Behind Enemy Lines

by John Vornholt

  Almost as an afterthought, he glanced at the status of the Jem’Hadar ship, and what he saw made him gasp. He put it on the viewscreen to make sure he was seeing it correctly. The attack ship was listing badly, with gases escaping from half a dozen breaches in her hull. Whatever had hit them, she had taken the brunt of it. Her sensors must have been malfunctioning; normally a Jem’Hadar ship could deflect just about anything. Her thrusters burned brightly, trying to escape the inevitable gravity, but she was on a slow descent straight toward the Eye of Talek.

  “Shields up!” he ordered Taurik, thinking they might be hit by more of the invisible missiles, whatever they were.

  Sam watched the crippled Jem’Hadar ship drift closer, until she was nearly in transporter range. His finger moved to the corner of his panel, where a special icon awaited his touch: it was the signal to alert Shonsui in the transporter room.

  “Hold it right there!” barked Enrak Grof. Sam looked up to see the Trill glaring at him with hatred and suspicion in his piggish eyes—and a small hand phaser trembling in his hand.

  “Where did you get that?” Sam demanded.

  “Never mind! I don’t know how you did it, but I know you’re behind this. You’re insane! Back away from the conn.”

  “Professor,” said Taurik evenly. “We are likely to die unless you allow Sam to pilot the ship. Now please excuse me, there are wounded below, and I am going to attend to them.”

  While Grof was momentarily distracted by the departure of the Vulcan, Sam pressed his panel and sent the signal to the transporter room. Now it was a moot point. They might all die, but the Jem’Hadar would die first.

  The burly Trill looked so angry that his spots were pulsing on his forehead. “Sam, I swear I’ll shoot you!”

  “Then shoot me already! I was going to knock you out before we made a move, but then this happened. You want options, Grof? Here are two: shoot me and die, or escape with us to freedom!”

  Stricken by indecision, the Trill looked up at the viewscreen and the damaged attack ship. Now its thrusters weren’t even firing, and the vibrant blue glow along its hull was gone, replaced by a dull, lifeless gray—like the skin of a Jem’Hadar.

  Grof wailed, “They’ll think we did this! They’ll hunt us down from one end of the galaxy to the other. You could save them, Sam—lock the tractor beam on to the Jem’Hadar. Do it, or I shoot!”

  Sam flinched, certain that in the next instant he would feel the phaser beam rip into his skin. But he ignored Grof and maintained steady impulse power away from the attack ship and the black hole which was about to claim it.

  “I warned you,” muttered Grof, aiming his phaser.

  Chapter Fifteen

  IGNORING THE PHASER pointed at his skull, Sam Lavelle gazed at the viewscreen and saw the Jem’Hadar attack craft go into a slow spiral in its inexorable descent into the Eye of Talek. He wondered if those stoic warriors showed any panic when confronted with imminent death. Sam himself was surprisingly calm, considering that death was all around him. The destruction of the Jem’Hadar ship had seemed like an act of God, and Sam was willing to believe that nothing would stop their dash to freedom.

  “Grof,” he said slowly, not turning around, “am I to assume you’re not going to kill me?”

  Glumly, the Trill lowered his phaser. “I should, but I’m not going to.”

  “Welcome back to the Federation,” said Sam, mustering a wan smile. “And wave good-bye to your friends.”

  The two crewmates, prisoners, and former enemies watched in stunned silence as the Dominion warship sank into the blackness of the Eye of Talek and disappeared. It was a terrible ending for any starship, thought Sam, as if space had consumed one of its own children.

  “Now to set course,” said the pilot, shaking off the willies and turning back to his controls. “Any ideas?”

  “We could—”

  Before he got a chance to finish his sentence, they were struck again by an unseen object. This time, the impact knocked Grof to his feet and threw Sam out of his chair, while sparks and smoke engulfed the tiny bridge. Sam glanced at the viewscreen long enough to see the crate-like Bajoran transport heading toward them, coming in for the kill!

  Coughing from the acrid smoke, Sam staggered to his feet, vaulted over the unconscious Trill, and collapsed on top of the tactical station. With his last shred of consciousness, he opened the hailing frequencies.

  “Their shields are gone,” reported La Forge at the conn of the Orb of Peace. “The next one will finish them.”

  “Target the last torpedo,” ordered Picard grimly. “Fire when ready.”

  When he didn’t hear his order repeated back to him after a suitable time, Picard turned to glare at Ro on tactical. “I said fire when ready.”

  The Bajoran squinted puzzledly as she held an earphone closer to her head. “I know, sir, but … I’m getting a message from one of them. He says they’re Federation prisoners.”

  “Prisoners?” echoed Picard in amazement. “Ask him to identify himself.”

  Ro gaped at the captain. “It sounds familiar—Lieutenant Sam Lavelle?”

  “Lavelle!” The captain strode to Geordi’s station and gazed over the engineer’s shoulder. “Are we in any danger? Can they fire weapons?”

  “No, sir, they’re unarmed.” La Forge looked at him and frowned. “They’re drifting into that black hole. Unless we do something to help them, they’re finished, anyway.”

  “Very well, get down to the transporter room, and lock on to whoever’s on that bridge. Beam one over, and if he’s really one of ours, get them all.”

  “Yes, sir.” La Forge bolted to his feet and dashed off the bridge.

  Ro hefted a phaser and checked the settings. “I’d better help him out.”

  “Go ahead, I’ll take over the conn. Ro, we’ve already got one prisoner, and I don’t want to take any more, unless it’s necessary.”

  “Understood, sir.” Her jaw set determinedly, the lanky Bajoran strode off the bridge, leaving the captain alone.

  He slumped into the seat at the conn, watching the Cardassian mining vessel drift toward the same monstrous end as the Jem’Hadar ship. Now that he had seen the awesome black hole up close—and witnessed its dangers—he had no problem believing that the Dominion was using slave labor for this sort of work. Would a person who had free will plant himself at the edge of a black hole? Could a sane person look into that opaque abyss every day?

  Picard wasn’t surprised when he heard from Ro a few moments later. “Captain,” she said breathlessly, “it’s true. They’re Starfleet, all but one Trill civilian. There are seven in all, and a few are wounded. But they’re alive.”

  “Make them comfortable,” ordered the captain. “Send La Forge to Engineering, because we’re getting out of here. I’m concerned that the Jem’Hadar may have sent out a distress call. I’m pulling back to maximum torpedo range.”

  Had he more than one torpedo, the captain would have blasted the Cardassian tanker right then and there. But with only one, he had to be content to sneak away to a safe distance and watch the crippled vessel drift closer to its doom. If he ever had to destroy a starship without leaving a trace, now he knew where to bring it. Finally, the ship disappeared like a candle flame being blown out.

  At least they had rescued a handful of prisoners, prisoners who might have a great deal of firsthand intelligence. Most importantly, they had stopped work on the artificial wormhole. Feeling a measure of relief, Picard set course for the Badlands at maximum warp.

  Captain Picard and Ro Laren sat in the mess hall of the Orb of Peace with the three healthiest of the rescued prisoners. Two of them had served aboard the Enterprise, Sam Lavelle and the Vulcan, Taurik—Picard remembered them as friends of Sito Jaxa. The other man was a Trill scientist named Enrak Grof, who had been captured during the fall of Deep Space Nine.

  After the preliminaries, they got down to important matters. “Have we really managed to deal a serious setback to the enemy’s arti
ficial wormhole?” asked Picard.

  Sam, who was still dazed over their rescue, nodded slowly. “I think we have. They can’t finish it without the Corzanium you sent back into the hole. Thanks to you, I think we’ve stopped them.”

  Taurik and Grof looked less convinced. A show of enthusiastic confidence was not expected from the Vulcan, but the Trill’s gloomy expression was troubling.

  “What’s the matter, Professor Grof?” asked Picard. “You don’t share Sam’s opinion?”

  The Trill sighed heavily. “I wish I could, but I know something they don’t know.” He looked glumly at Sam, whose smile slowly melted from his face.

  “Sam, I … I made it sound as if we were the only team sent to extract Corzanium, but that isn’t true. At least one other team of Cardassians was sent secretly to another black hole. I fully expected us to be the ones who succeeded when they failed.”

  “Why am I not surprsied?” muttered Sam, rising to his feet. “Just one more lie you had to tell us, huh, Grof?”

  “Come on.” The Trill scowled. “You didn’t expect the Dominion to put all their eggs in one basket. We were an important experiment, but they were prepared for our failure … or attempted escape.”

  Ro Laren slumped back in her chair. “So what you’re saying is—we’ve still got to take out that verteron collider.”

  Grof nodded wearily. “Yes, it’s a shame, too, because it’s a triumph of engineering and construction. It would have worked.”

  “It will work, if we don’t destroy it,” concluded Taurik. “The Dominion has the resources and the resolve to complete the work. Before the accident which necessitated our mission, I believe they were nearly ready to begin tests.”

  “And they’ll probably use prisoners for that,” said Sam gloomily.

  Tight-lipped, Picard turned to Ro and said, “Put the subspace beacon away. We’re not going home for a while.”

  Boredom was an abstract term to an android, but Data knew very well what it meant: the absence of something to do. He had a duty, of course—monitoring the scanner array he had set up on the barren moon—but it required less than one percent of his attention. Staring at the starlit sky had never impressed him as being an entertaining activity, as it was for many humanoids, but he found himself doing just that for hour after hour.

  Finally, in the interest of experimentation, Data turned on his emotion chip. At once, a shock wave of worry, fear, guilt, and war sickness slammed into him, making him feel more despondent than he had ever felt in his entire existence. The horror, tragedy, and destruction of the war was too much to contemplate, even for his positronic brain, and Data could only stare at the dust at his feet. He fretted over his lost comrades, all of whom were afraid, lonely, grieving, and bored.

  Realizing it had been a mistake to activate his emotion chip, Data reluctantly turned it off. After returning to normal, he still felt weakened and sobered by the assault of heartrending emotions. Now Data had an interesting question to contemplate as he sat on his barren outpost: How did humans and other sensitive races deal with war, knowing its horrors? How could they possibly maintain their sanity?

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