The Long Night

by Dean Wesley Smith

  "Something's wrong," Jake whispered. "My dad would never close the bar. Or trap your uncle inside."

  "Well, he did," Nog whispered back. "They'll kill each other in there, trapped together like that."

  Jake put a hand on his friend's back. "No, they won't. They grew up together. Your uncle needs your dad. They'll be all right."

  "I hope so," Nog said. "What do you think's going on?"

  "I don't know," Jake said, "but I think we'd better find out. Let's go back."

  They left through the same door they had entered. Nog led the way, jogging through two rooms and one crawl space. The boys emerged into a small gray room with no spy holes and two identical passages heading off in two different directions. Jake remembered coming through here but hadn't paid much attention.

  "Which one?" Nog asked, the panic starting to creep slowly into his voice.

  Now Jake wished for the dusty corridors where following their tracks would have been no problem. But in these tunnels and rooms, there was no dust, and he wasn't sure which tunnel they had come out of the first time.

  "Doesn't matter," he said, shoving past Nog and leading down the tunnel to the right. "If we pick the wrong one we just come back here and take the other."

  "I'd like to get out of here today," Nog muttered.

  "We will," Jake said. "There has to be more than one way out of this place. We just have to find it."

  He closed his eyes, imagined the layout of the Promenade and then tried to insert it near the tunnels. Then, making his best guess, he followed the tunnel to the right.

  At first the way looked familiar. Then they passed through two unfamiliar closet-sized rooms and a long crawl space. Jake was almost convinced they hadn't come this way the first time.

  "Why does it always take longer to leave than it does to arrive?" Nog asked.

  "Because we're paying attention this time," Jake said.

  The crawl space opened into a large, well-lit room. As Jake levered himself down, he promised himself that they would turn around if the room proved unfamiliar.

  As Nog landed beside him, Jake surveyed the room.

  He had never been there before. He knew that the moment he examined it. The room had no view holes, even though it did have a chair and what appeared to be a supplies cabinet. Three narrow passages lead from it, counting the one Jake and Nog had just come from. The air here was cool and filtered. It had the processed scent of some of the maintenance areas in the lower decks.

  But that wasn't what made it different. The wall directly across from Jake made the room different.

  He tapped Nog on the shoulder and pointed. Nog turned.

  "Oh, no," he whispered.

  They both stared at the bank of panels lining the wall. At least ten of those panels were viewscreens. Jake walked up to them. They didn't appear original to the station, although they were of Cardassian design. They appeared almost new.

  "This is a Cardassian spy hole," Nog said. "I've seen holos of these in my uncle's programs. There's one he's kept for Cardassian use: The Secret Conquerors of Bajor, where—"

  "I don't want to know," Jake said. He tried to ignore most of the uses of the holosuites. He stared up at the empty viewscreens, his own image reflecting back at him. A streak of dirt ran along his face, and his clothes looked like he'd been playing in the mud.

  "We're the only ones who know about this," he said, and that knowledge made his heart thump. "We've got to get out of here."

  "Where is out?" Nog asked.

  "Let's go back to the room over your uncle's bar.

  The second tunnel out of there should take us back." And the sooner the better. Jake crouched and cupped his hands so that he could boost Nog back into the crawl space.

  The light overhead suddenly turned red. Then, with a cranking noise that filled the room, steel panels slid from the walls and slammed closed all three entrances. The echo of the booms made both Nog and Jake cover their ears.

  Then the wall of monitors flickered into life. One showed the Ops center. Another two screens were different views of the Promenade. Another was of Jake's father's office. Screen after screen popped on, revealing all the important areas of the station. And only Ops had people in view.

  "We're trapped!" Nog shouted. He ran for the steel walls and began examining them, looking for a way out. Jake frowned at the monitors—something was wrong about them—but he didn't have time to think about it. He went to the steel walls, too, and looked for an opening mechanism.

  The red light made everything seem as if it were bathed in blood. His own skin had a reddish cast, making it appear unfamiliar, not like his skin at all. He got metal splinters in his fingers as he worked the edge of the walls.

  He found nothing.

  Nog had moved to the monitors, looking in all the panels. "There's got to be a way to open these walls," he said. He could be clever about mechanical things when he wanted to be. Jake took out the tricorder he had slung around his neck and did a quick reading to see if it showed anything. From what he could tell, there were only monitors here. The controls for the door were somewhere else. Probably outside the room.

  "If we could figure out how we triggered it, we can get out," Nog said.

  Jake watched his friend, then his gaze was drawn to the monitors. They looked like they were running on real time, not some kind of tape. That meant the system tapped into the station's existing communications systems to get this kind of picture. If it happened all the time, O'Brien would have found it by now. *This place only ran at odd moments, moments of crisis, moments when …

  Jake studied the scenes in the monitors. Odo's office was empty. So was his dad's. And Kira was running across Ops, shouting orders. "I don't think we triggered it," Jake said slowly.

  "We must have," Nog said. "Why else would it trap us?"

  "The red light," Jake said.

  "A warning system?"

  Jake nodded. "Our warning system. The station's on red alert."

  That statement made Nog stand up. "It can't be."

  "It is. Look at Ops."

  "So that's why my uncle's bar is empty."

  "And why everyone looks so busy in Ops."

  They stared at the monitors for a minute.

  "Where's your dad?" Nog asked quietly.

  "I don't know," Jake said.

  Nog went back to the panels near the monitors and began to open the ones that he could. "Come on," he said. "Help me. We'll die in here if we don't find a way out."

  "I don't think so," Jake said, sinking in the chair. "I don't think we'll die unless they blow up the station. I think we've found the safest place of all."

  And somehow that thought terrified him even more.

  CHAPTER

  10

  COMMANDER BENJAMIN SISKO strode on deck of the Defiant. He had discarded his deep-cold gloves and stripped his uniform to its essentials. Still, he felt the chill that had gone into his bones on the Nibix. It felt as if he would never be warm again.

  Ensign Kathé vacated the commander's chair the moment she saw him and returned to her post. Ensign Coleman nodded a welcome, his features tight with fear. Ensign Dodds was staring at her monitor, her fingers moving on occasion. Ensigns Harsch and Ba'M'eel watched him from battle stations.

  Sisko took the commander's chair, wondering if his reluctance showed. It had taken all his personal strength to leave the Nibix especially after discovering that the Supreme Ruler was still alive. His stomach jumped at the thought, and he thanked all the gods on all the planets that Dax was still down there. She at least understood—on a deep level—the importance of the discovery. O'Brien saw the entire thing as an engineering challenge, and Bashir would look upon it as a medical curiosity, not the potential intergalactic disaster it was.

  "Is Dr. Bashir on the surface?" Sisko asked.

  "He arrived a moment ago," Ensign Dodds said. "The supplies arrived just before him."

  "Excellent," Sisko said. Cardassians. He hated the sound of that. And he d
idn't know what had tipped them off. Obviously, Kira and Odo hadn't been able to seal off the station quickly enough. It meant potential disaster if Sisko couldn't hold them off.

  "Ensign Coleman, have the Cardassians noted the Defiant?"

  "I'm almost certain of it, sir," the ensign said. Almost certain was the best Sisko would get from this cautious ensign. "As you were beaming up, sensors picked up a long-range scan. It came from their direction."

  "Good," Sisko said, and Ensign Kathé looked at him in surprise. Of all the ensigns on this voyage, she was the one with the most hope of taking a leadership position in Starfleet. He noted the way her sharp features caught every nuance of his command. "Ensign Kathé, plot a course back to Deep Space Nine."

  She whirled, her rainbow mane flickering in the light. Her fingers danced across the console. "Done, sir."

  "Ahead warp factor five." He leaned back in the chair as the ensign followed his command. The Defiant responded immediately. She was a wonderful ship, with tremendous capability. He only wished he had more opportunities to use her. Although he could have forgone this one. His heart and his dreams were back on the Nibix with that green glowing staff.

  He forced himself to concentrate. As the stars whizzed by on the viewscreen, he mentally charted the coordinates himself. Sometimes he felt as if he had this part of space memorized.

  "In ten seconds, Ensign Coleman, I want you to cloak us."

  "Aye, sir," the ensign said.

  "Commander," Ensign Harsch said from his battle station, "the Cardassian fleet has crossed the border. They're pursuing us."

  Sisko nodded. They would do that. The only logical place he could run to was Deep Space Nine. They would expect him to go there. And they would pursue at leisure. Losing him on this voyage would be something they expected.

  Their presence made him nervous. If they went after the Nibix, they would be in violation of the peace treaty.

  "We're cloaked, sir," Ensign Coleman said.

  Sisko turned to Ensign Kathé. "Swing us in a wide arc and place us between the fleet and the Nibix."

  "Aye, sir," she said.

  The screen in front of Sisko showed the change of direction as the Defiant moved around into position. No one spoke on the bridge and the tension seemed to grow with the silence. Sisko was pleased with his young crew. He had picked five of the best. They were responding well to an unusual situation.

  "Sir," said Ensign Ba'M'eel, the only Orion on the crew. His uniform clashed with his green skin. "The Cardassians are continuing toward the station."

  "Mr. Harsch, conduct a full-range scan of the asteroid belt. I want to know if any ships are hiding there, waiting to find the Nibix. Assist him in his efforts, Dodds."

  Both ensigns bent over the task. They worked furiously—a little too quickly actually—but that was to be expected from such a young crew as this one.

  "No, sir. The system is clear," Harsch said. He was barely out of the Academy, a thin blond human who had chosen a deep-space assignment over working his way up the ranks of a starship.

  "My readings are the same, Commander," Dodds said.

  Sisko hoped his spur-of-the-moment decision was the right one. He also hoped Kira was ready for a fleet of Cardassians to descend upon her. It amazed him that the station could go from calm to near disaster in a few short hours. He hadn't even had a chance to tell Jake he was leaving.

  Someone would bring him up to speed.

  "Ensign Kathé, follow the Cardassian ships to a point exactly halfway between the Nibix and the station."

  "Yes, sir." She frowned as she plotted in the coordinates. The Defiant turned sharply and then righted itself. "Done, sir."

  "Good," Sisko said. "Hold this position. Mr. Harsch, continue monitoring the asteroid belt. I want to know if anything changes nearby."

  The crew bent over their tasks. Now the tough part of the mission would occur. These young ensigns would realize that they were part of a space battle, and they would learn that the fighting was easy. Waiting was hard.

  And Sisko was prepared to wait days if he had to. Protecting the Nibix was his top priority. Kira would take care of the station, and the Supreme Ruler's life was in Dr. Bashir's hands.

  What Sisko wouldn't give to still be on the Nibix walking the corridors while Bashir did his work. Sisko could still remember the glow of the green staff beneath his gloved hands. He had read thousands of articles over the years about what would occur when the Nibix was found. Almost all of them had assumed everyone aboard would be dead. The handful of other articles, written by less reputable scholars, speculated that the Nibix had found its planet, and a long-removed descendent of the Supreme Ruler lived there, awaiting discovery. But not one article speculated that the same Supreme Ruler who was overthrown eight hundred years ago would still be alive.

  And if Bashir was half the doctor that Sisko knew him to be, the Supreme Ruler would be up and moving around very shortly. What would they do then?

  Sisko had no idea.

  And he wouldn't even allow himself to think about the possibility of the Supreme Ruler dying as Bashir tried to revive him.

  Half an hour ago, Sisko had thought finding the Supreme Ruler alive was his worst nightmare. Having the Supreme Ruler die on them would be much, much worse.

  Bashir had expected a lost ship to be dark. The bright light over the cold-sleep chamber was a bigger surprise to him than the chamber itself. He had seen a hundred cold-sleep chambers, some in the Federation's space museum and even more in the rudimentary ships he'd practiced on in his training. In his sophomore year of medical school, he had devoted an entire semester to the science of cold and cold sleep to fulfill his history of medicine requirement.

  Nothing had prepared him for the grandeur here.

  Nor the cold.

  O'Brien was crouched near the side of the coldsleep chamber. Dax was holding a tricorder next to him, pointing it sideways in a most unusual manner. They hadn't unpacked the supplies that the commander had beamed down for them.

  Bashir shivered in the chill, reached into the supplies, and pulled out deep-cold jackets for all of them. With the Cardassian threat above, there was no telling how long they would be down here. He would make certain they rationed their three days of supplies.

  "Well, here you are, Julian," O'Brien said as if they hadn't seen each other in days instead of hours. "This chamber is still working."

  Bashir picked up his equipment. He glanced at the two cold-sleep cocoons near the platform. One look at the occupants told him they had died a long, long time ago.

  "Is it empty?" Bashir asked.

  "If it were empty, do you think the commander would have sent for you?"

  "Well, he should know that the odds of reviving an eight-hundred-year-old cold sleeper are about as good as you winning two dart games in a row." Bashir mounted the platform.

  "I won twice this afternoon," O'Brien said.

  "Thanks to a riot and a few other distractions." He set his equipment down on the opposite side of the cold-sleep chamber and then pulled out his tricorder. His hands were freezing. He pulled gloves out of his pocket, gripped them with his teeth, and tugged them on finger by finger.

  Dax had turned her tricorder toward him. "Forgive me, Julian," she said, "but the commander insisted that we record all our efforts here."

  "Including my first statement, I suppose," Bashir said, feeling a flush creep into his cheeks.

  Dax smiled. That soft smile always made her a vision of loveliness. "I'm afraid so."

  He shook his head slightly, then glanced at the opaque lid of the cold-sleep chamber. The man inside belonged to a race Julian had never seen before. On the trip, he had brushed up on Jibetian physiology, but his material was on current Jibetian anatomy, not anatomy from eight hundred years before. He didn't remember much about the shallow-ridged cheekbones, although he did remember reading about the redundant internal organs that had been common among the royal family. Some scholars claimed those organs were respons
ible for the family's longevity.

  "Dr. Bashir," Dax said, "You'll have to explain each procedure. This tricorder isn't set up for in-depth recording."

  "I'm not going to talk my way through each stage," Bashir said. "It would take too much time."

  "But you'll at least have to give us an overview."

  He glanced at her, biting back his annoyed comment for the sake of posterity. She was positioned well behind the tricorder, and so when she shrugged, she added a bit of mischeviousness to her movements.

  She was amazingly joyful for a woman trapped on a crashed space ship, eight hundred years old.

  Bashir didn't want to think about that. If he were Dax, he would be exploring the ship. She didn't know the great luck she had, being able to see all these new places. He beamed down for crisis after crisis, rarely got a chance to explore his surroundings, and usually had to concentrate on some new type of medical emergency.

  Like this one.

  Something bothered him about this cold-sleep chamber. But the technology was just unfamiliar enough to his Federation-trained eyes that he couldn't quite pinpoint the problem right away.

  He flicked on his medical tricorder, then nodded toward Dax. "I am going to do a basic medical scan of the man inside this chamber. I need to make an overall assessment of his condition."

  O'Brien had almost disappeared on the side of the chamber. He seemed to be working on something as well, probably examining the technology to see why it was still working. Bashir couldn't concentrate on that, nor could he think about the reasons behind Dax's intensity or the commander's unusual order to record their proceedings.

  Instead, he focused on the readings from his medical tricorder. He hit a button that would record the readings for later use. If the commander could be that cautious, so could Bashir. The findings were just as he suspected, but for the sake of the unseen people who would review this case, he reached into his bag and pulled out a different tricorder, running the scan all over again.

  Then he shook his head. "This man has massive cell damage from eight hundred years of cold sleep. I doubt anyone will ever be able to revive him."