“No, thank you,” muttered Grof. “Nobody has ever had as good a reason as ours, or else they would have done it before. All the models say it’s possible with standard equipment. Right, Enrique?”
But the material handler was staring off into space with a moonstruck expression on his face.
“Right, Enrique?” asked Grof testily.
“Whatever you say, boss,” replied the avuncular human. “I’d better get below and recheck those calibrations.” Whistling cheerfully, the lithe man dropped into the hatch and was gone.
Grof scowled and opened his mouth undoubtedly to offer another tiresome prudish opinion, Sam thought. He cut the Trill off before the tirade even began.
“Oh, let him be,” said Sam. “We’ve got twelve more hours before we have to get serious. The important thing is not to get overconfident or careless. No one’s ever been sucked into a black hole and lived.”
“Or ever been found again, except for some minute trace particles,” added Taurik.
“The Eye of Talek is perfect for this operation,” insisted Grof. “We’ve got nothing like it in the Federation. But I agree with you, Sam—we have to be careful. You just keep reminding me of that, because I do have a tendency to be overconfident.”
Sam blinked at this outburst of humility. “I’ll remember that, Grof.”
The Trill nodded and looked uncomfortable for a moment, as if he wanted to be accepted into their circle but knew he never would be. “See you at chow!” called Grof, heading for the hatch.
“Yeah, at chow.” Sam waved lazily and turned his attention to the viewscreen. Once the footsteps had stopped clomping down the ladder, Sam switched the view back to the sleek Jem’Hadar ship on their tail. Taurik would never agree, but maybe staring at it would give him an idea on how to lure it close enough to board it and capture it.
At times during their tense but sluggish cruise through the Badlands, Picard wanted to ask Ro if she really knew where they were going. He admired her ability to navigate by dead reckoning, only getting her bearings on rare occasions when they found a bubble, as she called them, where the dust and interference were thin enough to take sensor readings. He could tell that Ro was tempted to remain awhile in the relative safety of the bubbles, but she knew they had to push on.
Once, it seemed, they came very close to another ship, but they passed so quickly in the surreal fog that it was impossible to tell for sure what it was. Maybe it was only a plasma storm, thought Picard. Perhaps they were hallucinating. The Badlands struck him as the kind of place where a person’s imagination and fear might get the better of him.
So dense was the dust and debris in some stretches that Picard felt as if he were on a submarine floating through a sea of mud. The shields took a beating, but the transport held together and somehow avoided the ubiquitous bursts of plasma.
Through all of this, Ro piloted the craft in a businesslike calm, talking very little and only relinquishing the conn for a few moments. Picard had little to do but watch the bizarre light show.
After hours and hours, Ro began to peer intently at the viewscreen, and Picard began to watch more closely, too. He saw it at the same moment she did—something black and ominous that sat like a gigantic spider in the middle of a vast neon web.
“There!” she said excitedly, pointing toward the viewscreen. The relief in her voice surprised Picard.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I think it started life as a space station,” answered Ro. “Don’t ask me whose, because it’s ancient. I don’t know how anyone thought they could build a station that would survive in this mess, although maybe it was here before the cloud. The Maquis call it the ‘OK Corral.’”
Picard smiled. “It seems fitting that the Badlands should have a famous corral.”
“And that’s what it’s used for,” added Ro, cautiously steering them closer. “It’s been hit so many times over the years by the plasma blasts that it’s developed a repulsion effect—now the plasma actually stays away. The hull is nothing but a black hulk—you can’t even tell what it’s made out of.”
“It sounds fascinating.” Picard stared with interest at the spidery structure hanging in the magenta-brown haze. When it was illuminated by a far-off streak of plasma, he could see that the “legs” of the spider were broken spokes coming from a central hub. In its prime, this station must have been bigger than Deep Space Nine, and it was built in a similar gyroscopic design. Despite its familiar traits, the OK Corral seemed otherworldly, perfectly suited to its bizarre surroundings.
Ro circled the blackened ruin from a respectful distance, as if she were afraid something was going to pop out. Close up, the structure looked more like a lopsided, pitted asteroid than a creation of civilized beings; but its shape and symmetry were too exact to be accidental. It reminded Picard of an ancient burial mound he had seen in North America—beaten into something natural by the elements yet unmistakably a work of intelligence and artistry.
Without warning, they were jarred by a sudden blast, and Picard had to grab Ro’s chair to remain upright. “What was that? Plasma burst?”
Ro scowled. “More like a photon torpedo.”
“She’s right,” agreed the tactical officer. “No damage.”
“A warning shot,” added Ro grimly. “But we’re not going to be warned off. We’ve got as much right here as anybody else. Still, keep those shields up.”
Picard was about to ask where the shot had come from when a burst of plasma reflected off something silvery lurking within the hulk of the old station. As they continued to circle the OK Corral, the captain spotted a gaping crater that was big enough for the Enterprise to fly through. It looked as if something had taken a huge bite out of the central hub, leaving a blackened, hollow wreck. Sure enough, docked inside this unlikely safe harbor were two Ferengi marauders; they looked like sleek, bronze horseshoe crabs.
“Ro,” said Picard, pointing at the viewscreen.
“I see them,” she answered with a smile. “The old neighborhood is still active. They’re most likely pirates and smugglers, so let’s keep on our guard. Tactical, all auxiliary power to shields.”
“May I remind you,” said the woman on Tactical, “we’re down to two torpedoes.”
“They won’t do us much good, anyway,” answered Ro. “When they see how small we are—and that we’re Bajoran—maybe they’ll let us in.”
“If they don’t?” asked Picard.
“Then we’ll look for friendlier pirates and smugglers. A good friend of mine used to say that you don’t meet any choirboys in the Badlands.” When Ro mentioned her friend, her eyes got a faraway look, and Picard glimpsed the grief she had been hauling with her.
Acting as if the Orb of Peace were the equal of the two battle-scarred warships, Ro Laren swept through the crater and into their midst. Picard half-expected the Ferengi to rake them with withering phaser fire; then he realized that these ships were not going to risk destroying their refuge. He had seen enough of the Badlands to know that safe places to stop were few and far between.
Now that they were inside the hollowed-out ruins of the main hub, the captain marveled at the bizarre sights that surrounded them. In addition to the two garish warships, he could see a cross section of the devastated space station, complete with decks, chambers, and bays; it all looked like a massive burnt honeycomb. He made a pact with himself that if he were ever free to travel Cardassian space—with no war—he would come back to the OK Corral and investigate this wondrous artifact.
“Have we got anything to trade for information?” asked Ro.
“Perhaps some tetralubisol,” Picard suggested.
Ro shrugged. “I guess that’s worth a try. I’m going to hail them. Ops, let’s dim the lights.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Remember,” said the captain, “they’re smugglers and pirates.”
“And fellow neutrals.” Ro stood up and nodded to Tactical.
“Hailing frequencies open,” re
ported the young woman on duty.
“Greetings. This is Captain Ro Laren of the Orb of Peace, from Bajor. We were forced off course by some unusual circumstances, and we hope you don’t mind if we stop—”
“Quiet!” growled a voice, and the viewscreen popped on, showing a flurry of moving figures, most of them naked. They were clearly in the master stateroom of the Ferengi captain, because his wives were scurrying to get out of the way. But it was a muscular, unclothed Orion male who stepped into their view. The green-skinned humanoid grabbed a shimmering blue robe and pulled it around his thick body; then he motioned to the unseen shadows.
“Shek, get out here!” bellowed the Orion. His rough voice seemed to have only one volume—loud.
Accompanied by giggles and women straightening his clothes, a scrawny Ferengi strolled toward them from the shadows. He looked a bit taller and more fit than the typical Ferengi, although he was still dwarfed by the big Orion.
With a snaggletoothed grin, the Ferengi asked them, “What is this? A Bajoran vessel sneaking around Cardassian space—in the middle of a war? Are you lost? Or crazy?”
The muscular Orion glared suspiciously at her. “Nobody knows about this place … nobody who’s still alive.”
Ro put her hands on her hips and sighed. “Okay, we’re really trying to find some terrorists we left here. We think they’re still fighting the war with Cardassia and don’t know that we’re neutral. This used to be a place we could find them.”
The Orion and the Ferengi looked at one another, and Picard thought they would buy it—until the Orion turned and shook his fist at them. “I say we loot their ship! You have ten seconds to surrender!”
“Wait a minute, Rolf,” said Shek, patting his large partner on the shoulder. “You never dispose of merchandise until you find out its worth. They have exhibited considerable skill and knowledge just getting here. Unless I am a worse judge of appearance than usual, they have nothing of value aboard their ship. Their ship isn’t worth anything either. I know. I tried to sell one of those once—took a real loss. Had to sell it to the Maquis!”
The Orion scratched his chin and leered at her. “I know a place where they pay dearly for young Bajoran females. It’s not far from here either.”
“We’re not young,” scoffed Ro. “We’re all old and haggard, like me.” She reached out and pulled Picard into their view. “See, this is my first officer. He’s typical of this crew. This is a humanitarian mission to rescue some of our warriors who no longer need to fight. Do you think somebody young and beautiful would take a job like this?”
Shek laughed. “I like her. Let’s have dinner with her. Anyone who can find her way here has got to have some interesting stories.”
The toothsome Ferengi wiggled his finger at her. “We’ll beam you over in one hour—you and your first officer. Unarmed, please.”
“Thank you,” said Ro evenly. “We accept your invitation.”
The screen went dark, and Ro’s tense shoulder blades finally dropped into their regular position. She looked so worn, Picard thought as he placed a tentative, but he hoped comforting, hand on her shoulder.
“It’s worth the risk,” he said gently. Ro glanced back at him with a rare glint of insecurity in her dark eyes.
“Those are fast ships out there,” Picard continued, pointing to the two bronze marauders filling the viewscreen. “They can outrun Jem’Hadar and Cardassian ships, so they’ve probably seen a lot of this sector. They may also have dealings with the Dominion. If the artificial wormhole is real, they ought to know.”
Ro looked back at her young crew and whispered, “On the other hand, our relief should be prepared to run for it, if we don’t return.”
“We’ll work out a signal,” said Picard grimly.
Ro smiled. “Make sure your earring is on straight. Believe me, how you wear that earring is nine-tenths of being a Bajoran.”
“Understood,” answered Picard gravely.
Will Riker paced outside the office of Commander Shana Winslow on Starbase 209, fuming. Winslow was head of the repair pool, and she had refused to release the Enterprise for active duty. Sure, Will knew they were a little banged up, but unfit for duty? He didn’t think so! Besides, he had friends and comrades out there who needed him, and Starfleet forces were spread too thin to worry about one little fact-finding mission. Picard, Data, La Forge, every member of the away team—they were counting on the Enterprise.
Commander Winslow’s assistant was a bookish-looking Benzite, who sat behind his desk and watched Riker with thinly veiled contempt. Every so often, he clucked like a chicken, which was driving Riker crazy.
“Where is she?” grumbled Riker. “Doesn’t she know there’s a war going on?”
“Oh, she’s quite aware there’s a war going on,” answered the Benzite with a long blue face. “Too many ships needing repair, too few parts, too many interruptions in supply and manufacturing—it’s all quite difficult.”
“If I don’t get in there to talk to her pretty soon, it’s going to be even more difficult,” vowed Riker.
At that moment, the door to Commander Winslow’s office slid open, and four engineers walked out and brushed past him with stricken expressions on their faces. They looked like men who had just been chewed out. Riker straightened his uniform and tried to be calm. Honey instead of vinegar, he told himself.
He stared expectantly at the Benzite, who took his sweet time in looking up and saying, “You may go in, Commander.”
“Thank you.” Riker stode through the door from the anteroom to Commander Winslow’s inner office. The first thing that struck him was the size of the office: it wasn’t ready-room-size but more like a miniature auditorium with several rows of seats and a large viewscreen. Either Commander Winslow conducted classes here, or she liked to chew people out en masse.
The second thing that struck him was Commander Winslow herself. She was a striking brunette about his own age, with dark eyes that drilled into him as he approached her. She was also partly bionic, with a prosthetic left arm and left leg, which he glimpsed before she limped behind her desk.
Commander Winslow gave him a businesslike smile as she sat down and punched her computer terminal. “Commander Riker of the Enterprise,” she read aloud. “I thought that ship was still under the command of Jean-Luc Picard. I trust that Captain Picard is all right?”
“So do I,” answered Riker, mustering a smile. “I’m acting captain, and I hope we can return to active duty soon. We’ve got to support Captain Picard and several of our senior officers who are on a mission into Cardassian space.”
“Sounds risky,” replied Winslow with extreme understatement. She folded her hands and drilled him again with those dark eyes. “Commander Riker, I know you want to leave right now, but the Enterprise has failed almost every readiness test. You’ve got leakage from the warp coil, stress failure on the outer hull, burned-out circuitry on every deck, and dozens of patchwork field repairs that are holding, somehow, but can’t for long.”
Riker winced, then held out his hands. “But she’s still in one piece. We flew in here, didn’t we? La Forge has kept her in top shape—.”
Shana Winslow gave him a sympathetic smile. “Despite the redoubtable Mr. La Forge, your ship is in no condition to go back into action. I would be remiss in my duties if I released her now.”
Riker’s shoulders drooped. “How long?”
“The Enterprise is a top priority, Commander, but the best I can promise is a week.”
“A week!” blurted Riker, not meaning to. He was shocked that it would take that long—in a week, Captain Picard could be dead.
She fixed him with her disconcerting eyes. “I’m sorry, but if I release you before we complete all the necessary repairs, Starfleet’s most advanced starship—and most experienced crew—could be lost to us. It’s my job to make sure that ships are ready to do the job for which they were intended, and your ship is not.”
Back off, Riker told himself. Honey, not vi
negar.
He stepped away from her desk and sighed. “I suppose I should welcome a few days of liberty for my crew, but it’s difficult when we’ve got comrades out there.”
“Believe me, I know.” Winslow lifted her prosthetic arm and set it on her desk. “I was once a ship’s engineer—I’m still not used to flying a desk.”
He glanced at her arm and wondered why Starfleet hadn’t provided her with a more natural looking prosthetic. “How did you get injured?”
“On board the Budapest last year, defending Earth from the Borg. We let them get past us—thanks for saving our hides.”
She paused, apparently noting his stare. Smiling gently she said “Your ship and I have something in common.” She pointed to her clumsy artificial limb. “We both have to wait out the war shortages to be properly refitted.”
Riker grinned. “The Enterprise spent a month on 413 after that battle, while we cleaned all the Borg technology out of her.”
Commander Winslow leaned forward eagerly. “Oh, I wish I could’ve been there to see that, to be able to study it firsthand. I’ve always had tremendous interest in the Borg, which was only heightened when they almost killed me. Their efficiency is amazing—if I could only get a crew of them working for me.”
“I’ve had them on board, and I don’t recommend it.” Riker stepped closer and flashed a boyish smile. “If you were to have dinner with me tonight, I could tell you all about the Borg.”
“Hmmm,” she replied thoughtfully, checking her computer screen. “Yes, that would be acceptable at, say, nineteen hundred hours. And I can explain to you about our procurement problems, which have delayed everything. We’ve got to end this war soon, or the infrastructure is going to break down.”
“Right,” said Riker. “That’s why I’m trying to get back into it.”
“I know.” Winslow stood and motioned to the door. “We’ll meet here again at nineteen hundred hours.”
Riker started to the door, then turned nervously. “The Enterprise, you are—”
“Yes, we’re working on it. See you later, Commander.”
Behind Enemy Lines Page 14
