by Peter David
"And now he has the gall to come to Mephil Trantos, looking for replicators." Nodogascur chuckled. "But that is not the best part."
"Oh no?" Calculanthra asked, the muscles working in his temples.
"Apparently," his cousin went on, "he arrived in a Federation vessel—with a human at his side. And the human has been seeking the source of the replicators as well."
"How interesting," Calculanthra remarked. "How very interesting indeed." His mouth twisted in an expression of hatred. "I want the Ferengi shown some Orion hospitality—the human as well." He eyed Nodogascur. "You understand me, Cousin?"
Nodogascur smiled with anticipation. "As clearly as ever," he replied.
"Good," Calculanthra said.
He allowed himself a smile. From this point on, the two newcomers were marked men. And around Mephil Trantos, where there was always someone looking to make a quick hundred credits, marked men didn't stay on their feet for very long.
Dax convened a meeting in the wardroom about an hour after Bashir detected the disease in Morn. O'Brien, Odo, and Bashir were seated around the table—not the full complement of trusted friends and competent officers, but it was all she had.
The Trill felt how battered they were emotionally. After all, she was battered, too.
"In case you were wondering," she began, "we still haven't heard anything from either Captain Sisko or Major Kira. But we're hoping that'll change—and soon." She turned to Odo. "What have you learned?"
The shapeshifter grunted. "Apparently, Morn was part of the crew that serviced Kai Winn's craft when the Kai visited a few days back. Someone on her staff must have been carrying the disease."
"And our bio-filters didn't catch it?" Dax asked.
Bashir shook his head. "They're Cardassian, remember—not as sophisticated as the Federation variety."
The Trill accepted that. Turning to O'Brien, she asked, "What about these power fluxes?"
The chief shrugged, clearly caught in the throes of frustration. "My crews have been fixing them as they come up—but we can't seem to find the root of the problem. Anyway, the bar's up and running again."
"Well," Dax said, "from now on, you won't have to do my work as well as yours, Mr. O'Brien. I promise."
She meant it, too. She just wasn't sure she could deliver on it. Right now, her head was pretty clear, pretty focused—but she didn't know when she'd fall victim to another bout of absent-mindedness.
The chief looked at her. "I didn't mean to imply—"
"I know," she said, cutting him off. "But you don't have to imply it. Everyone's seen it for themselves."
Finally she turned to the doctor. "What's the prognosis, Julian?"
He sighed. "Not a brilliant one. Morn's biochemistry is no further from a Bajoran's than mine or yours. So, in theory, if he can be affected—"
"So can everyone else," Odo finished for him.
The doctor nodded. "At this point, I'd have to say everyone's at risk—-though it may take longer for some races to be affected than others."
"There's a rumor that Kai Winn has come down with it," the changeling remarked.
"Entirely possible," Bashir replied, "though I haven't heard that one myself."
Odo glanced at Dax. "What do we do about the population on the station? Confirm what they already know from the rumors?"
The Trill pondered the question—but only for a moment. "We have to tell them," she decided. "After all, they're going to find out in any case. Now that there's been an outbreak on the station, we've got to quarantine the place—slap a halt on all ships approaching Deep Space Nine and inform the captains docked here that we can't let them leave."
The shapeshifter harrumphed. "I expect there will be some disagreement with that policy. I'll prepare my security officers for that eventuality."
"Good," Dax said. "I've also put a call in to Starfleet for priority medical help. Unfortunately, we're so far off the normal spacelanes, it'll be another two days before help can arrive."
"By then," Bashir noted, "the entire station may be afflicted—humans, Bajorans, Ferengi, everyone."
O'Brien had been slowly sipping his coffee, not saying a thing. But Dax could tell from his expression that he was worried. What's more, she knew why.
Keiko and Molly were down on Bajor. And if the Wrath could affect humans now …
Suddenly the chief stood up. "If you'll excuse me," he said, "I've got a call to make." A moment later, he was gone.
The Trill looked at the doctor, then at Odo. "I guess that's all," she told them.
Kira Nerys was awakened by the scream of Ro Laren.
The major was confused, disoriented, and the cry of her companion did nothing to ground her. The floor beneath her was thick with old straw and sawdust, and it was all she could do not to sneeze.
Kira heard, sensed, a body being thrown to the ground near her. And there was a clang … the sound of a heavy metal door being slammed. Kira, who was flat on the ground, rolled over—to see that Ro was on her back, slowly sitting up.
"Are you okay?" the major asked.
Ro didn't even look at her.
"I said, are you ok—"
And now Ro did turn to face her, with a look of granite. There was a severe cut on her face. "How sweet of you to care," she said brusquely.
"We have to get that cut cleaned up," Kira said, "or it could get infected."
"Great idea," Ro said. "Let's clean it off with some water … oh, but of course, the water in this region is contaminated. And in case you haven't noticed, they've taken away our supplies. Our bottled water, our everything."
"Listen," Kira shot back, "I wasn't looking for this any more than you were."
She was busy inspecting their immediate surroundings. There wasn't much to inspect. It was a windowless room, ten feet by ten. She fancied that it stank of fear, and she wondered what had happened to its previous occupants.
"No, you weren't looking for this, and that's the problem," Ro said. "You're so accustomed to your nice tidy world of Deep Space Nine, where everybody kowtows to Major Kira Nerys, you weren't remotely prepared to deal with people who don't give a damn about Bajoran rank, Starfleet connections, or anything else you use to impress people."
That wasn't fair, thought the major. It was a low blow, even for Ro.
"You," she said, stabbing a finger at the Maquis, "know nothing about me. Nothing about Deep Space Nine, about my world, about … anything. So if you don't have anything intelligent to say, just keep your mouth shut."
Ro turned away from her and leaned with her back against the wall. The two women were silent for a time. The Maquis dabbed at the bleeding on her cheek, putting pressure against it.
Then Kira heard something from nearby. Noises. Street noises—people walking, laughing. The unmistakable reverberations of sound in open air.
"We're not at the bunker," Kira realized. "I didn't think this room looked familiar anyway. They've moved us. This is some sort of holding facility … except I don't know what they're holding us for."
"Slave auction," Ro said tonelessly. "It's held about a block or two from here, at a hangout called 'the Place.' They'll be coming for us shortly to add us to the slave pool, I imagine."
"The hell they will." Kira studied Ro's injury from across the room. "How did you get cut, anyway?" she asked.
Ro grunted. "I played up to the guard outside the door. I saw the way he was looking at me." She indicated a small barred window set into the door. "Thought I could use that. Thought I could then catch him by surprise and make a break for it." She shrugged. "Thought wrong. We wrestled, but he wrestled better than me and tossed me back in here. Sliced me with the knife he kept in his belt."
Kira frowned. "You should have waited for me to wake up. Maybe together we could have—"
"Together?" Ro snorted derisively. "Since when have we been together in this? It's been the Kira Nerys show, guest-starring Ro Laren. You've made it quite clear just how much input you want from me."
"Okay, fine," Kira said impatiently. "So here's where we stand. I led the charge to the bunker, still clinging to a false belief that at least some of the people I came into contact with were dealing on the up-and-up. And you tried to stage your own private break-out while I was unconscious, and all you got was injured for your efforts."
The Maquis shook her head. "That's not all I got."
"Oh? What else?"
"Well," Ro said, "considering he had a knife in his belt, I didn't think that he would particularly miss the one in his boot." And she held up a fairly nasty-looking blade.
Kira gaped in surprise. "How did you—?"
"When he shoved me to the ground, I noticed a hilt peeking out of his boot. As he kicked me back into the cell, I snatched it." She smiled grimly. "What I figure is, sooner or later, they're going to have to come in here to get us—to transfer us to the Place. And when they do—"
"And when they do, armed with only a knife and our good looks, we take down however many people are sent in here," Kira said skeptically. "People who in turn might be armed with who-knows-what. Great plan there."
"You have a better idea?" Ro asked. Then she rolled her eyes. "Why do I even ask?"
CHAPTER
10
KAI WINN PACED her temple, rubbing the sides of her forehead and trying to remove the pain that pounded within her. There had to be answers. Somewhere, there had to be answers.
Had they truly strayed so far that they were irredeemable? Was the situation on Bajor utterly hopeless?
The numbers were brought to her every hour. The number of dead. The number of reported new cases. The Wrath of the Prophets had spread with hideous velocity, like a ravenous fire scorching every life in its path.
She had prayed; oh, how she had prayed. She had meditated, she had offered supplications, she had studied ancient texts to search for precedents and how they were handled. Whenever she was not praying, she was studying, and vice versa—night and day, neglecting herself, until she couldn't remember the last time she'd slept more than an hour or so.
Winn consulted one of her books and began murmuring the invocations in it, although reading wasn't really necessary. After all this time, she had the invocation seared into her memory.
She spoke faster and faster, words tripping one over the other, and then she began to realize that the words didn't seem to have any meaning to her anymore—if indeed they ever had. They were just … just sounds. Random syllables, noises that bore no relationship to anything real.
Her throat was raw from all her praying, and she swirled her tongue over her cracked lips. She was thirsty. She was thirsty a lot lately, but she'd ignored it just as she'd ignored everything else. . . .
Suddenly she threw the prayer book down. It crashed to the floor and she shouted to the heavens, "What do you want from us? What do you want? To kill us all? Is that it? Just … just cut us down, like excess wheat? Is this just some exercise in cruelty? What did we do to deserve this? What could anyone do to deserve this?"
Her voice was rising higher in pitch, and higher still, until it began to sound like a screech. "Are we actually supposed to worship you? Give thanks when you provide us with favors, and tremble and beg for forgiveness when you inflict some new hardship on us?
"Is that how you wish to rule over us? With fear? Don't you know anything? Even the lowliest mortal can tell you it's far better to be respected because of love than because of fear. How can we know this simple fact while you, the Prophets, are oblivious to it?"
She began to cough violently, her rage not yet spent. "For years, decades, I preached your word. I condemned those who did not believe, and I fought back against the impious and the impure. We've tried our best—we are not perfect. We can never be perfect. But, Prophets, we deserve better than this! We deserve …"
The room began to spin around her, and a new fit of coughing seized her. She put her hand to her mouth, drew her palm away, and saw it tinged with blood.
"We deserve better," she whispered, and then she collapsed.
And the count of those who had been afflicted with the plague increased by one.
"So?" Sisko asked.
Quark frowned. "Nothing yet."
They were on their way back to the quarters they'd rented on Mephil Trantos. So far, neither of them had been able to find out a thing about the smuggling operation or the source of the replicators. And time was running out for the Bajorans.
"Still," the Ferengi went on, "I think I'm getting close. Another couple of days and our luck might change."
"It's changed already," said someone up ahead, from beyond the point where the corridor jogged left.
A moment later, the owner of the voice showed himself. And much to the captain's chagrin, he wasn't alone.
There were four of them altogether. And unfortunately for Sisko and Quark, they didn't look anything like the welcome wagon.
Given the poor lighting, it was difficult to see their individual features. However, one was so big and broad he could only have been a Pandrilite.
Another resembled a warrior-caste Skelarian, if his thick torso and his protuberant eyeballs were any indication. The third one could have been a Rythrian, judging from his considerable height and the loose flaps of skin that served as ears.
The fourth one, Sisko couldn't even guess at. He looked like a mess of angles, with black leathery skin that hung on his bones like a suit in Garak's tailor shop. But his hands and feet were each twice the size of the average human's, and he probably wasn't the least bit shy about using them.
The captain wondered why the four weren't armed. At least, not obviously so. Then he came up with the answer all by himself.
Their employer didn't want them dead—not yet, anyway. He wanted to be be able to question them first. Then he would kill them.
"Are we in trouble?" Quark whispered to him.
"That depends," the captain replied.
"On what?" asked the Ferengi.
"On whether you mind getting beaten within an inch of your life."
Quark swallowed. It was a sound even a deaf man could've heard.
"Do you think it would do any good to reason with them?" he asked.
"Do you?" Sisko answered. The Ferengi snuck a look at him. "I thought Starfleet captains always tried to reason with their enemies."
The human grunted. "Report me to Starfleet Command."
Then there was no more time to talk. Their antagonists were coming at them with an obvious desire to inflict bodily harm. Or rather, coming at Sisko alone, because Quark had suddenly vanished from his side.
The only aspect of the situation that worked in the captain's favor was the narrowness of the corridor, which prevented all four of his attackers from seizing him at the same time. As luck would have it, the Rythrian and the Skelarian wound up in the front line.
Sisko waited until they were almost on top of him, then pulled back his foot and let it fly. It caught the alien square in the belly—for all the good it did. Skelarians were known for their ability to withstand physical trauma, and this one was no exception.
Before the captain could quite regain his balance, the Rythrian was swinging at him. Sisko barely had time to twist backward out of the way—and watch his adversary's fist slam into the hard unyielding wall.
The Rythrian yelped with pain and clutched his wounded hand. A moment later, the captain connected with a well-placed uppercut, snapping the Rythrian's head back and knocking him senseless.
Then it was the Skelarian's turn again—or it would have been, if things had gone according to Sisko's expectations. But before he could aim another kick, he saw Quark scurry out of nowhere and attach himself to the alien's leg.
The Skelarian grabbed Quark by his shoulders and tried to pull him off, but no one was more tenacious than a scared-to-death Ferengi. When the alien opened his mouth and roared in his deep bass voice, the captain knew Quark's teeth were as sharp as ever.
Taking advantage of the timely assistance, Sisko
took a couple of steps backward and launched himself into the air. This time, when he lashed out with his foot, it was with a good deal more power than before.
Of course, the captain wasn't aiming at the Skelarian. It would take more than a single kick to bring a specimen like him down.
No, he was aiming for the hulking Pandrilite in back of the Skelarian. What's more, his kick was right on target. It caught the Pandrilite square in the solar plexus, delivering an impact that knocked the breath out of him.
Gasping like a fish out of water, the Pandrilite sunk to his knees. Just for good measure, Sisko slammed him into the wall.
Then it was him and the fourth alien. Up close, the captain suddenly realized whom he was dealing with. But before the knowledge could do him any good, he felt something hard catch him on the side of the head, staggering him.
Sisko tried to anticipate the follow-up blow, but it came too quickly to avoid altogether. It slammed him in the left shoulder, numbing his arm down to his fingertips. The third blow sent him reeling.
A Denebian, he thought, as he hit the base of the wall and slid to the floor. A damned Denebian. It had to be. No one else could strike that quickly.
But he'd always heard that Denebians hated Orions. It was just his luck to find the one that didn't.
As the captain tried to gather his feet beneath him, he saw the Denebian coming at him for another round. From all indications, it wouldn't be much of a contest.
Still, Sisko wasn't about to throw in the towel. As the alien came for him, he feigned dizziness—then swung his leg out at the last second, hoping to sweep the Denebian's legs out from under him.
It didn't work. It didn't even come close to working. The alien simply skipped over the captain's leg and launched a kick of his own. Sisko tried to sidestep and deflect the kick with his good arm. But he failed.
Miserably.
It struck him in the side. Hard. So hard, in fact, that he felt a couple of ribs crack.
The pain took his breath away. His mind told him to roll out of harm's way, to save himself from the next assault as best he could—and then he felt himself lifted by his tunic from behind. He didn't have to turn around to know the Rythrian had recovered from his mishap.
