Twist of Faith

by S. D. Perry

Kira’s heart skipped a beat, sudden thoughts of the Prophets filling her with a manic hope. “On screen!”

  The view was angled badly and blurred, a testimony to the station’s dying power, but it was clear enough. They saw a small ship bursting out of the wormhole, riding the funnel of swirling light into the Alpha Quadrant. It streaked past the helpless Defiant toward the station, as small as one of the attack fighters—

  Damn it, no!

  It was another Jem’Hadar strike ship, and though it appeared to be damaged, much of its starboard hull black and crushed, it was obviously prepared to fight. How many more Dominion ships were waiting on the other side, they’d never know; with a second ship firing on them, there wouldn’t be enough time for any kind of evacuation.

  If even a quarter survive, we’ll be lucky. Most—if not all—of the departing ships and escape pods would be caught in the explosion.

  The station rocked, and Kira called out for Shar to send the new information to Starfleet on the long range, the thought that it was her final report a dagger to her heart. She prayed for time, furious with herself for not starting an evacuation earlier. It didn’t occur to her that there hadn’t been an “earlier”; she felt too guilty and desperate to allow herself such consolation.

  “Anything on sensors?” Kira asked. Perhaps the fourth ship to exit the wormhole was too damaged to fire.

  “Negative, external banks are all down,” Shar said. “I can attempt to transfer power from one of the auxiliary generators.”

  “No,” she said, and raised her voice, aware that the newest strike ship would be within range in seconds. The battle was lost; it was time to let go, and hope there might still be a chance for some to survive.

  “We have to evacuate now. Everyone stand down and get to the transporter—”

  Lieutenant Bowers interrupted, pointing at the screen, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Colonel, the second ship!”

  Kira turned, sick with sorrow; she could at least face the final moment—and watched, stunned, as the newest arrival fired upon their attacker.

  “It’s fighting them,” Nog breathed.

  He let go of her hand, pulling himself closer to the viewscreen, looking as shocked as Ezri felt. She barely dared to hope that the damaged ship could stop the attack; it was obviously in bad shape, only one of its weapons firing, but maybe it had a backup weapon, an override code for the attacker’s ship, tractor beam capabilities…

  …or some kind of warhead.

  Ezri suddenly felt like her mind was being flushed with heat, the realization and the possibilities coming so fast that she could barely think. It was impossible, the strike ships were too close to the station and it had never been done—

  —but if they move away…and if the command codes will work…

  “Nog,” she said, the hope taking a definite shape even as she spoke. “I have an idea.”

  The damaged striker only appeared to have one of its polaron weapons functioning, but it was as fast and agile as the attacker, managing to score several hits to the aggressor’s port weapons array. The attacker stopped firing on the station, turning to dart after the damaged ship as it dropped into an evasive maneuver.

  No one spoke, staring in mute disbelief as the two strike fighters engaged. They tagged each other around and beneath the station, firing and dodging. Kira refused to think about how close they were to an irreparable breach, or why the damaged Jem’Hadar ship would attack one of its own. What mattered was what was being played out in front of them.

  Their protector was good, the pilot well-trained and bold, but they couldn’t overcome their handicap; after a few hits from the attacking ship, its daring moves became stilted. It limped around the lower core, still firing—but another hit from the enemy stilled even that, knocking out its last polaron array.

  The damaged fighter didn’t retreat. Kira stared at the screen, unable to believe what she was seeing as it placed itself in harm’s way, actually moving to block the attacker from firing on the station.

  The attack ship didn’t hesitate, blasting pitilessly at the interloper. Their protector suddenly barreled straight into the fire, apparently planning for a suicide collision—and streaked up and over the aggressor at the last second in an unexpected burst of energy, speeding away, heading back toward the wormhole.

  Without another shot to the dying station, the point ship wheeled around and took off after it, firing intermittently. It seemed determined to finish the interloper off before doing anything else—although while the actions were clear, the motivations were anything but. Kira couldn’t begin to guess at either pilot’s reasoning, attack or defense.

  Don’t care, Prophets be praised, we’re still alive—

  The two ships raced toward the wormhole, the mostly undamaged attacker quickly gaining, scoring one hit, then another. They circled around, spinning back and racing forward again, gradually moving closer to the wormhole as the damaged ship worked to save itself, as the attacker tried to take it out. Their protector wasn’t going to make it, it had taken too much damage—and as soon as it was gone, the point ship would be back.

  Silently, Kira began to pray.

  There was no way to gain access from the bridge. Nog got through to Ensign Tenmei on his combadge, filling her in as he and Ezri dropped into the turbo shaft that would take them down to deck two—one step closer to warhead control. It was a room Nog had been in only once, when Chief O’Brien had given him his first full tour of the original Defiant. The memory was sharp in his mind as he and Ezri hurriedly swam through the dark, the air already growing cold in the lifeless ship.

  “Neat, huh?” O’Brien said, looking around at the tightly packed, tiny room with something like love. “Part of the autodestruct system…The whole thing can be launched from here in a worst-case combat scenario, though I doubt it ever will be. Come on, let’s head back. I want to show you the pulse phaser system….”

  Not much of a memory, and although he’d studied the schematics more than once since that long-ago day, Nog still only had the most basic understanding of how the deployable warhead operated. He decided that he would gladly pay his future inheritance as the only son of the Grand Nagus if the chief was on his way to the control room instead of him.

  The warhead module—that foremost section of the Defiant’s hull that also housed the navigational deflector—was equipped with its own impulse engines for propulsion as well as an independent power supply, plus a magazine of six photon torpedo warheads. As the chief had told him, it was meant to be used only in the most dire circumstances, which was probably why it hadn’t occurred to Nog at all—their current circumstances were probably as dire as any ever got, but he’d just never expected to be in them.

  He dredged up what he remembered, making mental notes based on what needed to happen. This close to the station, they would only arm one of the torpedoes, he’d have to punch in a safe-distance shutoff and a single signature target into the guidance system. It was dangerous, but it could work….

  …assuming I don’t mess it up, like I messed up the repair schedule— Nog swallowed the thought, concentrating on remembering the codes they would need, anxious and sweating in spite of the cold.

  They reached deck two, Ezri leading the way as they kicked off bottom and swam fore, the combined sound of their breathing seeming incredibly loud in the featureless dark.

  “Don’t worry, we’re almost there,” Ezri said, and the firm, calm tone of her voice made Nog feel infinitely better. Not the sweet, laughing voice of Ezri Dax, but the determined, reassuring pitch of a leader. He was too relieved to feel any surprise; a commanding officer was present and all he had to do was listen and carry out her orders.

  They hurried on, Nog breathing more evenly, feeling his own spark of determination. He was still scared, and they were still probably going to die, anyway—but at least they wouldn’t be sitting around waiting for it.

  The damaged Jem’Hadar ship managed to draw the chase out longer than Kira would
have thought possible, the pilot maneuvering well, the tiny ship like some wild animal running for its life. It had lured the aggressor away from its attack, at least—but as they looped ever closer to the wormhole, another hit spun the devastated ship around, pieces of its tattered armor bursting outward into space. It sprinted forward, back toward the station—but the enemy ship was on top of it, mercilessly blasting away, and Kira could see that it was over.

  The final blow came a split second later, and the ship that had tried to protect DS9 shattered, a small but sparkling fan of wreckage and gases exploding from where it had been.

  Kira’s gut knotted as the people around her gasped and cursed and softly cried out in muted despair, as the attack ship started back to finish off the station.

  What did I expect, some kind of miracle, some beam of celestial light to shoot out of the Temple and save us all?

  Maybe she had, maybe—

  —what is that ?

  From offscreen, a tiny blur of motion, a glowing streak chasing after the moving strike ship. The ship apparently saw it coming at the same time she did. It picked up speed, diving down and away—and that tiny smear of light followed it, catching up—

  —torpedo—

  —and Kira understood what was happening just as it hit the diving Jem’Hadar ship, as the light of a small sun blossomed and expanded from the tiny craft, the light becoming everything.

  “Got it, we got it!” Nog shouted, and Ezri pounded the control panel with a triumphant fist, the fire of victory surging through her heart, filling her up.

  Yes!

  “Hang on!” Kira shouted, and suddenly ops twisted and shook around them, people crashing into consoles and one another as the unshielded station suffered the force of the warhead explosion. Kira grabbed a railing, forgetting to breathe, seeing only the bright destruction on the screen in front of them.

  Please let it be over—

  —and in a few seconds, the short and violent ride ceased, the station coming to rest. For a moment, nobody moved or spoke. Kira imagined she could feel DS9’s wounds, could feel the loss of power and the compromise of integrity all around her as the people in ops slowly crawled to their feet, returning to their stations.

  With a silent prayer of thanks, to the Prophets and Jast’s tactical brilliance, Kira set her mind to what came next. The Aldebaran had been destroyed, the Defiant and the station had been brutalized; the treaty between the Dominion and the Federation was broken. An act of war.

  We have to regroup. Jast needs to confer with Starfleet, we have to oversee the repairs, we’ll need Bajor to send in more techs, and we’ll have to talk about establishing a defensive line here….

  “Bowers, launch the Rio Grande and the Sungari. I want the Defiant crew beamed off before they freeze to death. And arrange for the ship to be brought back for repairs. Shar, status report.” Kira suddenly welcomed the incredible amount of work ahead as the reprieve that it was; with so much to do, she wouldn’t have to analyze anything for a while, or consider how much of the fault was hers. She already knew the answer, anyway.

  Shar read off damage reports as the ops crew struggled to manage their posts, sending people out to assess damage and carry messages to those who had been cut off. The initial communications were daunting; the hull had been breached in several places in both the lower and mid cores, most of the damage done by the aggressive point striker. Two of the fusion reactors had been impaired to the point of shutdown, reducing the station’s power by a third…and at least thirty-four people were dead. Dozens more were unaccounted for.

  Even as Shar tapped and spoke, trying to organize the flow of information, he found he couldn’t stop thinking about the sensor readings that had flashed across his screen in the final seconds of the battle. They probably meant nothing, but still…

  Kira was at the command station, her expression dismal as she scanned readouts from the lower core. Shar joined her, waiting until she looked up before speaking.

  “Colonel—I should tell you that the internal sensor array suggested a transfer of energy to the station as the last strike ships were destroyed.”

  Kira frowned. “‘Suggested’?”

  “It’s not possible to verify any of the readings,” Shar said. “And it’s likely that they were all false, created by the power surge through the EPS system or—”

  “How many such readings did you pick up, exactly?”

  Shar shifted uncomfortably. “Seven hundred eight, sir.”

  Kira nodded slowly. “I see. As soon as the Defiant is brought in, you can try running our sensor logs against their externals, but I think you probably picked up radiation pulses from the explosions…or, like you said, random surges through the network itself from direct damage.”

  “I think so, too, sir, but I felt it was my duty to tell you.”

  “Thank you, Ensign. I’ll include it in the master report. If that’s all…”

  Kira returned her attention to the table, and though Shar didn’t know her well, he suspected that she was angry with herself over the near-success of the strike ships. It was a ludicrous notion, but she was radiating enough heat to suggest some strong emotion.

  Perhaps if I engage her further, encourage her to talk about the battle… He had so admired her poise during the fight, he wished to offer some measure of his deference, however small. And he was genuinely interested in her perception of events.

  “Sir, have you given any thought as to why the fourth ship attempted to protect the station?”

  When she looked up again, he could see anger in her gaze—but her voice was calm and controlled, her manner almost formal. “No, I haven’t. Perhaps you could hypothesize on the question for a later briefing. Right now is not a good time.”

  Shar nodded, wondering if he’d made a mistake in his approach. In his own culture, asking someone’s opinion without offering one’s own was a gesture of respect, and it had worked well with the captain of the Tamberlaine, a human male…maybe Bajorans were different. Or females.

  Kira’s combadge chirped.

  “Colonel, this is Dax, on the Defiant.”

  “Good to hear from you, Defiant. And good work. We have runabouts on the way. Tell Commander Jast and Nog to report to ops when you get here, and have Nog look at our damage reports en route. We’re going to have to work out a repair schedule immediately. How’s everyone on the ship?”

  There was a long pause, and Ezri’s voice, when she spoke again, was uncharacteristically solemn. “Two people were killed, three others wounded. Commander Jast and Turo Ane are both dead. I’m sorry, Nerys.”

  Shar stared at the colonel, who stared back. He could see his own feelings reflected in her face, but found no solace in the awareness that she, too, had sustained a loss.

  He grasped at his training, struggling not to lash out physically in his pain, and saw in Kira the same fight—anguish warring to become violence. It was in the set of her jaw and in the tremble of her hands.

  In other circumstances, discovering that they shared similar reactions to an event might have made him proud. Now, he turned and walked stiffly back to his station, understanding only that, like himself, she needed now to be left alone.

  Chapter Eight

  There were seven, including himself; each a high-ranking member of the Vedek Assembly, each of the other six as openly anxious as a vedek could be while still maintaining some semblance of piousness. It all rested in the hands of the Prophets, after all—though to look at their pinched faces, one might think otherwise. One might think, in fact, that the Prophets had deserted them, leaving each alone with his or her own fears.

  Such uncertainty, because of what’s happened. How difficult it must be. Yevir Linjarin understood the pain of doubt, and he ached to see it in others, particularly the six other men and women in the great chamber. That there was great change coming, there was no question, but the Prophets would provide. As They always had.

  The man who’d called the meeting, Vedek Eran Dal, s
eated himself at the head of the long stone table, nodding to the attendant ranjen to close the doors of the great hall. The incense-scented chamber was cold, the meeting called too hastily for a single fire to have been built—although the secret nature of their small alliance surely had something to do with it. The traditional fires were lit only for the Assembly entire, and there would be no evidence of this meeting once it was dismissed.

  Seated here were the seven most influential, the most doctrinally inclined, the men and women who would use their powers of persuasion to carry the rest of the Assembly in the direction best for Bajor. Kai Winn’s sudden disappearance had necessitated the formation of the unnamed council; with First Minister Shakaar offworld, lobbying the Federation on Bajor’s behalf, the people needed guidance, and not the endlessly turbulent sort provided by the Assembly entire, with its share of politicians and sycophants and deals.

  Here, though…here sat the careful hands that would lead the way. The shared anxiety on their faces saddened Yevir, reminding him of the passage in Akorem’s A Poet’s Flight:

  To doubt Their wisdom is to deny Them the pleasures of due faith, and to deny oneself the joy of being—and being, to be loved.

  When the doors had rumbled closed, Eran began to speak.

  “I thank each of you for coming with such little notice. I’m sure you understand why I’ve called this session. Before we discuss our options, I would ask your impressions of the crisis before us.”

  Vedek Frelan Syla, a small, highly opinionated woman, was the first to place her hands on the table. For reasons of poor health she had refused to be considered for the recent nomination to kai, much to everyone’s relief; no one wanted another Winn Adami, and of all the possible candidates, Frelan was easily the most politically prone.

  “Vedek Frelan,” Eran said, opening the discussion.

  “Early this morning, Deep Space 9 was attacked,” she said, her statement of the obvious a clear sign that she was warming to a speech. “The last report I received from our contacts within the Militia told of sixty-one dead in all—not including the crew of the guardian starship, or the wounded—and severe damage to the power core…making it, I believe, the deadliest offensive yet waged against the station. Even in the time of war there was not so much damage, nor so many lives lost.