The Brave and the Bold Book Two

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  With that, Evek’s face faded, replaced once again with the image of ever-more-panicky Cardassians in the street of Nramia’s capital.

  “Sir,” Coram said, “the anomalous reading has disappeared. If it was a ship, I would guess that it has left orbit.”

  “Let’s hope the weather improves, then.”

  But it did not. By the time the Sixth Order—five Galor-class ships, including Evek’s command, the Vetar—arrived at Nramia, fully a quarter of the population were dead, most were injured to some degree or other, the capital was flooded under several meters of rainwater, and the polar ice caps had started to melt, with icebergs starting to roam in the oceans. Computer projections estimated that Nramia would be uninhabitable within a day.

  As Eska was beamed up to the flagship of the Sixth Order, he thought, I really really hate rain.

  Chapter Four

  AS CAL HUDSON READ THE REPORT from the Maquis infiltrator on Deep Space 9, he felt queasy.

  He was tempted to mention this to his second-in-command, Darleen Mastroeni, presently sitting next to him in the cramped bridge of the Liberator. Indeed, the word “bridge” bespoke a grandeur it hadn’t earned. It was more like the cockpit of an old airship. Hudson and Mastroeni sat side by side in chairs they barely fit in, surrounded by controls on either side of them and lining the bulkhead in front of them—excepting the tiny viewscreen, of course. A third person on the bridge would have been a physical impossibility.

  However, if Hudson did share his gastrointestinal discomfort at the report with Mastroeni, the shorter woman would probably just make a comment about how his precious stomach, having been raised on safe and easy replicated food, wasn’t used to the home cooking favored by most Maquis—mainly because replicator power was not the near-infinite resource it was on a Starfleet vessel, and needed to be rationed for other uses.

  But it wasn’t the badly prepared hamburger he’d had for lunch that was making him ill right now. It was the report from Michael Eddington, newly appointed head of Starfleet security for DS9, and Maquis agent.

  Getting Eddington onto the station had been quite a coup for the Maquis. DS9 was, after all, the most important strategic post in the sector thanks to the Bajoran wormhole that led to the Gamma Quadrant. Many ships went through there, and having an agent on-station would be invaluable—even if that agent was someone who pretty much told a lie every time he put on his Starfleet uniform.

  But it wasn’t even the use of a Starfleet officer to aid the Maquis cause that irked Hudson. He, too, had turned his back on Starfleet and the Federation—but given how shabbily those two organizations had treated their citizens with this idiotic treaty, he had no compunctions about that. If Michael Eddington had no trouble reconciling his duties on DS9 with his dedication to the Maquis, then Hudson had no trouble using him.

  No, the true source of Hudson’s queasy feeling was that he was doing this to Ben Sisko.

  Hudson and the DS9 station commandant had been friends since their Academy days. They had gotten into trouble with each other, they had participated in each other’s weddings, they had consoled each other when they lost their respective wives.

  Now they were on opposite sides of a war. Ben had brought Hudson his Starfleet uniform, and Hudson had made a show of phasering it into oblivion in front of him. And now Hudson had put a viper in his friend’s midst.

  “Cal, we’re picking something up,” Mastroeni said. She looked up and touched a control over her head. “It’s a Starfleet distress call, but with a Maquis call sign.”

  “Really?”

  Mastroeni snarled. Her face had never formed a smile in the six months that Hudson had known her. “An outdated call sign. It isn’t one of ours—probably some Starfleeter trying to lure us into a trap. Permission to blow it to atoms.”

  Hudson sighed. The unfortunate thing was, Mastroeni was dead serious. However, Hudson wasn’t so cavalier. He checked the sensor readings. “Reading a type-3 shuttlecraft—call sign indicates it’s the Manhattan, presently assigned to the U.S.S. Hood.”

  “I’m not picking up the Hood on any scans—or any other Starfleet vessel,” Mastroeni said. “So if we destroy them, no one will know.”

  “She’s also damaged,” Hudson continued, ignoring her. “Those are phaser hits—starship phaser hits.”

  “Now we’re being hailed. I assume I should ignore it and fire phasers?”

  Turning angrily at Mastroeni, Hudson said, “I’m not about to fire on a ship in distress, Darleen.”

  “You’re not in Starfleet anymore, Cal.”

  “You’re right—and I haven’t joined Central Command, either. If we start firing on ships that ask for help, we’re no better than the Cardassians.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn about being ‘better’ than the Cardassians!” Mastroeni said, slamming a hand on the arm of her chair. “I just want them and Starfleet gone from my life.”

  A beep from the console sounded before Hudson could reply. It was a repeat of the hail from the Manhattan. Hudson reached over and answered it rather than ask Mastroeni to open the channel.

  “This is the Federation Shuttlecraft Manhattan to any Maquis ship within range. This is Tuvok of Vulcan, former lieutenant in Starfleet. I request asylum with the Maquis. Please respond.”

  “Good thing he identified himself as a Vulcan,” Hudson muttered. “That’s the only thing to explain how calm he is.” Louder, he said, “Mr. Tuvok, this is the Maquis.” He wasn’t about to identify himself by name over an open channel. “We’ve got you on sensors. What happened?”

  “I absconded with this shuttlecraft when Starfleet refused my request for a leave of absence following the deaths of my wife and children on Amniphon.”

  Hudson looked sharply at Mastroeni. The rockslides on Amniphon had killed thousands. They still hadn’t even begun to properly catalogue the dead.

  “So you left Starfleet.”

  “Affirmative. The Hood naturally tried to pursue, but they would not enter the Demilitarized Zone without authorization. However, that authorization may come soon. Therefore I would request that you beam me aboard and then destroy the shuttle.”

  Hudson rubbed his chin. “Mr. Tuvok, I’d love to accommodate you, but I’ve got a first mate here with an itchy trigger finger. She’d like to just destroy your shuttle without bothering to beam you over first. I’m gonna need a good reason to hold her back.”

  “Your attempt to play the human game of ‘good cop/bad cop’ is somewhat transparent, sir. However, I do understand that you will require a gesture of good faith. I was the chief of security on the Hood, and can provide you with intelligence and current access codes that might prove beneficial to the Maquis.”

  Mastroeni lined up a shot with her phasers. “Like we need him for that. C’mon, let me—”

  “In addition,” Tuvok added, “I have information on how to detect a weapon that is currently within the confines of the Demilitarized Zone. It is an artifact of tremendous power that might tip the balance of power in favor of the Maquis. And Starfleet Command is not presently aware of it.”

  “He’s lying.” Mastroeni’s eyes almost rolled back in her head.

  “Maybe.” Hudson rubbed his chin again. “And maybe not. I’m willing to look into it.” He smiled at Mastroeni. “We can always kill him later.”

  She just snarled again in response.

  “Prepare to be taken in tow, Mr. Tuvok.”

  “I would not recommend that course of action. As long as the Manhattan is intact, the Hood will be able to track it. Starfleet has recently improved the security measures on their shuttlecraft. One such attempt by a potential Starfleet defector to deliver a shuttle into Maquis hands resulted in the officer’s incarceration. I would prefer to avoid Ensign Lestewka’s fate.”

  “I don’t believe him,” Mastroeni said.

  Hudson frowned. “There was an Ensign Lestewka who served on the Tian An Men. Reports were that he was favorable to our cause, but he was caught trying to
defect. I always assumed he just got caught ’cause he was stupid, though.”

  “Only,” Tuvok said dryly, “if you consider not paying attention to security briefings ‘stupid.’ The choice is, of course, yours, but it would be safer for all concerned if you destroyed the shuttle. If nothing else, it denies me my best avenue of escape and leaves me wholly at your mercy.”

  “You already are at our mercy, Vulcan,” Mastroeni said, now locking phasers on target.

  “Hardly. Although damaged, this shuttlecraft could still hold its own in a firefight—especially against a sub-standard Mishka -class raider with a malfunctioning phaser array.”

  At that, Hudson laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Mastroeni asked.

  “He’s good. All right, Tuvok, have it your way. Stand by for our signal to beam you aboard. Out.” Then he opened an intercom channel. “Mindy, you there?” Mindy McAdams was supposed to be on duty in the transporter room.

  “Yeah, Skip. And I overheard your tête-à-Vulcan. I’ll get Schmidt in here with a couple of rifles and bring him on board.”

  “Good.” Hudson had long since given up discouraging McAdams from calling him “Skip,” short for “Skipper.” He turned to his copilot. “Once he’s on board, blow up the shuttle. Then let’s start doing some digging. I want to know everything there is to know about Tuvok of Vulcan, security chief of the U.S.S. Hood. See if Eddington can call up his service record and get it to us.”

  “Fine, whatever you say.”

  Hudson sighed and fixed his first mate with an encouraging expression. “Look, Darleen, if even the slightest thing is off-kilter with what we find, we’ll kill him. I promise.”

  “I’m holding you to that, Cal. Because we’re going to regret having that Vulcan on our ship, mark my words.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  Tharia heard Chakotay’s words, but did not acknowledge them. He was busy trying to figure out what his next target should be.

  Chakotay’s ship—which he had christened the Geronimo, after some Earther freedom fighter or other—had been salvaged from a Tellarian depot a year earlier. Tharia admired the bridge design: a U-shaped, two-level room at the fore of the ship. The upper level extended from the back wall about halfway into the room, and contained the command center. Generally, Chakotay, Seska, and Tharia sat there; they were there now, plus Torres. The front part of the lower level had the navigation and engineering consoles, with all other systems controlled from consoles under the command center, which was accessible via a ladder.

  Most impressive of all was that the entire front wall was a viewscreen. Right now, it showed Nramia. Normally appearing bright green and yellow from orbit, now the planet was shaded in darker greens and blacks, giving it an almost sinister look. Inset into the huge screen was a sensor reading that showed the abnormal weather patterns throughout the world.

  Weather patterns that Tharia had caused.

  Chakotay was pointing at those sensor scans. “This was not part of the plan, Tharia. We were just going to target the military headquarters, not wipe out the entire population.”

  From below, Chell said, “Uh, actually, they may not all die. I’m reading a fleet of Galor-class ships. Registers as the Sixth Order. My guess is that they’re here to handle some kind of evacuation or other. At least, that’d be my guess.”

  “Evek,” Chakotay muttered. Then he said to the Bolian, “Get us out of here, Chell. Maximum warp.”

  “No!” Tharia screamed. “We can’t! Not yet! They have to all die first!”

  Chakotay grabbed Tharia by the shoulders. “Get ahold of yourself! I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but it stops now.”

  “What’s the big deal, Chakotay?” B’Elanna asked.

  With a vehemence that might have surprised Tharia if he bothered to care about such things anymore, Seska replied. “There are civilians down there, B’Elanna. Military’s one thing—they swore an oath to die for the Central Command, and they knew what to expect. But the civilians aren’t responsible for the treaty or for the actions of the government, any more than we are—or than my people on Bajor were when the Cardassians subjugated them.” Turning to Tharia, she added, “They certainly don’t deserve this. At this rate, unless you reverse what you did, the planet’s entire ecosystem will tear itself apart within a few months. The flooding alone will cause incalculable damage.”

  “We’re not giving him the chance,” Chakotay said. “Engage at warp six, Chell.”

  Tharia said, “We have to make sure they all die!” at the same time that Seska said, “We can’t just leave them!”

  Chakotay, ever the calm presence, first looked at Seska. Tharia knew that the two of them were lovers, and he wondered if he’d still be so calm if he found her broken body destroyed by Cardassians. “We can’t stick around so Evek can pound us to a pulp, Seska. B’Elanna’s right—these are Cardassians, and I have no problem with tying them up in a rescue mission and with the military outpost here being history.” Then he turned to Tharia. “I do have a problem with the scale—and with my orders being disobeyed. I want you to turn that box of yours over to me right now.”

  “You don’t understand,” Tharia said.

  “You’re right, I don’t. And I don’t care, either. Dalby,” he called down to the lower level, “escort Tharia to his barracks and retrieve that box of his.”

  Tharia paid no attention to anything anyone was saying, or to Kenneth Dalby, who came up the ladder and practically yanked Tharia toward the doorway. “C’mon, ch’Ren,” he said, “let’s get this over with.”

  He paid no attention because he was turning his thoughts to his next campaign. It was obvious that Chakotay was no longer to be trusted. There’s one warp-capable shuttlecraft left, he thought. The Geronimo had two originally, but they had crashed one on the planet where Tharia found his gift.

  As soon as he and Dalby reached the cabin Tharia shared with Hogan, Ayala, and Bendera, the Andorian reached out with his mind to the weapon. In turn, the weapon reached out to the ship’s environmental controls.

  The traitors cannot be allowed to stop me, he thought.

  “C’mon, ch’Ren, get a move on,” Dalby said, pushing Tharia toward his bunk.

  As the temperature in the room lowered, Tharia turned and leapt through the air, tackling a surprised Dalby. While he lay stunned on the floor, Tharia ran to his bunk, grabbed the weapon, ran back toward the door, grabbed Dalby’s phaser, kicked him in the ribs for good measure, then headed toward the shuttlebay.

  The temperature continued to lower to near-freezing levels, but Tharia only really noticed it on an intellectual level—he didn’t feel anything except for his burning need to make the Cardassians pay.

  By the time he got to the shuttlebay, he reckoned, it would be down past freezing. Then he would raise the temperature to the boiling point as he left the Geronimo. The hull would start to rupture under the stress.

  In his mind’s eye, he started plotting a course for the Slaybis system. The traitors there will die just as the traitors here will.

  Chakotay and the others had been his comrades. But they could not see the truth. The Cardassians all had to pay, whether civilian or military. They all had to die. Seska was Bajoran, she should have understood that.

  Since she did not, she would die when the hull buckled.

  Ayala and Henley were doing some kind of maintenance on the shuttle when Tharia came in. Without hesitating, he shot them both. He had no idea what setting the phaser was on—the fact that they fell to the deck in a heap meant it wasn’t set to disintegrate, but that still left half a dozen possible settings—nor did he much care. If they weren’t dead now, they would be soon.

  He boarded the shuttle, entering an override code. The bridge systems were probably literally freezing up by now, so there was no way Chakotay or Torres would be able to stop him.

  “Bridge to shuttlebay. Whoever’s in there, get back here now!” Chakotay’s calm voice had finally b
roken into a shout. Tharia also could hear a shiver in his voice.

  Tharia cut off the communication as he exited through the shuttlebay doors.

  Once he was clear of the Geronimo, he set course for the Slaybis system. There were more people there who needed to die.

  About his comrades, he didn’t spare a thought.

  He was thinking about the broken bodies of his mates. And the broken bodies of the Cardassians who died on Nramia.

  It wasn’t enough. Not yet.

  I will help you achieve your goal.

  Soon…

  Cal Hudson sat in his quarters and read through the data on the optical chip Tuvok had provided. Half-remembered Academy classes in galactic history came back to the forefront of his mind as he read it. So many of those damn ancient civilizations, he thought, they all blend. The Zalkat Union, the Iconians, the Tkon Empire…

  He remembered sitting in that class, bored out of his mind. Ben Sisko was in the class with him, and they’d spend most of their time the first few weeks trying to get the other one to do something stupid that would get the (negative) attention of the professor. It was childish, but they were first-year students who were eager to explore strange new worlds. A class about dead civilizations didn’t interest either of them.

  Eventually, they settled down, of course—if they hadn’t, they wouldn’t have made it through the Academy in the first place. Those were good times, Hudson thought with momentary sadness.

  Exacerbating the painful nostalgia was the fact that the artifact that Tuvok had found with the Hood’ s sensors while on the night shift at ops—and, according to the Vulcan, had then wiped from the ship’s records—was one of four. Two others had been discovered, one only a few months ago on one of Bajor’s moons. Ben was involved in that mission. So if I do chase this thing down, it’ll be another connection to Ben. Seems we can’t get away from each other, even when I try….

  Hudson shook his head. Thinking about Ben led to thinking about Ben and Jennifer, which led to thinking about Gretchen. He shook his head, forcing himself to pay attention to the data in Tuvok’s chip.