by Неизвестный
"Responsibility." "Survival." This is getting us nowhere, Jake concluded. "Look," he said, "I'll make you a deal." Nog stopped peering around and gave Jake his full attention. Jake wasn't surprised. There wasn't a Ferengi in the galaxy, he knew, who could resist bargaining. "If you help me fix this mess, I won't insist we confess to starting it." Nog's jaw dropped at the very prospect of admitting their guilt. "You wouldn't!" "Try me," Jake said. He fixed his face in as grim and Odo-like an expression as he could muster. Nog's jagged overbite gnawed on his lower lip as he consid- ered his options. The Ferengi's eyes narrowed to a squint, as if searching for microscopic loopholes in the bargain.
"You won't tell anyone?" Nog said finally. "Not even your father?" "Not even your uncle," Jake assured him.
Nog held out his hand. "Deal!" From the Promenade came the sound of breaking glass and the smell of smoke. Grabbing his friend's outstretched hand, Jake pulled him toward the stair- way. Maybe Odo needs volunteers, he thought hopeful- ly, or Chief O'Brien.
He'd find some way to make things right. He had to.
"Commander!" O'Brien announced in Ops. "I have power outages all over the station. Something is disrupting the microwave junction nodes." Now what, Sisko wondered. He sat on a stool by the operations table, analyzing a map of Bajor and trying, unsuccessfully, to find a safe haven for the Hortas when they hatched. He wanted to find a site so isolated, or environmentally secure, that Pova's coun- cil couldn't conceivably object. So far, he hadn't found one. "Is this the usual brand of DS9 malfunc- tion," he asked, "or anything more serious?" "It looks bad, sir." O'Brien scowled, clearly puzzled by the incoming data. "I can't be sure, but it's almost like there's something, maybe more than one some- thing, chewing their way through the hull, and mess.
ing up everything in their path." He looked over at Sisko. "You don't think the Cardies left us with mice, do you?" "The Hortas," Sisko realized instantly. But how?
They weren't supposed to hatch for weeks. And what about the stasis field? Never mind, he told himself.
That wasn't important now. "We have twenty Horta babies on the loose, Chief. Frisky, hungry, Horta babies." "Bloody hell," O'Brien muttered.
"Can you track them?" Sisko asked.
O'Brien looked embarrassed. "I'm trying, sir, but it's not easy. These accursed Cardie sensors aren't equipped to deal with beasties made out of silicon. I can reconfigure the parameters--over the central computer's dead circuits if I have tombut the Hortas are already eating away at the station's internal moni- tors. God knows what sensors will be left by the time I get them on the right track." Sisko scowled. He shoved himself off the stool and onto his feet. This sounded like a disaster in the making. He knew he had to take action immediately.
"Can you give me any sense of their progress, Chief?." "Judging from the damage reports," O'Brien told him, "they're spreading out from Habitat Suite Nine- five-nine and making pretty good time." He examined every screen at the engineering station. "Hmmm.
Nothing in the docking ring yet." He stared at Sisko with an anxious expression on his ruddy features.
"Commander, I think some of them have already reached the Promenade." In other words, Sisko translated, DS9 is facing a full-scale Horta invasion.
"Seal off all the turbolifts and walkways between the Promenade and Ops," he ordered. "See if you can contain them--without harming them." O'Brien had a small child of his own; Sisko knew he could count on Miles to keep the safety of the baby Hortas in mind.
Now, he thought, all I have to do is keep the rest of us intact as well.
Sisko tapped his comm badge. "Odo. Sisko here.
We have a problem.... "
"Tell me about it, Commander," Odo replied sar- castically before informing Sisko of the rioting on the Promenade. He didn't waste words either; he had work to do. Signing off, he observed with satisfaction that his team was managing to impose a semblance of order on the frantic exodus from the scene. Bajorans, Ferengi, humans, and the rest cleared out of the Promenade, without actually killing each other.
Good, he thought. Let the deputies handle crowd control. He'd deal with the Hortas personally.
The Hortas looked like they were having a grand time. At least three Hortas were ransacking the miner- al assay office, knocking over the shelves and consum- ing the rare ores and gems. "Like kids in a candy store," Odo grumbled, before turning his gaze else- where.
A single Horta, tendrils vibrating with excitement, attacked a snack kiosk. It ignored the mouthwatering display of glopsicles, preferring to consume the kiosk itself. Despite himself, he thought the Horta showed surprisingly good taste.
Two more Hortas dined sloppily at the Replimat, dissolving the small dining tables of the outdoor caf~.
A Bajoran priest fled from his temple, the hem of his scarlet robe smoking around his ankles. "The altar!" he shouted, torn between fear and fury. "A devil is eating the altar!" Yet another Horta wriggled out of the doorway of the schoolroom. Remembering the screaming chil- dren, Odo began to move in that direction. Lieutenant Morn, his second-in-command, got there first; Od0 watched the tail Bajoran woman, a veteran of numer- ous battles and emergencies, escort Chief O'Brien's wife and daughter out of the building and away from the Promenade. From where he was standing, they appeared unharmed. Satisfied that Ms. O'Brien and the child were in good hands, he twisted his head in the opposite direction, rapidly assessing the disaster.
So far, Garak's clothing shop had escaped the Hortas' appetite. The Cardassian himself lurked in the shadows of his doorway, a thin smile on his pallid lips. No doubt he was mentally taking notes for the report he intended to send to... whomever. Odo directed his attention toward the haberdasher/spy.
"They don't seem to like your wares, Garak," he said suspiciously.
Garak threw out his hands, all bemused innocence.
"I deal only in the finest natural fibers. Nothing inorganic or synthetic." "Convenient," Odo observed.
Garak shrugged, then adjusted the shoulders of his well-cut tan suit. "Perhaps I can interest you in an 'I Saw The Prodigal' T-shirt?" he said with a smirk.
"Get out now or I'll have you dragged away." "Don't trouble yourself, Constable," the Cardas- sian said unctuously. "I know when I'm not needed." He crept slowly toward an exit.
Odo snorted in disgust. Someday he'd deal with that viper, but not now. Especially since he saw a pair of Hortas burning their way toward Dr. Bashir's infirmary. Odo nodded, his decision made; that was where to begin. Glopsicles and mineral samples were one thing. Medical supplies took priority.
As for Quark's Place... well, he'd check on that eventually, in his own good time.
Rom stood, his knees shaking, atop the bar counter.
Quark sat on Rom's shoulders, and wished he had a stronger and taller brother.
Below, a rampaging young Horta sampled the furni- ture of Quark's establishment. Right now, it was nibbling away at the gaming wheel in the casino section. Mostly plastic and cheap Bajoran timber, the wheel quickly bored the Horta, who turned its corro- sive attention to an automated chip dispenser that, ordinarily, cashed all manner of currency for a mere thirty percent service charge. Quark had based the technology on the Federation's Universal Translator --with modifications.
Heavy money bags filled with sheets of gold-pressed latinurn were slung over both Quark's shoulders. A belt packed with precious jewels and rare, antique coins was wrapped around his waist. Quark felt Rom shudder under the weight. "Careful, you dolt!" he snapped. "And don't step on those cocktail napkins, and watch out for that puddle of spilled bubble juice!" "Yes, brother," Rom huffed. Except for the Horta, he and Quark were alone in the bar. The rest of the staff and customers had fled upon the creature's first appearance. Even Morn had deserted his customary place at the bar to escape the monster. Too bad, Quark thought; the massive barfly could have lifted me higher and longer than Rom. Quark briefly considered firing his Dabo girls for running out on their jobs.
Then again, he scolded himself privately
, that's what l get for hiring reptiles. He'd dock their pay instead.
Quark's beady eyes tracked the Horta's progress across his bar. He'd identified the creature at once, of course; very little occurred at DS9 that he didn't find out about. Still, he thought Ttan's offspring had been safely stored in stasis. Watching the hungry infant make a meal of a sturdy circular table, he was re.
minded of the eternal wisdom of an old Ferengi adage: Children should be worked and not seen.
"How much longer must we stay like this?" Rom whined.
"Until the beast is sated or absent," Quark said harshly. He wanted to keep his profits as out of reach of the Horta as possible. Although it pained him to watch the damage to his business, the loss of his furnishings was of minor concern; most of his supplies had, after all, "fallen offa cruiser" and would be easy enough to replace. But if the Horta developed a taste for latinurn... By the treasure of the Nagus, it made his ears ache just thinking about it.
Before his eyes, an entire case of commemorative "Prodigal" medallions (manufactured on the sly in Dr. Bashir's personal replicator) disappeared into the Horta's unrecognizable maw. Frustrated, Quark dug his heels into Rom's ribs.
Quark didn't trust banks, having managed more than one shady savings institution in his youth, but right now he wished he had socked more of his earnings away in an unlisted account in the Orion system.
A brown-suited security officer rushed in from the Promenade. One of Odo's men. His eyes gaped as he spotted the Horta on the loose, and the tower of Ferengi balancing on the bar. Maintaining a safe distance from the Horta, he shouted over the bubbling sound of melting barstools. "All civilians are to leave this area immediately. Constable Odo's orders." "Whatever you say," Rom blurted far too readily.
Quark smacked Rom's bulging cranium. He had no intention of abandoning his business to the Horta, or carrying all his precious commodities into an unruly mob of refugees. Why, there might be thieves and pickpockets at work, including a few he hadn't em- ployed yet.
"Leave us alone, Vu Kuzas, or I'll tell your wife-- and your entire temple--about your visits to my holosuites. Not to mention your gambling debts." The Bajoran turned visibly pale, and backed toward the exit.
"Uh, you have been officially warned," he said.
"My responsibility is discharged." With that, he slipped out of sight, looking a good deal more a shaken than before. The nice thing about religious cultures, Quark gloated, was the endless opportunities for blackmail they gave you.
Such pleasant thoughts were interrupted by a shak- ing underneath him. Peering down, Quark saw that the Horta had begun to consume the very bar they were standing on. Clutching on to Quark's knees, Rom edged away toward the far end of the counter.
Quark felt a rush of alarm as well; he tried to calm himself by mentally filling out insurance claims, but his lobes felt as if they were filled with ice water.
Odo, he thought angrily. Where in recessionary hell are you?
"Intruder alert," the computer announced. "Hos- tile life-forms attacking station functions. Initiating elimination procedures.... " "Computer, halt all defensive procedures on my command," O'Brien snapped. The sleeves of his black-and-yellow uniform were rolled up past his elbows. Hunched over his station in Ops, he waited for the inevitable argument from the station's stub- born main computer, and just when he'd finally gotten a sort of lock on the runaway Hortas. "Bloody- minded Cardassian programming," he muttered; O'Brien wasn't sure exactly what the computer had in mind, but he knew he wasn't going to like it. DS9 itself hadn't got used to doing things the Federation way, which made its computer the bane of O'Brien's exis- tence, and the last thing he needed to deal with right now, especially with Hortas rampaging through the Promenade. O'Brien was only too aware where his wife and child would be this time of day: right in the middle of the disaster.
Molly, Keiko, he thought. Be careful.
He glanced over his shoulder at the commander's office. The door was shut, but he thought he could hear Sisko arguing loudly with someone. O'Brien guessed that some Bajoran politician was still refusing to take responsibility for the now hatched and on-the- loose Hortas. Which dumped the problem back in O'Brien's lap, and the computer's.
"Warning," its artificial voice insisted, "station under attack. Safety protocols require that unautho- rized life-forms be terminated immediately. Activat- ing transporter now.... " "No!" O'Brien barkedú My God, the thing actually wanted to beam the Hortas into space. Forget it, he thought. No one was throwing those little snappers out into the vacuum while he had anything to say about it. "Computer, listen to me. Those are not invaders. They are, er, unruly guests. You will not take any potentially lethal action against them, under- stood?" The computer fell silent for a heartbeat or two.
O'Brien imagined he could almost hear the machine riffling through its files, looking for a loophole. His face grew red. "Understood?" he repeated.
ú " r "Warning," the computer stud. Dange ous parasit- ic infection aboard station. Health and quarantine regulations require immediate sterilization. Activat- ing transporter.... " "Damn it," O'Brien cursed. He pounded the con- sole with his fist. "Cease sterilization procedures this minute!" "Authorization of station's medical officer required to override public health regulations." "What?" he sputtered. For a second, he was taken aback. What was he supposed to do now? Dr. Bashir was light-years away, and probably knee-deep in Cardassian soldiers by now.
"Resuming sterilization procedures," the computer declared--with what O'Brien could have sworn was a trace of smugness in its tone. "Activating trans- porter.... " "Computer, stop at once," O'Brien ordered. His ruddy face began to turn pale. His heart pounded.
"Attempting to lock on to sources of infection.... " Oh, Lord, O'Brien thought. He never thought he'd be praying for Julian Bashir, of all people, to suddenly reappear. Those poor baby Hortas... ! O'Brien felt terrible, and the worst part, he guiltily acknowledged, was that, deep down at the bottom of his soul, one selfish part of him felt relief at solving the Horta crisis so easily. They were more than unruly guests, after all.
For all he knew, they were threatening his family at this very minute.
But they didn't deserve to die in space.
"Computer," another voice suddenly interrupted.
"This is Commander Benjamin Sisko. ~op transport- er. Halt sterilization. This is a High Command Execu- tive Override." O'Brien looked up and saw Sisko standing outside his office. He had been so caught up in his battle with the Cardies' merciless software that he hadn't even heard the commander emerge.
"Acknowledged," the computer said curtly. "Warn- ing: Infestation continues to spread." "Oh, shut up," O'Brien said. That had been too close for comfort; he'd been only minutes away from becoming an accomplice to automated infanticide. He got shaky thinking about it. His bones felt like gelatin, and he wanted desperately to slump into a chair somewhere, but not while the commander was watch- ing.
"Problems?" Sisko asked. He walked toward O'Brien's station. From the look on Sisko's face, O'Brien could tell his debate with the Bajorans had gone badly.
"Nothing I can't handle," he said briskly. "With a little bit of help, that is. Thanks, sir." "Any time," Sisko replied. He peered at a screen on O'Brien's station. Raw data, etched in shades of scarlet and turquoise, streamed across the monitor, Cardassian and Federation symbols mixing to form a technical pidgin unique to DS9. "How are we doing with our main problem, the Hortas themselves?" O'Brien hastily moved his meaty fingers across the screen, trying to make up for the time he lost fighting the computer. Unfortunately, the situation had not miraculously improved during the debate. "I'm sorry, sir. A few are spreading through the habitat ring, but the rest are tearing up the core. They're difficult to track in the first place, what with their silicon-based biology and many of the internal sensors burning out.
I'm not ashamed to say I wish Lieutenant Dax were here; she might be able to make better sense of these readings then I can." That's putting it lightly, O'Brien
thought silently.
I'm an engineer, not a science officer, let alone a specialist on strange alien babies. Hell, I can barely figure out my own tyke sometimes. Give me something I can handle, like a defective warp coil or an unstable transporter pattern.
"Just do your best, Chief," Sisko said. "Can't we confine them somehow?" "I'm trying, Commander, but they're worse than termites. They get everywhere. I've set up shields in all the connecting tunnels, but they're burning into the cargo aisles and the turboshafts and who knows what else. They don't even need to use any of our passageways; they can make their own. And I'm not sure the forcefields even stop them." O'Brien shrugged wearily. "To be honest, the best way to track them is to look for the trail of damage they leave behind." As if to second O'Brien's report, the screen sudden- ly indicated a loss of temperature controls in Cross- over Bridge 2. O'Brien quickly rerouted the heating units to a backup system on Level 17. "Any luck with the Bajorans, sir." Sisko shook his head. "Not yet. Pova is adamant.
