Bloodletter (star trek)

by K. W. Jeter

  And then a whisper again, close to her as her own heartbeat.

  Kira . . .

  A whisper that promised death.

  Her eyes snapped open, and she knew where she was.

  Not dreaming, or lost in memory. Her hands pressed against the tight confines of the space where she had managed to hide herself, deep inside the substation’s maze of corridors and rooms. Beyond, she knew, were the empty reaches of the Gamma Quadrant, its ranks of stars cold needles of light.

  And inside the substation, with her . . . he was there. The voice that had spoken her name. She turned her head, listening through the enclosing silence for a footstep, or a breath that wasn’t her own.

  Nothing—but she could still feel his presence.

  She had run from the substation’s command center, losing herself in the branching network of doorways and compartments. All she had known was that she had to find somewhere safe, if only for a little while, just long enough to think. To plan, to find a way of surviving.

  Exhaustion had felled her, more quickly than whatever weapon was in the hand of Hören Rygis. Curled inside a remote storage locker, its hatch pulled tight, she had panted for air, feeling herself falling, as if the metal at her back had parted beneath the weight of the memories she bore.

  They had claimed her. As though she had never been able to escape them.

  Forget, she commanded herself, as she had done so many times before. She knew it was impossible. But still . . .

  Kira drew in a deep breath, feeling her muscles tense in readiness. For now—she willed the dark, unforgiving thoughts back into the chamber from which they had escaped. Just until you’ve done what you must. To survive.

  She reached out her hand and pushed open the locker’s hatch, then leaned forward and peered into the waiting shadows.

  CHAPTER 11

  HE LEANED across the desk toward the station’s chief officers. They had gathered in Ops and then, for security reasons, relocated their meeting to the private office. “All right,” said Commander Sisko. “Status report on the substation mission.”

  “There have been some developments.” Jadzia Dax, DS9’s chief science officer, had taken on some of the duties that would ordinarily have been performed by Major Kira. “We’ve picked up a monitoring signal that indicates the substation actually managed to exit the wormhole. It’s relatively close to the position in the Gamma Quadrant that had been its original destination.”

  “Any communications?”

  Dax shook her head. “Negative. Our own diagnostic signals show evidence that the transmitting and receiving equipment aboard the substation was either damaged during the convulsive event inside the wormhole, or had been tampered with before leaving the station—possibly with some sort of delay trigger, to keep the sabotage from being detected until it was too late for us to do anything about it.”

  “What about the cargo shuttle? Any sign of it?”

  “That will be a much more difficult question to answer, Commander. As far as I’ve been able to determine, the stable wormhole has transmuted from a bipolar to a unipolar state, anchored in the Gamma Quadrant. This is an entirely different cosmological anomaly. In a very real way, for us, the wormhole no longer exists. At least, not as we had begun to understand it. If the cargo shuttle is still inside what might be termed a cul-de-sac or pocket universe, we presently have no way of determining its status. I’m sorry.”

  Sisko swiveled toward his chief engineer. “What do you think? Is there anybody still aboard the cargo shuttle?”

  “There would have to be, Commander.” O’Brien’s expression was grim. “The only way they could’ve gotten the substation out of the wormhole was to fire off the disengagement bomblets—use that force like the propulsive element in a cannon shell. I was wondering if they’d figure that out. Evidently they did; but, for it to work, one of them would have to stay aboard the shuttle, to initiate the trigger sequence. My guess would be that it was Doctor Bashir.”

  “Undoubtedly.” Sisko nodded. “It’s Kira’s mission—she’d want to see it all the way through. And there would’ve been no way for her to know what was about to happen with the wormhole.”

  Dax spoke more softly. “It’s still possible that Bashir is alive. Before our end of the wormhole collapsed, sensors seemed to indicate that the shuttle’s impulse engines had been activated—without the buffers being on line. It’s a reasonable assumption that that was the cause of the convulsion; essentially, a defensive reaction on the part of the wormhole’s inhabitants to a potentially lethal shock. If Bashir was able to shut down the engines, soon after we lost contact, then the shuttle might not have been destroyed. At this point, we just don’t know.”

  “Yes . . . ” For a moment, Sisko’s gaze drifted from the faces arrayed before him. Inside himself, he saw images shift and merge together, a kaleidoscope of memory. He knew more about the wormhole’s inhabitants than any other sentient creature, and they remained enigmatic to him. They had spoken to him through the masks of his own history; the dead had spoken to him. Even his wife, the emptiness he carried beneath his breastbone, an emptiness with a name that he murmured aloud in sleepless dark hours. What had the wormhole’s inhabitants learned of the human mind and soul by studying him? That there was violence and grieving in the outside universe. Better if a saint had found his way in there— the words he’d told himself before mocked him again. Perhaps a saint would have been wise enough not to make promises that would wind up being broken. And now, Bashir might be the one who would have to pay for that.

  “It is possible that he shut down the impulse engines in time—” Dax’s voice tugged at his awareness, bringing him back to those around him. “There are indications that the wormhole, in its altered state, still exists in the Gamma Quadrant; our monitor beacons in that sector are still picking up several band segments of the wormhole’s signature energy emissions. The cargo shuttle could be simply drifting inside the wormhole, with Bashir aboard.”

  “If he’s still alive.” Sisko saw no value in analyzing the situation in anything except the harshest possible light. He turned to the security officer. “What have you been able to get out of the other Redemptorists?”

  “Not much.” Odo shook his head. “We have enough evidence to hold them indefinitely, on suspicion of complicity in the sabotage of the substation mission and the murder of their fellow group member. And the smuggling aboard of a known terrorist leader wanted by the Bajoran security forces. If you were to order it as my top priority, I could almost certainly assemble airtight cases against them. But as far as getting information out of them, at least in time to do us any good . . . ” He shrugged. “They’re a closemouthed bunch. Fanatics. Their ideology is more religious than political in nature, and they’re certainly willing to die for as well as kill for it.” A certain self-satisfaction could almost be seen in the security chief’s face. “As I’ve indicated before, it was an error to ever have allowed such types aboard the station in the first place.”

  “We’ll deal with those regrets later. Have you managed to confirm that Hören Rygis is aboard the substation?”

  Odo gave a curt nod. “That is something on which the Redemptorists are not keeping silent. They’re rather boastful about it, actually.”

  “You’ll have to keep the pressure on them. Any useful information we can get—”

  “May I remind you, Commander, that my interrogation of these men is not unhindered by other considerations? Word has gone through the whole station that I’ve taken them into custody; the news is bound to reach Bajor soon, if it hasn’t already. You’re aware of how volatile the provisional government is right now; when the legitimate political wing of the Redemptorists hears about these men being held, it’s going to demand either a complete explanation or their immediate release—”

  “Those are not concerns of yours, Constable.” Sisko’s voice grew stern. “I’ll deal with the political situation on Bajor. Your job is security, and right now the security of this
station and its personnel depends upon the outcome of the substation mission. That’s why we need you to get those Redemptorists to open up.”

  Odo betrayed no sign of emotion. “As you wish, Commander.”

  One of Sisko’s hands rubbed at the ache that pulsed behind his forehead. “All right, then. Keep pushing for establishing communication with Major Kira. By this point, I don’t think we need to warn her about Hören—she’s almost certain to be aware of his presence. But we still might be able to assist her somehow.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’ll be in contact with all of you, so I can be given updates on any developments.”

  Dax regarded him with a raised eyebrow. “Where are you going, Commander?”

  “To Bajor.” Sisko stepped behind her and the other officers as they headed for the door. “There’s someone else I need to talk to.”

  * * *

  “Now,” he said, “we are going to have a little conversation.” His words bounced off the barren metal walls. The other cells along the corridor outside were empty. “You have much to tell me, and I’m sure that I’ll find all of it of interest.”

  On the other side of the table, the four Bajoran microassemblers—once there had been six of them aboard the station—shifted uneasily. Odo had entered the cell without using a key, flowing between the close-set bars and then reassembling his humanoid form on the other side. He assumed that the Redemptorists had been aware of the shapeshifting abilities of DS9’s security chief, but he had found in the past that a demonstration often worked to unnerve suspects and make them more receptive to his pressure techniques. Once someone began to doubt the true nature of the physical objects around him, and began wondering whether the chair on which he sat might not be listening to every word he said, then disorientation and helplessness could seep in.

  Sometimes, in moments of quiet reflection, savoring an accomplished investigation—his greatest pleasure—he found himself admiring his self-sufficiency. In other places, other times, the police had had to conduct interrogations in pairs, “good cop” and “bad cop.” If he worked it right, he could be both.

  “We have nothing to say to you.” One of the Redemptorists kept his arms folded across his chest. “Leave us in peace.”

  So this is their new spokesman, thought Odo. He had observed the others’ glances from the corners of their eyes, waiting for the one in the middle to answer. A definite intellectual cut below the late Deyreth Elt, who at least had had a measure of intensity, a second or third-generation copy of the Redemptorist movement’s leader. The survivors of the group that had come aboard the station all had a sullen obstinacy about them, as though most of their brainpower had been devoted to their intricate craft, with the iron dictates of their faith filling in their inadequate personalities. Such types, he knew from experience, were often more difficult to crack than a superior mind—they could always lapse into a defensive silence, whereas a genius wouldn’t be able to resist proving how much cleverer he was than a mere security chief. As long as they kept talking, Odo would eventually find out what he needed to know.

  “I thought we might talk about Hören Rygis.” For one of his physiology, all sitting positions were equally comfortable; now, he assumed one that clearly signaled a relaxed, even casual attitude. “Surely that’s a subject that you don’t tire of.”

  A smug expression rose on the spokesman’s face. “Didn’t you hear enough of him before? We told you where he is.”

  “Yes, of course. I was just wondering what he might be doing out there, so far away from his devoted little flock.”

  “He . . . ” The smugness changed to caution. “He performs the obligations laid upon him by our faith.”

  A canned phrase; Odo nodded slowly. “I see. You mean murder.”

  All the Redemptorists glared at him sullenly. “Such acts,” said the spokesman, “are not murder. They’re justice.”

  “Ah. Like what happened to your compatriot Arten.”

  Silence.

  “The problem,” said Odo, “is that you’re going to be tried as accessories to that ‘justice.’ Others might not take such a . . . complex view of these things. They might simply regard murder as murder.”

  “So?” The spokesman shrugged. “A glorious martyrdom is welcomed by the faithful.”

  “Yes, it usually is. Which is a good thing for you, since Hören certainly set you up for it.” He let the remark sink in for a moment before continuing. “That is, of course, if it actually was Hören . . . ”

  The spokesman stiffened in his chair, as the others glanced nervously toward him. “What do you mean?”

  Odo knew that the simplest deception would never have worked on the Redemptorists. These were men who had spent years in close contact with each other, and with Hören Rygis; small conspiratorial units, the smells of their own blood and sweat locked into their subconscious memories. There were a thousand little clues that even he, with his shapeshifting abilities, could never have gotten right. If he had disguised himself, taken on Hören’s face and body structure, and come walking into the cell, ordering his followers to confess all to their captors—they would have seen right through him. Their contempt would have been justified.

  But to do it in front of them, the way he had come through the bars . . . to plant the tiniest of seeds in their minds . . . that would burrow deeper and deeper, and do its slow damage to the sureness of their beliefs. . . .

  The body was easy enough; Odo had studied the photographs and the few available tapes of the Redemptorists’ leader, and had memorized Hören’s distinctive broad-shouldered form. He could even manage a reasonable approximation of Hören’s face, one that could pass muster for a few seconds, as long as the light silhouetted him from behind, shining into the Redemptorists’ eyes.

  The voice had taken more effort: he’d had to experiment in private, sculpting inside himself the thickness of the larynx’s cords, the dimensions of the thoracic cavity, and the smaller, more intricate chambers of the sinuses, all that gave the voice on the recording chips its resonance. Even when he’d judged his mimicry a success, he knew that there was still some irreducible element, a power not in the material form, that he wouldn’t be able to reproduce.

  But he was still close enough.

  Across the table from the team of Bajoran microassemblers, the form and image of Hören Rygis leaned toward their startled gazes. The face of Hören Rygis smiled thinly, then his voice spoke.

  “Your faith should be a shield. To guard you during the great task of cutting this pollution away from the soul of your world.”

  They were all shocked into a dismayed silence. They stared at him as he resumed his usual appearance. He remembered the old entertainers’ maxim that it was best to hit one’s audience and then get offstage before they could pick the act apart.

  Odo now tried to make himself sound as kind as possible. “The problem is, gentlemen, that you don’t know how much I know . . . how much of what you may have said before wasn’t spoken to your grand and glorious leader . . . but to me.”

  He pushed the chair back and stood up. It didn’t matter how messy the logic of what he’d told them might be; in some ways, it was better like that. It gave their brains more to be puzzled about, to endlessly twist and turn in their thoughts. Just as long as the elements of doubt and suspicion were there.

  “I’ll leave you now.” He stood with his back against the bars; a moment later, he was on the other side of them. The Redemptorists flinched. “I’m sure you have a lot to discuss with each other.” He turned and walked down the corridor between the cells, feeling satisfied with his work.

  It would have been comforting to have someone to talk to. Humans were by nature social creatures, and he perhaps more than most. Julian Bashir wouldn’t have become a doctor, otherwise.

  He let such musings roll around the back part of his head as he continued working on the circuitry of the cargo shuttle’s engines. His forebrain was preoccupied with repairing the damage he’d caused
in his desperate haste to shut down the unbuffered impulse energy pouring out, before the wormhole’s convulsions had thrashed the shuttle to pieces.

  “Damn . . . ” Another sharp corner of metal had bit his fingertips. Clearances were tight inside the panels, and he lacked most of the appropriate tools. Open-heart surgery on an exoskeletoned Thallasinite with a butter knife would have been easier. He sucked the blood from under his nail and leaned forward to peer into the electronic innards. Besides conversation, it would have been handy to have Kira here—so she could hold the flashlight.

  Fortunately, the cargo shuttle’s engines had been equipped with a modular repair kit, updated by DS9’s Chief Engineer O’Brien, with most of the circuitry duplicated on plug-in cards. The control schematics could be scrolled through on a small readout screen; with that and a miniaturized logic probe, Bashir had been able to trace and reconnect most of the thin-filament wires he’d pulled loose before.

  In doing so, he had also located parts that didn’t belong there at all. He had tugged them free and examined them on the palm of his hand. Some he could recognize, enough to be sure that they were what had caused the unexpected firing of the engines. A few override modules, a short-range remote trigger, some kind of delay device—nothing that O’Brien would have had any reason to install. They would have to have been wired in place back on DS9 by someone else—probably that group of Redemptorist microassemblers—at the same time the impulse buffers had been tampered with. But set off from close by; given the shuttle’s close quarters, the only possibility was that it had been done from aboard the substation while it had still been attached. The setting on the in-line delay circuit had given just enough time for the disengagement sequence to have been completed and for the substation to have reached the wormhole’s exit before activating the engines. The saboteur—Hören Rygis, of course; who else could it have been?—would not have anticipated that a way would have been found to get the substation out of the wormhole; Bashir figured that the Redemptorists had planned only to collapse the entrance to the wormhole, to prevent any outside assistance from reaching him and Kira. Once the triggering device had been set off, the delay circuit would have been needed for Hören to scramble back to whatever hiding place he had had in the far reaches of the substation. It was just a turn of bad luck that things had worked out even better for Hören, with Kira in the substation with him, while Bashir remained stuck in the wormhole.