by S. D. Perry
“So, what are you two up to today?” Bashir asked, picking up his glass of tea, remembering that he’d seen the two of them having dinner together last night, too.
“Ah, nothing,” Nog said casually. “Just dealing with the mess in the lower core when Shar suggested lunch.”
Nog has a new friend. The young Ferengi was trying very hard to be nonchalant, a young man’s favorite game. Basir found himself feeling fondly nostalgic about O’Brien suddenly, remembering the stories they’d swapped of their reckless youth.
Back when I was a brash young officer… He was all of 34, not exactly ready for retirement. Now that he was thinking about it, though, he abruptly remembered one of the correlations common to all of the papers he’d read about Andorians, regarding age.
“Shar, if you don’t mind me asking—how old are you?”
Shar looked up from his plate of vegetables. “Twenty-three.”
“Are you married, then?”
As soon as Bashir asked, he could see that Shar was uneasy with the question, and trying to hide it. He dropped his gaze, his face flushing a darker blue; only Bashir noticed, the flush too slight to be obvious. “No, I’m not.”
Shar’s distinct discomfort dissuaded Bashir from pursuing the matter. Perhaps he didn’t want to discuss it in front of Nog—or perhaps he didn’t want to talk about it at all.
Still, 23 and not married…
Erib—whose full name was Shelerib th’Zharath—had avoided questions about relationships, though he’d once said that the unique biology of the Andorian species necessitated certain…expectations of its members. Bashir understood the biology, but not the sociology or the culture. But as interested as he was in understanding Shar’s particular situation, it wasn’t really any of his business.
“How would you boys like to try a little fa’ntar?” Quark had swept up to their table, holding a tray of glasses and a pitcher filled with a distinctly noxious-looking, deep orange brew. “It’s tonight’s discount special, a rare but intoxicating blend of exotic fruits and spiced leaves from—”
“—from a vat in the storeroom,” Nog broke in. “Last month, you called it tarf’an, but it’s still what you make from rotten fruit shipments, and no one ever buys it.”
Quark’s smile had disappeared. He leaned in, teeth bared. “You want to keep your voice down? What’s wrong with you? I sell plenty, and it is rare, you can’t get it anywhere but here.”
Bashir shook his head. “Thanks anyway, Quark, but I think we’ll probably—”
“Starfleet,” Quark spat, obviously warming up for one of his tirades, still glaring at Nog. “They are sucking the Ferengi right out of you, you know that, don’t you? You never ruin another man’s sell, not unless you can profit from it. The Federation, though. They say that they want to help people, that they have a clear directive not to interfere with other cultures, but look at how you’re turning out. And do you think they’ve given one thought to how another war might affect the rising tourist interest in this area?”
Quark appealed to the whole table, the very picture of sincere outrage. “I’ve got to say, and no offense, I’m getting pretty sick of the Federation’s attitude. I mean, who made you keepers of the universe? What does the small businessman get out of it?”
Bashir considered responding, but decided that between withholding his own opinion and prolonging the conversation, the latter would be the greater evil. Quark wasn’t interested in anyone else’s opinion, anyway. Besides which, Bashir suddenly felt a headache coming on.
“Uncle, please,” Nog said pleadingly, growing irritated or embarrassed by the reddening of his ears. Shar didn’t seem to be paying attention at all; he scratched absently at his left antenna, his expression blank.
Quark wouldn’t be stopped. “I blame your father for this, Mister I’m-so-proud-you’re-going-to-the-academy. Why you chose him for your role model I’ll never understand, not when you had me—”
As the last syllable left Quark’s lips, Shar was suddenly in action. He lunged across the table and snatched the pitcher away from Quark, his reflexes brilliantly fast. He spun around, balancing himself in motion, and threw the contents of the pitcher at the wall behind them. He completed the action so quickly that the upset tray of glasses was still hitting the ground as the spiced fruit concoction flew—
—and before any one of them could react, the air became solid and somebody screamed.
Quark’s interruption saved Shar from any more questioning by Dr. Bashir, for which he was grateful. He still hadn’t decided how to respond to such inquiries, and even the thought of trying to answer them made him feel somewhat anxious.
He was still thinking of where the questioning might have led when Quark and Nog began to get angry. Shar was a little uncomfortable about the strife between the two Ferengi, but the amusement on Bashir’s face suggested that there was no reason for concern.
A complicated relationship. Family dynamics often seemed so; Shar was starting to believe that it was a universal constant. There were many subtle intricacies within his own family’s communication.
His left antenna itched, and he scratched it—and froze, feeling it again, the same itch and flush of heat he’d already felt several times since the attack on the station.
Someone is here.
Between their table and the wall. Shar concentrated, holding very still. Although his ability to differentiate specific energy types was limited, he couldn’t help feeling that he was sensing bioelectrical energy. It was similar to the sensation of hearing two sounds of a similar pitch and volume, one made by a machine, the other by a person.
Tingling heat, and he could see that there was no one there. He thought again about the internal sweep that Colonel Kira had asked him to do, and the random pockets of collected energy he’d found.
And if someone wanted to hide…
All of this flashed through his mind in an instant, and he accepted it as truth by the preponderance of evidence, not the least of which was his physical reaction.
Before he could properly consider his options, the tingling started to fade, and he made his decision. As fast as he could, Shar snatched the pitcher from Quark, turned, and threw the thick liquid at what he believed to be an organic being, watching them.
A meter in front of him, the liquid hit, splashing across the head and torso of a very tall humanoid. Someone shouted as the air shimmered and curved, becoming solid, becoming a Jem’Hadar soldier.
He was imposing, his sharp, reptilian face somehow blank and malevolent at once. Quark let out a high-pitched squawk, and Bashir stood and shouted for security as Nog tried to pull Shar out of harm’s way, clutching at his arm with fumbling, desperate fingers—
—but the Jem’Hadar had no weapon and only stood, watching, as fear and confusion pushed the crowd back. Shar allowed Nog to pull him away, barely able to keep himself from beating at the unexpected intruder with the empty pitcher, his body prepared to fight.
Then the Jem’Hadar spoke, and his words stilled everyone who heard them.
“I am Third Kitana’klan, here on an errand of peace,” he said, his voice deep and inflectionless. “I would speak to your Colonel Kira Nerys. You can tell her that I was sent by Odo.”
Ro was waiting for Kira at the entrance to the security office, her expression thankfully professional. A shrouded Jem’Hadar soldier had popped up in Quark’s bar; Kira didn’t have any interest in dancing around with Ro again.
“What have we got?”
“Ensign ch’Thane found him at Quark’s. He’s making his statement now. I’ve got a team working with the internal sensors, to see if there are more.”
As she spoke, they started through the door that led to the holding cells, Ro leading the way. Kira was glad to see a pair of armed security guards flanking the entrance to the hallway; Ro had the presence of mind to lock down the facility, at least.
“The soldier was unarmed, and offered no resistance; he was carrying a pack of ketracel-whit
e cartridges, but nothing else. He says his name is Kitana’klan, and asked to speak to you, claiming that he’s here on a peace mission—”
Kira couldn’t help a sneer as they turned into the holding cell area. A peaceful Jem’Hadar. Right. At least she knew now why she’d felt watched, but that small relief was heavily overshadowed by thoughts of what he could have been doing all this time; he had to have been hiding on the station since the attack.
“—and that Odo sent him.”
They stopped in front of the only occupied cell, Ro nodding at the guard, excusing her with a few words of direction—but Kira barely heard them. She could only stare dumbly at the soldier, overwhelmed with feelings of loss, of anger and disbelief—and a tiny seed of hope.
Odo…
The Jem’Hadar stood stiffly, as if at attention. When he saw Kira, he stepped closer to the force field.
“Colonel Kira. I am Third—I am Kitana’klan,” he said, his deep voice betraying no emotion. The fact that he’d faltered over his designation gave Kira pause; as long as they were supplied with white—and this one was, she could see the isogenic enzyme sputtering through a slender tube at his throat—the Jem’Hadar simply did not falter.
Just looking at him inspired a dozen unhappy memories—the first Jem’Hadar she’d ever seen, telling her that the slaughtered settlers of New Bajor had fought well, for a spiritual people; the violent and untamable Jem’Hadar child that had been found on the station—even without enemies, he’d been unable to stop fighting, or to curb his hatred for anyone who was not Jem’Hadar, Vorta, or Founder.
In that order, too. The Vorta keep them, the Founders are their apathetic gods, and everyone else deserves death. The Jem’Hadar grew from genetic envelope to maturity in a matter of days. Born to a martial code of blood lust, the vast majority died in battle before the age of ten.
Kitana’klan looked like every other Jem’Hadar she’d ever seen—tall, muscular, his heavy, pebbled gray face studded with pearly spikes like tiny claws, his eyes piercing and sharply intelligent. His vestigial tuft of long black hair was knotted in typical Jem’Hadar fashion. He stood perfectly still, staring straight ahead as she studied him. If he felt anything at all he didn’t betray it, and appeared to be waiting for her to speak before saying anything else.
Where to start…
“Explain your presence on this station, Kitana’klan,” she said finally.
“I have been sent by the Founder, Odo, to serve you,” he said, his gaze still fixed straight ahead.
Right, sure, that’s so like Odo—
“And to learn about the cultures and lifeforms that coexist here,” he continued. “I am to study everything I can about the synergy among peaceful peoples, so that I can bring this knowledge to the other Jem’Hadar. The Foun—Odo believes that this will be an initial step toward helping the Jem’Hadar evolve beyond our genetic programming.”
Kira stared at him, remembering how hard Odo had fought to keep that Jem’Hadar orphan on the station, even after the “child” had proved to be incapable of forming nonaggressive tendencies.
He wanted so much to believe that the Jem’Hadar didn’t have to fight, that they wouldn’t fight if given other choices, other options…. Kira had strongly disagreed, and in the end, had been proved right—but suddenly, Kitana’klan’s presence didn’t seem so improbable. It would be like Odo to keep trying; his conscience had been deeply disturbed by the very existence of the Jem’Hadar, created by his people to have no aspirations higher than killing for their keepers.
“Go on,” she said quietly, vaguely aware that Ro had taken the security guard’s position behind her—and glad that there would be a living, breathing witness to this unprecedented conversation. She was willing to hear him out, but doubted there would be much truth in what he had to say. The entire Dominion knew about Odo, they knew what kind of a man he was. Is. It wouldn’t be all that hard to come up with a story like this one.
But if he was telling the truth…
“The attack on your station was not sanctioned by the Founders,” he said, finally turning his gaze to meet hers, and although it was exactly what she wanted to hear, she had to physically suppress a chill. His eyes were pale and unbelievably alien, incapable of any mild or gentle emotion. It was the gaze of a pure predator.
“There were a small number of Jem’Hadar who sought to redeem themselves for losing the war against the Alpha Quadrant,” he continued. “They planned to destroy this station, in the hope that this might initiate hostilities once again.”
“How do you know?” Ro asked abruptly. Kira didn’t mind; she was wondering the same thing.
“Because I was told,” Kitana’klan said, still looking at Kira. “I was overtaken by these rogue soldiers on the other side of the Anomaly—the wormhole—and they attacked me, disabling my ship. First Javal’tivon, their leader, had been my First at the end of the war; he told me of their plans so that I might understand the reason for my death.”
“Quite a coincidence, you and these rogue soldiers headed for the station at the same time,” Kira said.
“No. I believe that learning of my mission inspired their attack, and that they followed me from Dominion space.”
Kitana’klan looked away, as if remembering, and his toneless voice grew cold and sharp. “It was their mistake to leave me still alive. A few of my crew survived, and we were able to repair the ship enough to follow after them. We defended you as best we could—but when the destruction of my ship became inevitable, I had to board this station. My instructions were clear.”
“Why didn’t you announce your presence then?” Kira asked. “Why have you stayed shrouded all this time?”
Kitana’klan seemed surprised by the question. “Your station had just been attacked by Jem’Hadar. I did not think I would be welcomed here.”
“So you thought it would be better to skulk around, hiding in energy vents and spying on us? Exactly how long were you planning to wait?” Ro asked, and again, Kira had no objection. She’d worried about losing her mind, thanks to Kitana’klan’s choice of actions.
If he was bothered by Ro’s obvious scorn, he gave no sign. “I was watching for a reasonable opportunity in which to present myself. Odo gave me no instruction on what to do in the event that the station was attacked by my people….”
Kitana’klan lowered his gaze, almost as if ashamed. “…but I understand now that my decision was ill-considered, and that I have made myself untrustworthy by my actions.”
Kira was unmoved by his performance, but there was a ring of truth to his story that she couldn’t deny hearing.
The fourth ship was damaged. And it backs up everything about the nature of the attack.
“You said the Dominion didn’t sanction the offensive….” Kira prodded.
“Yes. When Odo joined the Founders, he brought with him experiences unknown to them. The Great Link is in contemplation of Odo’s life; it is…thinking, and surely does not know even now what has happened here. At this time, the Founders wish only to remain in reflection.”
Kira glanced back at Ro, and saw on her face the same skepticism that she was feeling—but she didn’t seem as openly incredulous as Kira would have thought, and she realized that Ro was also uncertain. Kira didn’t like the Jem’Hadar as a species, and trusted Kitana’klan about as far as she could pitch him one-handed—but his story actually made sense.
“Can you prove any of this?” she asked, turning to look at him again.
Kitana’klan shook his head. “I cannot. There was a transmission of introduction and explanation given to me by Odo, but it was destroyed along with my ship and crew.”
Of course it was. He’s lying.
He’s telling the truth, and the Federation has to listen now; Odo sent him, Odo sent him to me.
Before she could argue with herself any further, Kitana’klan abruptly fell to his knees. Forgetting the force field, Kira instinctively dropped into a defensive stance, and behind her, Ro was o
n her feet, pulling her phaser—
—and Kitana’klan ripped at the neck of his uniform, tearing it enough to reveal his ketracel-white cartridge, a small, flat rectangle in a sewn pocket beneath his knobby collarbone. He unfastened the cartridge from the implanted throat tube and pulled it free, holding it up toward Kira.
“I was sent here to serve you. I offer you my obedience and my life.”
Realistically, the gesture meant nothing. He was unarmed and in a holding cell, and Ro had said they’d taken his additional white cartridges; his life was already in her hands—but the symbolic display was effective anyway, because he was Jem’Hadar. They were merciless, competent killers, not prone to drama. Without the enzyme and trapped in the cell, he would be driven into a useless, murderous rage before dying in great pain.
“I’m not sure I want either,” Kira said. She stepped back from the force field, entirely unsure of what to think. “Keep your white. I’ll get back to you.”
She looked at Ro, who half-shrugged, obviously as perplexed by the Jem’Hadar’s behavior as Kira was.
“Have Dr. Bashir run a scan when he’s done with his statement, and…keep a watch on him,” Kira said, feeling strangely helpless. For the moment, it was as far as she was willing to go. Whether or not Kitana’klan was lying, his presence on DS9 would be a major factor in the station’s future. If he was telling the truth, there would be no reason for the Allies to go into the Gamma Quadrant—and there would be a Jem’Hadar living on the station, a disruptive situation at best. If it was all a lie, if he came from one of the attack ships or from somewhere else entirely, then there was no telling what he or the Dominion was planning. In any event, it was going to take her a little time to sort through the possible consequences—and to figure out how to prove his story out, one way or the other.
Kira started to leave the area, glancing back at Kitana’klan a final time before she stepped into the corridor. He was still on his knees, and again, that feeling of helplessness hit her at the improbable sight. A Jem’Hadar soldier, claiming a mission of peace. If Odo had done this, either he had made real progress with the Founders and the Dominion…or his sense of humor had taken a serious turn toward the inexplicable, which Kira could not find it in herself to believe.
