by S. D. Perry
Vaughn looked at Nog. “Any chance we can break in on their comm cycle?”
Nog studied the sensor reads. He sighed inwardly, reading the channel switches, the rapid band rotation. There was just enough space around the station not to interfere with internal transmissions, and beyond that . . . “total” wasn’t a strong enough word for the blackout. “If I had time to pin it down, maybe,” he said. “But they’d be able to shut us out almost immediately, we’d have two or three seconds, at most. Sir.”
Vaughn nodded. “All right. The way I see it, we attempt to get clear under cloak and try to make contact with Starfleet . . . but we do it making a run past the station, acquire as much intelligence as our sensors can manage. Ezri?”
Dax was frowning, her arms tightly crossed. She glanced at Bashir before answering. “I agree,” she said. “We can’t let them take the Defiant. And we might learn something to help plan our next move.”
“Then let’s do this,” Vaughn said. “Nog, see that everything’s on line, and watch for my signal to cloak. Sam, prepare to raise shields and charge phasers if we’re forced to become visible. Tenmei, set course zero-eight-zero mark two-five and be ready to jump at full impulse on my command. We’ll have to circle farther away from the station before we can begin our run, we may get boxed in otherwise . . . . Macet’s ship is equipped with Dominion sensors, so the cloaking device may not protect us for long. Be prepared to go to warp once we clear the station.”
Vaughn hesitated and added, “We’ll need you at the top of your game, Ensign.”
Prynn didn’t acknowledge his comment, only turned back to the flight controls.
As Vaughn called out instructions, Nog signaled to Permenter and Leishman to stand by the cloaking device and sit on impulse, and put Senkowski on shields, not offering any explanation; there wasn’t time, and even if there had been, he didn’t have much of an explanation to give them. He felt like he’d been plunged into an unfamiliar holosuite program that he hadn’t ordered. Everything seemed speeded up and wrong. Only a few minutes ago he’d been listening to Jake’s story about the Drang treasure caverns, looking forward to a night in his own bed, a dinner that didn’t come in a packet, perhaps a celebratory homecoming root beer at Vic’s beforehand . . .
. . . and now we’re going to play whip-dodge against a fleet of armed Cardassian ships, in order to find out the extent to which the station has been compromised. The thought conjured up images of Uncle Quark and Colonel Kira. Nog gritted his teeth against the distraction, focusing instead on Vaughn.
“Trager is hailing us,” Bowers said.
Vaughn sagged in his chair, resuming his defeated posture, and nodded to Bowers, who tapped up Macet’s dangerous countenance. Nog’s fingers hovered over the cloaking device relay, his gaze fixed on the commander.
“Your time is up, Commander,” Macet said. “Do you surrender?”
“You really give me no choice,” Vaughn said. “If you’ll stand by, I’ll have my engineer send out our stats. Nog?”
As he said Nog’s name, he nodded sharply. Nog stabbed at the controls, watched the read that told him the cloak was active as the Defiant darted away, out of Macet’s sight and into the vast dark, circling toward home.
2
THE CARDASSIAN SHIPS IN FRONT OF THEM SWEPT UP AND OFFSCREEN IN a dizzying blur, the Defiant cutting starboard, dropping beneath Macet’s ship. Prynn let herself relax into the controls with a deep breath, making her muscles unknot in spite of the high, tight thrum of her nerves. As their ship fell away into empty space, so did thoughts of her mother, worries about what was happening on the station, the confusion and anger that her father represented for her now. There was nothing else in her mind, nothing but her and the ship and movement.
“They’re sweeping, antiproton, tachyon, and chroniton,” Shar said. “Sensor arrays concentrated on an area between zero-seven-five mark four-zero and mark six-five, z-plus thirty-eight degrees.”
Too high, they’re looking too high.
“Let me know if they find us,” Vaughn said, a touch of humor in his voice. Prynn filed Shar’s information, ignoring her father’s voice. She only needed numbers and facts and her own hands, her own honed instincts.
“Cardassian ships spreading into a defensive pattern between us and the station,” Bowers said.
Evek Arrangement, Prynn decided, without looking at her console. A Cardassian standard. A second later, Shar called off a series of designations, the numbers confirming it. Five ships in a kind of slanted wheel shape, maximum coverage to perform a sensory sweep, and to act as a kind of loose barrier; flying through it would pass a cloaked ship close enough to at least one of the five for a read, and with the ships on a constant rotation of outward sweeps, bypassing such a formation could prove difficult.
Shar rattled off a new string of numbers, then another. Except for three, all of the Cardassian ships were grouping into Evek formations, surrounding the station.
“Shar, establish sweep patterns on formation at two-seven-five mark ten,” Vaughn said. Prynn would have chosen the same. He meant to go in as close as possible, pass between the lower docking pylons and the fusion reactor—the riskiest, and therefore least likely, approach. At least, from a Cardassian standpoint. It was the one area that would receive only partial coverage from their sweeps.
“Dropping to two-seven-five mark ten,” Prynn said, not needing Vaughn to tell her what to do. Her voice was distant to her ears, her attention entirely focused on the unfolding dark in front of her and the rapidly shifting numbers on the panel at her fingertips. The ship responded to the slightest adjustments of her hands like an extension of her will, the power of the act as exhilarating and awesome as it had been her first day solo at the Academy.
“Nog, how close are we to breaching the block?” Vaughn asked. Prynn reflexively looked for herself, not hearing Nog’s response as she calculated, speed, distance, allowance for impulse cut . . . two minutes, give or take. Assuming the Cardassians didn’t manage to stop them.
“ . . . let me know the instant we’re through,” Vaughn said. “Dax, work with the secondary comm bank, see if you can boost our signal to the station . . . and have a text ready to send, in case we have to abort before we can make contact.”
“They’re hailing again,” Bowers said.
Vaughn didn’t have to tell Sam to ignore it. “Mister ch’Thane, feed whatever you’ve got on the sweeps to navigation, with your recommendation. Tenmei, pick us a hole.”
She could hear the pleasure in his voice and felt a flush of cold anger, in spite of the fact that she was surely just as excited to be in action. What right did he have to be enjoying anything, after—
—let it go. Fly.
She flew, watching the reads as Shar’s calculations dropped onto the screen. There, at three-one-four mark five, intervals of . . . four seconds clear, seven second sweep, then four clear again. The other two openings Shar had pinpointed had shorter sweeps but only offered windows of two and a half seconds. It was going to be tight, very tight, but she could do it. She would do it, she had the reflexes and the training and the nerve.
The Defiant moved closer to the station, where Prynn could see the U.S.S. Gryphon docked at an upper pylon. Its silver-white hull was streaked black with battle damage, but there was no way to know how recently she’d come under fire. Behind Prynn, Vaughn continued to call out orders—stand by to drop cloak, to send text, to raise shields. She concentrated on her mark as she swept the Defiant up toward the reactor at ninety degrees, preparing to cut impulse and go to warp once they’d coasted through, Shar’s sensors taking in whatever they could. Forty, forty-one seconds from contact and the flying was fine, she was as good as her reputation and with as messed up as her life usually was, it was one sure thing to be proud of, to hang on to . . .
Bowers’s voice cut through that good feeling, turning it to dust.
“Target group falling out of formation.”
Shar was confirming, and Prynn
barely had time to register the new numbers that were pouring onto her screen before she had to move. Three of the Cardassian fighters at the reactor group were spreading out, dropping slowly toward the Defiant as it sped upward.
Rate of acceleration, projected course, estimated sensory movement—Twenty seconds to contact with the station, give or take; and only eleven or twelve seconds before they were made.
Unless.
Prynn scanned the numbers, saw what she wanted, as much a leap of trained intuition as anything. She didn’t have time to calculate it to a certainty, but there was a one, one and a half second opening at zero-zero-seven mark one, she was sure of it.
“Ch’Thane, report,” Vaughn snapped.
“Their sensors will find us in the next ten seconds,” Shar said, his voice mild and relaxed. The calm in crisis of a trained Andorian.
“Tenmei—” The commander started.
“There’s a hole,” she said sharply, hoping to hell that she was right. “I can get us through.”
Vaughn didn’t hesitate. “Then do it.”
Prynn rotated the Defiant, set her mark, the controls warm beneath her fingers. She was going to shoot between two of the descending ships at an angle, twisting at precisely the right instant to avoid their sensory sweeps and curving in to avoid the sweeps of the two stationary ships, both cruisers, situated near the two of the station’s lower pylons. The Defiant was going to have to pass extremely close to one of the dropping fighters to catch the opening. If she made a mistake—
They’ll see us. Or crash into us.
Bad thinking, she let it go. She wouldn’t make a mistake.
Just another few seconds, and each ticked down in her mind like a pounding hammer, the Cardassian ships rushing toward the viewscreen, blotting out the darkness, her gaze steady on the numbers, her fingers steady at the helm—
—and they moved, all three of the descending ships turning. Changing sweep patterns.
Prynn hissed through her teeth, forcing her hands not to jump, reflexively pushing the controls with the gentlest of touches . . . and the Defiant blew past them, twisted and arced, clearing the closest vessel with barely enough distance to avoid bouncing off their shields.
Prynn’s cocksure attitude went down in flames. Good piloting or no, the Cardassians had them.
Almost as one, the three ships ceased their descent, the two cruisers near the pylons turning to face the rapidly approaching Defiant. Prynn ignored them, focused on controlling their advance, slowing to quarter impulse, her chest tight with frustration. They were still seconds from breaking through.
“Sir, signal from the station,” Bowers announced. “It’s Colonel Kira. She’s ordering us to stand down.”
“Cut the engines,” Vaughn snapped. “Full stop.”
Prynn hesitated, then did as he asked, still too dismayed by the outcome to register what Bowers had said.
Six or seven seconds, we would have been through, she thought, her jaw clenching. At most.
“Detecting EMP generator readings coming from the ships at one-three-five mark thirty and mark forty.” Shar said. “And . . . both of the cruisers have powered their spiral wave disruptors and fixed on the Defiant.”
Prynn’s heart skipped a beat.
“What the hell’s going on?” Vaughn asked quietly. “Sam, are you sure it’s the colonel?”
“Voiceprint confirmed,” Bowers said. “The Cardassians opened a comm window.”
Prynn sensed Vaughn rising to his feet. “All right, drop cloak,” he said, “and put her on screen.”
* * *
As the cloak dissolved, Ezri realized she was holding her breath and let it out. If it really was Kira, they might finally get some answers. And if it wasn’t, if it was some trick of Macet’s . . .
Too late to second guess now, she thought, moving to Vaughn’s side. Too late for any outcome but this one. If she’d learned anything since moving to command, it was that hindsight could be devastating for a leader.
Before she could take the thought any further, Kira appeared on the viewscreen, in a tight shot of ops on board the station. At her side, dwarfing her, stood Admiral Akaar.
“Colonel?” Vaughn began. “Admiral? I hope you’ll pardon my bluntness, but do you mind telling me—”
“Commander,” Akaar interrupted. “Who is your daughter named for?”
“Excuse me?”
“Answer the question, Commander.”
Vaughn blinked. “T’Prynn of Vulcan.”
“And have you spoken with T’Prynn since becoming first officer of Deep Space 9?”
“You know perfectly well Commander T’Prynn died almost thirty years ago,” Vaughn said, his frown deepening.
He’s challenging Vaughn to prove his identity, Ezri thought. But why?
“Yes,” Akaar continued. “At Raknal V.”
“No, in deep space, during a mission against renegade Ktarians. T’Prynn was never at Raknal.”
That appeared to satisfy Akaar, who turned to Kira. But instead of offering an explanation, the colonel said, “Doctor.”
Ezri felt Julian move alongside her. “Yes, Colonel?”
“I don’t think I ever thanked your properly for the care you gave me during my pregnancy.”
Julian nodded. “You’re, ah, very welcome, Colonel.”
“That was your first Bajoran delivery, wasn’t it?”
Julian folded his arms. “I didn’t deliver Kirayoshi, Colonel. He was delivered by a Bajoran midwife, Y’Pora.”
“But it was in the Infirmary.”
“No, in one of the station’s guest quarters. It was set up as a traditional Bajoran birthing room.”
“Doctor,” Akaar said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Please step directly behind Lieutenant Dax.”
Julian did as ordered, everyone on the bridge watching closely.
“Examine the back of her neck, please.”
Vaughn’s attention snapped back toward the viewscreen. The reference to the back of her neck . . . Ezri wondered if he knew what was happening. Then at least one of us would.
“What am I looking for?” Julian asked. His familiar fingers slid through her hair.
Akaar was looking directly at her. “You will know it if you see it.”
After a long moment of careful examination, Julian sighed. “I don’t see anything.”
“Look carefully. Feel the skin.”
Julian’s fingers were gentle, as always.
“There’s nothing unusual about Lieutenant Dax’s neck, Admiral,” Julian said.
Akaar and Kira both relaxed visibly. “That’ll do, Doctor, thank you,” Kira said. “Sorry about the precautions, but we had to be sure. Welcome home, to all of you.” She looked haggard and tense, the lines of her face tight, but she also wore a small, crooked smile that did Ezri’s heart good. Whatever was happening, Kira was Kira, and it was good to see her.
“You’ll need to examine the rest of the crew,” Vaughn said, addressing Kira. It wasn’t a question.
Kira nodded. Her smile faded, her gaze darkening. “Once you dock. Take port one. The Cardassians will be handling the examinations.”
Vaughn raised an eyebrow. “That’s interesting,” he said. “I take it we can expect a briefing?”
“Once you’re cleared, yes . . . . Tell the crew not to resist the exams, or any security measures you find in place. I’ll explain when I get there.”
She smiled again, this one less sardonic. “You may be sorry afterward, but it’s good to have you back,” she said, and the screen went blank. A second later, Macet appeared. He didn’t appear to be angry or pleased. Ezri thought he actually seemed relieved.
“Well played, Commander,” the Cardassian said, his expression tight but not unpleasant. “I have ordered my ships to stand down. You may dock at will.”
“Thank you,” Vaughn said. “Will I see you aboard the station?”
Macet nodded. “I will be there presently. Macet out.”
The view onscreen returned to stars and ships, to the station itself. To home, where something had gone very wrong.
* * *
Jake, Wex, and Opaka were called up to the bridge shortly after the Defiant docked, and were walked to the airlock a few minutes later along with most of the bridge crew. Leading the way—and surrounding them, and bringing up the rear—were a number of Cardassian soldiers, armed and silent.
A handful of Cardassian medics and techs were waiting for the disembarking crew just outside the airlock, holding unfamiliar medical equipment. A female Cardassian in civvies was in charge, identifying herself simply as Vlu, and she politely but firmly explained what would happen—that except for the officers and passengers, the rest of the crew would stay aboard the ship for the moment, that it would be easier for her people to run their security scans in a “contained” environment . . . though she didn’t explain what needed scanning, exactly. Jake could see that although the commander wasn’t entirely comfortable with it—and after hearing a hastily whispered abridged version of their homecoming from Nog, Jake could understand why—Vaughn went along, making it clear that they would all cooperate.
More Cardassian soldiers and medics boarded the Defiant for the unspecified security check as Jake and the others waited their turn to be scanned, lining one wall of the corridor outside the airlock. Jake was looked over by a young male medic who frowned a lot, read off his vitals, and ran cool, scaly fingers over the back of Jake’s neck before nodding him away, to stand with the others who’d already been checked. No questions were answered, no information about the scans given. It was decidedly creepy, but no stranger than some of what he’d been doing in the past six months. Being among old friends again definitely made it more bearable.
Jake stood with Nog, Wex, and Opaka, watching as Ezri walked over to join them, using her fingers to comb her short hair down in the back after having it ruffled (for the second time, apparently) by one of the medics. Dr. Bashir was close behind, frowning thoughtfully as Ezri took his hand. Except for Wex and Opaka, who watched the scans silently, they all spent a few useless moments guessing at what they were being checked for as more officers were waved toward them. Dr. Bashir said he recognized at least two of the programs being used by the subsonic pulses they emitted, naming them both with impossibly long medical terms that Jake instantly forgot—though basically, they were to scan for physical abnormalities. The most popular guess was that some sort of illness had come to the station. Ensign Juarez, someone Jake hadn’t met before, proposed that perhaps a ship carrying the disease had docked at DS9, and now all incoming ships were being checked over.
