two tufts of unruly gray hair hanging over his ears, which made him look vaguely absurd and absentminded, like an old librarian. His earring was also slightly askew, and Ro couldn’t help but to smile at her former captain.
“She’s your ship,” said the pilot. “Take her out.”
“I’m going to need a code name to call you by,” said Ro. “Your real name is a bit too well known. Do you know who you remind me of? Boothby, the old gardener at the Academy.”
Picard grinned. “That’s quite a compliment, as I had Boothby in mind when we devised this disguise. Not very Bajoran, of course, but it will pass for a nickname—and a code name.”
“Okay, Boothby, set our course for the Badlands.” Ro tapped her comm badge, a distinctive Bajoran design of a sphere and a fin, surrounded by concentric ovals. “Ro to La Forge. Is everything ready?”
“Yes, sir,” came the cheerful voice of Starfleet’s best engineer. “We’ll coax every parsec we can out of our warp drives, but this isn’t a long-range craft. We can’t cruise hours on end at maximum warp.”
“I know we’re not going to outrun or outfight anybody,” agreed Ro. “Stealth and guile—that’s what I learned from the Maquis.”
“That’s well and good,” said La Forge, “but I’m also worried about those plasma storms in the Badlands.”
“There are bubbles of calm in the storms,” explained Ro. “That’s why you have me along. Did you run the scans?”
“Yes. We’ll register as a Bajoran ship on anything but the most detailed inspection. Biological scans came up all Bajoran, too.”
“Thank you, La Forge. Bridge out.” Ro tapped her comm badge again and said, “Orb of Peace to Enterprise: we are ready to launch.”
Captain Riker’s somber face appeared on the viewscreen. He was still exhibiting his displeasure over this mission. “Launch sequence completed. We are opening shuttlebay doors. Good hunting.”
“Thank you,” answered Ro. The viewscreen shifted to an impressive view of the thick doors and smooth silver walls that enclosed them. The sight only served to remind her how large the Enterprise was—her transport had been
swallowed whole inside one shuttlebay. Slowly the huge doors slid open, revealing the star-studded depths of space beyond the womb of the Enterprise.
Ro nodded to the conn. “Take us out, one-quarter impulse to a thousand kilometers.”
“Yes, sir,” snapped the dark-skinned woman.
Picard smiled at his captain. “By the book. You still remember procedures.”
“Old habits,” said Ro with a shrug. “They seem to work.”
With thrusters firing, the boxy transport lifted off the deck of the shuttlebay and floated out the open door. Picking up speed while it rushed past the twin nacelles of the Enterprise, the Orb of Peace soared into space.
Chapter Five
SAM HEARD FOOTSTEPS on the ladder, and he turned away from the ops console to see a thin, cadaverous-looking Cardassian emerge onto the bridge of the Tag Garwal. His first reaction was to grab a weapon to protect himself, but then he realized that it had to be official business. He was part of the gang now, Sam reminded himself; and this was his ship.
Nevertheless, the Cardassian gave him a suspicious glare as he stepped aside and let the elegant Vorta, Joulesh, rise from the hatch and join them on the bridge. Footsteps continued clattering on the ladder, and a moment later Taurik’s head popped out of the hatch. The graceful Vulcan lifted his lanky body from the hole and stood before Sam, looking nonplussed by this sudden change in fortune.
“Taurik!” exclaimed Sam with delight. He started to rush forward to embrace his friend when he remembered where he was, and with whom. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you,” said Taurik with a slight nod. “There are more of us.”
He stepped aside to allow four more dazed Starfleet officers to join them on the bridge. Unlike the Vulcan, their faces ran the gamut from confusion to curiosity, and they glanced with apprehension at the Cardassian and the Vorta.
“Here is your crew,” said Joulesh with pride, “except for Professor Grof, who will join us shortly. I believe you know Lieutenant Taurik.”
“Yes.”
The Vorta motioned to the remaining two men and two women, who were unfamiliar to Sam. All looked to be older, career officers. “Chief Leni Shonsui, transporter operator; Commander Tamla Horik, tractor-beam operator; Chief Enrique Masserelli, stasis engineer; and Lieutenant Jozarnay Woil, material handler. All were department heads on their own ships.”
The Vorta smiled, quite pleased with himself. “Two men and two women. Two are human, one is Deltan, and the other is Antosian. When you include the Vulcan and the Trill who are part of our team, I believe we have put together a representative cross section of the Federation. All humanoids, I’m afraid. I would have liked to have a Horta or one of your more exotic species, but this ship is built for humanoids.”
Sam pointed to the Cardassian on the suddenly crowded bridge. “What’s he doing here?”
“Trainer,” answered Joulesh. “I know you pride yourself on knowing everything, but you are bound to have questions which can only be answered by an experienced officer. In particular, I’m concerned with tractor-beam operations.”
The Vorta clapped his hands together. “I almost forgot—I should introduce you. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the ship’s captain, Lieutenant Sam Lavelle.”
The newly summoned crew looked suspiciously at Sam, as if he were one of the unfamiliar consoles that surrounded them. He couldn’t expect to have this crew’s loyalty or respect, so he would have to make do with their fear and curiosity. Plus Sam knew he would have their instincts for survival on his side.
“How much have any of you been told?” he asked.
“Very little,” answered Taurik. “I was told that I was needed for a special task. Until I saw you here, I considered it likely you were dead.”
“Likely, but not quite.” Sam scratched his bare chin, which he had shaved for the first time in weeks. He was also wearing a nondescript but new blue jumpsuit, while his shipmates were still dressed in rags, with unkept hair and unshaven faces.
“It’s very simple,” he began. “We’re going on a mining expedition to extract Corzanium from a black hole. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”
Woil, the Antosian material handler, gaped at him. “Corzanium? But we’ve only been able to extract that in minute quantities. What are they going to do with it?”
“Reinforce the mouth of the collider,” answered Sam bluntly. “But that’s not our concern. We have a ship and a job to do—if we’re successful, they’ve promised us our freedom.”
His new crew stared at him with expressions ranging from incredulity to belligerence. Taurik merely looked thoughtful. Can’t they read between the lines? thought Sam with frustration. In the company of a Vorta and a Cardassian, they weren’t going to be able to talk frankly. It was time for this group to realize that they were being given a rare opportunity.
Sam thought back on how frustrated Grof had been when he hadn’t jumped immediately at the chance to join up. He frowned. “I know none of you volunteered for this duty, but you were specially chosen. Each of you impressed our captors in some way or another. If you don’t want to join this detail and go back into space, just let me know. You can go back to your pods and your normal duties.”
With a half smile on his face, Joulesh looked curiously at Sam. Both of them knew that these people were never going back to their regular pods and work routines, no matter what happened. When no one called Sam’s bluff, the Vorta allowed himself a full smile.
“Very well,” said Joulesh. “Shall we begin?”
After securing clean uniforms for everyone and taking a tour of the tanker, they began the long process of familiarization. There was special emphasis on operations of the bridge stations, tractor beam, transporter room, stasis fields, and the antimatter containers that had been converted to store Corzanium. By the end of the day, the reluctant crew members had embraced the challenges of their task and were offering suggestions on how to proceed. Sam could tell that Joulesh was quite pleased by their progress, while the Cardassian trainer barely hid his contempt.
Sam and Taurik found themselves observers during a session on how to manipulate the robotic arm mounted to a mining probe.
“I’ve got a side job for you,” Sam whispered to the Vulcan.
“Yes?” answered Taurik, keeping his voice low.
“I want you to inspect the ship and see if there are any monitoring devices aboard.”
The Vulcan glanced at him. “You wish to know if we can speak freely?”
“Right.”
Taurik nodded in response, and they went back to listening to the lecture.
By the end of a long shift, they were joined by a taciturn Enrak Grof, who barely grunted as he was introduced to the rest of his shipmates. The Trill briefly explained that he had been occupied with finishing his regular work and calculating how much more Corzanium they would need to complete the project. He assured them he would not have to return to the laboratory, and he was joining them for the duration.
As they continued their training, Sam watched his new crew. They were as experienced and competent as any captain could possibly hope for, but they were hardened by their weeks of captivity. Except for Grof, they were probably loyal to the Federation, but were they loyal enough to give up their lives? Was he kidding himself in thinking that they could accomplish anything but saving their own skins for a few extra days? The chances were good that they would all die in this foolhardy undertaking.
“Very good!” exclaimed Joulesh, clapping his hands with delight and snapping Sam from his reverie. “I believe we have made wonderful progress, ahead of schedule. In fact, let us move up the test flight to the next shift. The Founder will be so pleased!”
The Vorta nodded to the Cardassian, who had been surly but helpful for most of the training. “You are dismissed.”
With a parting snarl, the Cardassian climbed down the ladder and disappeared, and Joulesh considered his cadre of prized pupils. “We are entrusting you with an enormous res
ponsibility, I hope you realize that. Yes, you have an opportunity to act foolishly and register your discontent, but you also have an opportunity to further science and improve relations between our peoples.”
Sam looked around at his crew. Almost all of them were stone-faced over this twisted reasoning, even Grof, who had avoided Sam since his late arrival. Was he still thinking about the beatings they had witnessed? Or was he still angry over the senseless loss of life caused by the Cardassians?
The burly Trill had barely hidden his contempt for their Cardassian trainer, and Sam was beginning to consider him neutral but still unpredictable. If any of them had any sense, they would avoid being drawn into a conversation over motives and politics with this slimy Vorta.
Joulesh continued to smile gamely at his impassive audience. “I know it’s been a difficult shift, and you must be tired. This ship has lodging for a crew of twelve, so you have ample room to spread out. The replicators in the mess hall have been reprogrammed for Federation tastes, and everything on this craft is fully functional, except for the weapons systems, of course. They were never much to speak of, anyway.”
The Vorta started for the ladder, then he waved back to them. “Use your intelligence, and don’t act rashly. I will see you at your test flight. Yes, the Founder will be so pleased!”
As soon as the Vorta left the ship, Taurik moved to the ops console and began to run diagnostics and scans of the ship. Sam hovered over his shoulder, as Grof and the four new crew members looked uneasily at one another.
“What’s the catch to this?” asked Enrique. “They’re not going to give us a ship and let us fly off into space, are they?”
“Yes, they are,” answered Grof. “As I’ve been telling our captain, the bond between the Dominion and the Cardassians is weak, because the Cardassians are incompetent. We have a chance to make a favorable impression.”
“Belay that,” growled the bald-headed Deltan, Tamla Horik. “Despite the pretty words, I say we’re aiding and abetting the enemy.”
“Keep it down,” warned Sam. “We don’t know that we’re not being observed.”
Behind Enemy Lines Page 7
