by S. D. Perry
“Tenmei, execute evasive pattern Theta sixteen,” Ezri said, standing, stepping in front of the captain’s chair. Jadzia had commanded the Defiant on more than one combat mission, which made her the only person on board with the experience for it. It’ll have to be close enough.
“Nog, shut down the bridge’s engineering console, route it down to Turo. Is the shipwide working?” She was surprised at how calm she sounded, and it seemed to have a positive effect on Nog. He took a deep breath before answering.
“Negative.”
“Then comm them directly, tell them to put everything they can into repairing the phaser lag—we need them more than shields or thrust. And keep trying to reestablish contact with the station. Tenmei, get ready, we’re about to go on the offensive.”
The Defiant swung back toward DS9, Ezri’s stomach reeling as the inertial dampeners wavered. Both of the strike ships had reached their objective and were firing, brilliant arrows of light flashing up against the dark, glowing hull of the lower core. The ships dropped down and split as they completed their run, each darting away in a different direction, spinning and curving between pieces of the Aldebaran like strange, deadly fish.
They were smaller than the Defiant, and faster, but only in sprints. If we can bear down on them one at a time, refine phaser accuracy through constant bombardment and hone in… The Defiant would probably take heavy fire from the second ship, but it was a solid plan and they had to do something immediately. The station was practically defenseless.
“Hard to port, close in, and fire as soon as we’re in range,” Ezri said, feeling too many things to sort through, hidden among them a tiny astonishment as the full realization hit—she was commanding the Defiant by memories of Jadzia, but with a confidence all her own.
Except for the docking ring and the upper pylons, ops was situated at the point farthest from the attack on the lower core, but each hit resonated through all of the structure’s segments. Ops trembled, lights and consoles wavering, streams of information lost as backup networks crashed—but enough came through Shar’s console to show him how fortunate they were compared to other parts of the station. Damage reports from the lower and mid cores were serious, bordering on critical, and the Defiant had only managed to destroy one of the fighters. Unless Jast stopped them, another attack could prove disastrous to the already fluttering shields.
Kira shouted orders to divert power, to shut down noncritical systems, to evacuate everyone into the upper core. Even occupied as he was, Shar couldn’t help but notice how well Kira handled herself. Her reputation for being indomitable under pressure was well-deserved.
As the tremors subsided and the Jem’Hadar coursed away, the Defiant veered sharply after the point ship.
“Defiant’s status?” Kira called.
“Unable to lock sensors, and there was an energy surge after they were hit that wiped out the interface.” Shar resisted the urge to extrapolate aloud on the state of the subspace sensors. He felt very focused, very alert, his ability to absorb and process information at its peak. He didn’t glory in conflict or seek it out, but he couldn’t help his body’s natural response, an Andorian’s response; the stimulus of the situation was now profound enough that he had no fear of injury or death. And though he was deeply anxious for the station and horrified by the loss of life that the Aldebaran’s destruction represented, he couldn’t help his objectivity or his exhilaration.
The peace broken so soon; cruel and impractical. We’re witnessing the creation of new woes. The obvious implications of the Jem’Hadar’s actions had not been voiced, there was no benefit to it, but Shar silently lamented the breaking of the treaty. Wars of ignorance benefited no one.
On the main screen, the Defiant maneuvered into position behind the point ship and fired, multiple pulses that went wide, the striker gliding easily among the untargeted beams. The second ship was streaking back to join the battle, the Defiant and the point ship roughly two hundred kilometers from the station at varying planes of altitude.
As the lead ship continued to elude the Defiant’s attack, the second ship reached its weapons range and opened fire. The Defiant’s rear shields sparked violently, but she held her course, closing on the target. Shar was impressed by Jast’s commitment to their course of action, the Defiant taking several severe hits from behind as they continued their pursuit.
The tension in ops built upon itself, every spare glance on the main screen, every awareness at least partially tuned to the Defiant’s conflict. She fired again and again on the point ship as it swerved and dove, each series of shots coming closer, accuracy improving in costly increments as the second ship blasted mercilessly away.
Within the data stream that flowed across his console, an alarming series of numbers caught his full attention—a partial sensor read on the Defiant that he hoped was faulty. If it was correct, Jast was about to lose her shields. And if that happened with both Jem’Hadar still in commission, it was all over.
“Colonel, we’re picking up the Defiant, they’re losing their shields,” he said, as there was another volley of shots from the second Jem’Hadar, brutal and effective that proved his words out. The Defiant’s shield envelope burst, the only visible sign of her imminent demise a brief, brilliant flicker of her aura—
—and the Jem’Hadar point ship exploded, becoming an expanding wave of energy and debris. Jast’s gamble had paid off; the Defiant was certainly damaged, but even without shields, they stood a likely chance at victory over a lone strike ship. The Defiant sailed up and over her victory, the last Jem’Hadar ship retreating rapidly as their target turned to confront them.
Nobody cheered. People had died and there was still an enemy to deal with, but the atmosphere in ops expressed a release of tension, a partial conquest understood. Techs returned to their work with renewed fervor. Shar was warmed by the release physically, his skin flushing in reaction to the elevated bioelectrical charge in the air. His left antenna itched madly.
Colonel Kira stood a few meters away with her fists clenched, watching the screen with an expression of total concentration, her body rigid.
“They’re going to attack us again,” she said, almost to herself, startling Shar. Of course they were, but somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him until she spoke. The ship wasn’t retreating from the Defiant; it was coming back for another run at the station.
The Jem’Hadar had to know they wouldn’t survive, they shouldn’t even have made it this far. Why would they stop firing on the station now, just because they’ll certainly die?
“Put everything into shields, everything,” Kira shouted, as the Jem’Hadar set its course back for the station—
—and as if some unloving god had decided to put a stop to their hopes, the Defiant died in space. Shar didn’t need to look at whatever scant information the station’s sensors could tell him; it was there on the screen in front of them all.
The suddenly dark Defiant plummeted on momentum alone after the Jem’Hadar ship, no longer firing as the attacker closed on the station.
The money was all safe, of course. No good businessman would leave his latinum box or account access codes behind just because a few shots were fired. But in all the excitement, Quark had forgotten the kai wager sheet in the bar’s hidden floor compartment. An easy mistake, considering how hectic evacuations were, securing the bar, having to keep track of each fleeing customer’s bill, but a mistake all the same. He’d been two steps from his heavily fortified storeroom when he remembered, and had been forced to risk life and limb to come back for the hard copy.
At least the firing seems to have stopped. I could probably just wait it out here. The bar was silent and empty, a depressing sight but strangely peaceful. Extending the bar’s hours had been a wise decision, the profit margin respectable, but he sometimes missed the quiet times, the silence of the dabo tables when the lights were low….
I have got to get more sleep. Maybe his stress level was higher than he thought. The station was und
er attack, after all, and his nephew was unaccounted for—although Quark figured Nog was probably slaving away on an engineering level somewhere, wishing he had taken the advice of his elders and kept the security assignment. As for the attack, it was probably a pack of drunk Klingons, or some random terrorist element…the station had been fired upon more than once in recent years, and hadn’t blown up yet.
And if there was even a whisper of war in the air, I would have caught it. The proverbial “grapevine” enjoyed a healthy offshoot at Quark’s, and he couldn’t help overhearing a few things. Quite simply, nothing vast was brewing anywhere, or at least nothing within a troubling distance.
Quark replaced the floor panel behind the bar and stood, tucking the paper in his jacket. Kira had been adamant about no more pools when she found out he was taking bets on Winn’s successor (as it had turned out, her timing couldn’t have been more fortuitous; he’d given easy odds on Ungtae, who was barely in the running anymore), and since he didn’t want to spend any time in a cell, he’d decided to keep that one, at least, on paper. Programs could always be traced; anyone could draw up a list, if they remembered to use DNA-resistant paper.
Although considering who would arrest me, maybe I should let myself get caught…
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Startled, Quark looked up—and saw the source of his budding prison fantasy glaring down at him from the balcony.
“Lieutenant Ro!” He smiled up at her, pleased with the opportunity to interact with her again…assuming she hadn’t seen him pocket the list. “I was just making sure that everything is secured here. You know, it’s my responsibility to maintain Federation and Bajoran safety standards during all emergency procedures—”
“Fine, don’t tell me,” she said dismissively, heading for the stairs. “But whatever it is, it’s not worth risking your life over.”
Quark nodded, simulating agreement. The wager sheet was worth a few bars of gold-pressed latinum, easily. “Why are you here, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I had to check the holosuites,” she said, starting down. “They’re empty, by the way. Now if you don’t mind, I think we should get—”
There was a sudden, violent quake, knocking Quark off his feet. The already dimmed lights flickered, and there was the sound of glass breaking in one of the unshielded cabinets behind him, a high, clear sound over the heavy, threatening rumble of uncertain machinery.
Please, let that be machinery!
He stayed where he was for a few seconds after the rumbling stopped, waiting for the station to evaporate around him in a ball of flame—but other than his stomach, which seemed to be in serious disagreement with his breakfast, nothing seemed to be broken.
He stood up, brushing at his coattails, suddenly quite anxious to get to a better-shielded area. “Lieutenant?”
No response. Then he heard a low groan, from the shadowy recess at the bottom of the stairs. Quark hurried to the end of the bar and out onto the main floor, worried about Ro, about the attack, wondering if he could be held liable somehow for any injury she might have incurred—
—and saw her lying on the floor, far enough from the stairs that she had to have been pitched off. Her eyes were closed and she groaned again, the sound half-conscious.
Quark hesitated, thinking it might be better if he went to the nicely reinforced infirmary and organized a few rescue personnel to come back for her. It made more sense, really; he didn’t have the appropriate training, and she had seemed angry that he’d risked his life to come to the bar; she certainly wouldn’t want him to remain in an unsafe area….
Before he could decide, the station was hit again, and more fiercely than any previous attack. Quark grabbed a table and held on as the room teetered wildly all around him. The lights went out completely as more bottles crashed behind the bar, emergency lights powering on a second later, the floor settling back to level in one sweeping, nauseating lurch. All was uncommonly quiet, even the distant blare of the red alert finally silenced.
Quark stood up, wincing at the depressingly sharp scent of spilled liquors, still clutching the table tightly with one hand as he looked around for Ro. Her body had tumbled several meters from its original position, coming to rest against a bolted chair. She’d stopped groaning.
The internal argument was brief but to the point, both positions clear. He had to get out immediately. And if he left her there, and the station took another hit like that, she was going to get hurt a lot worse.
Plus, what are the chances she could ever love the man who left her behind? And heroically saving the life of the head of security…contrary to popular belief, Ferengi were not cowards; the benefits just needed to outweigh the risks in some value, if not latinum. Latinum, of course, was preferable, but for Ro, he’d be content with her undying gratitude.
Quark hurried to her side and knelt down, numbly aware that he’d hugely underestimated the seriousness of the situation.
“Lieutenant? Can you hear me?”
Ro’s eyes cracked open, then closed again. Her voice was weak but clear. “Quark? Hit my head, on the stairs…”
“Yeah, I figured. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.” He slipped his arm beneath her shoulders and lifted, pulling her into a sitting position, relieved that she was conscious enough to help.
With Quark supporting her, they managed to stumble through the bar toward the door, barely staying upright as the station trembled yet again. Quark steeled his nerves with pride at his own good deed and the pleasantly firm pressure of her body leaning against his. If they survived, he had no doubt that this would be the beginning of a lucrative relationship.
Chapter Seven
They had run through their few ideas in thirty seconds, discarding each as quickly as they were said out loud; they just didn’t have the resources or the time to implement any of them. It wasn’t a matter of routing power or clever rewiring. The final hit from the strike ship had effectively destroyed the main plasma transfer conduits, from which the warp core operated. That, in turn, had instantly taken the drive off-line, creating a surge that had pushed the impulse fusion reactors into overloading…which had basically killed absolutely everything. There was simply nothing they could do to make the Defiant have power that it didn’t have.
Except for the viewscreen, of course, Nog thought bitterly. No gravity, no light except for a few charged emergency spots—but a working viewscreen with a near perfect picture, because holographic systems on Starfleet vessels operated from an independent power grid. Fate had apparently decided that it wasn’t enough to just kill everybody; that would be too easy. No, fate had also deemed it necessary to keep the Defiant around as an audience for the grand finale, and had given them a primary vantage point from which to see it happen. The explosion would blow them apart, of course, but they’d get to see their friends and families die first.
Alone on the bridge, Ezri and Nog watched silently as the tiny strike ship battered the station. After gently securing Commander Jast’s body, Tenmei had gone below to tell the rest of the crew what was happening…assuming there was anyone left to tell.
The Defiant continued to coast forward. DS9’s shields seemed to be holding, but Nog figured it was only a matter of moments before they went—and once they were gone, the station would go even faster than that.
Ezri’s strategy had almost worked—taking a beating in order to halve the attack forces wasn’t necessarily inspired, but it was a sound enough plan. If the shields had lasted just another minute, it would have worked….
Without a word, Ezri reached out and took his hand, squeezing it with her own. Nog was grateful, and glad she didn’t say anything. In the face of what was happening, of the sheer enormity of the imminent apocalypse, words would be useless. The station was now obviously faltering, tilting, the translational controls probably down, the lower core’s lights all gone.
After everything we’ve been through, for it to end like this…
He
couldn’t complete the thought, and as the screen suddenly flared, a wash of light enveloping the station, Nog almost convinced himself that he was seeing the end—until he realized that the brilliant blue light wasn’t nearly brilliant enough to be an explosion.
The wormhole had opened, and something was coming out.
Kira felt her responsibility like a deadweight as the Jem’Hadar ship continued its attack, as the station beneath them went critical—shields down to eight percent, structural damage throughout the lower core, environmental systems on the brink of collapse. She should have rejected the ridiculous upgrade schedule, or demanded additional engineers, or fought harder for a second guard ship.
Should have, and didn’t.
“Evacuate the station,” she said, knowing the failure to be hers. “Civilian priority for runabouts and escape pods, everyone else to docking ring airlocks three, four, and six—make sure the freighters are full and prepped for warp, and program the ops transporter for the impulse shuttle at upper pylon three. Seal off everything else.”
If I had handled things better, I could have prevented this. The idea, that a trio of strike fighters could successfully disable the Defiant, could actually destroy the Aldebaran and DS9…she wouldn’t have believed it possible, and now, all that was left was to flee—
—and it’s probably too late for us but we have to try, we have to keep trying—
There was another solid blow to the station. A second later, Lieutenant Bowers said the inevitable, horrible words Kira had dreaded hearing, the sound of them worse than she could have imagined.
“Colonel, we’ve lost shields.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak as he continued.
“We can’t expect more than a few minutes before a full breach in—sir! The wormhole, it’s opening again!”
