by S. D. Perry
“I think I will take you up on that breakfast,” Vaughn said abruptly. “We have a busy day ahead, don’t we?”
“That we do,” Picard said, as they left the hold together, the captain noting that Vaughn’s gaze lingered on the Orb for as long as it was still in sight.
“…and Ezri recommended that he be moved to one of the cargo bays, so he wouldn’t feel like a prisoner,” Nog said. “And when I asked her about it last night, she started on about building trust, and getting him some privacy. There are only two guards posted outside, two. Like there’s any chance that a Jem’Hadar soldier isn’t planning to kill us all, like he could ever be trusted. Can you believe it?” Just saying it out loud filled him with a renewed sense of angry betrayal; no one was taking the threat seriously. Nog shook his head in disgust.
Vic Fontaine sighed, running a hand through his rumpled hair. They sat on the couch in the singer’s hotel suite, the first glimmers of a holographic dawn forming outside the holographic balcony. It was early, but Nog had hardly been able to sleep, too angry, and his first shift started at 0630; he needed to talk about that—that creature, and with Jake having run off to Earth and Ezri siding with the enemy, waking up Vic had seemed like the best choice.
“That’s rough, pallie,” Vic said, yawning, pulling his robe tighter as he stood up. “Listen, I’m going to order up coffee, maybe an omelet, side of home fries—you want anything?”
He wasn’t positive about “home fries,” but Nog remembered what an Earth-style omelet was made from, from his time at Starfleet Academy—bird eggs and flavored mold. In a word, revolting. How his father had ever developed a taste for the stuff was beyond him. He shook his head as Vic stepped to the phone, a little hurt that Vic hadn’t reacted much to the news.
He knows what they did to me, he thought…but also remembered that Vic had never dealt with Jem’Hadar; he didn’t understand what they were like.
Vic returned to the couch and flopped down. “Sorry, kid, I don’t mean to be a drag. You know how I am mornings…and we did two encores last night,” he said, shaking his head with a little smile. “My axeman—you know Dickie—he was trying to impress this skirt, a real looker, so we ran through the whole shebang. They were making eyes like you wouldn’t believe. He made some points, though, got her number and a date for next week. Got to keep the boys happy, right?”
Nog nodded, deciphering the slang easily as Vic talked. It took some getting used to, but he thought he was probably better at it than anyone else on the station. When he had stayed with Vic for a few weeks, he used to love watching people tap anxiously at their translators when they entered the program. The universals didn’t have much memory for period slang.
“So this Kitana’klan,” Vic said casually. “Have you actually talked to him?”
“No! Are you kidding?” Even thinking about it terrified Nog, his palms suddenly spiked with sweat, although he did his best to bluster his way through. “I don’t have anything to say to a Jem’Hadar. They’re bred to kill, it’s all they know how to do. And it seems like everyone suddenly forgot that, like they forgot how many people died because of them.”
Vic nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “Way I heard it, he had a chance to hurt a lot of people when he was hiding out,” the singer said lightly. “And that he didn’t put up a racket when you and Shar and the doc found him…maybe everyone thinks this one’s different because—”
“He’s not,” Nog interrupted, hardly able to credit what he was hearing, feeling his ears flush with hurt and disbelief. “He was on one of those attack ships, Vic! I can’t prove it, but he can’t prove that he wasn’t, either! Why is everyone so ready to believe him?”
“Easy, kid, easy,” Vic said soothingly, raising his hands in conciliatory surrender. “You gotta remember that most folks are ready to put the war behind them. And this guy turns up saying that Odo sent him, and that the attack on the station was a fluke, and that the Dominion has hung up its gloves and wants to make nice. I’m sure a lot of people feel like you do about it, it’s just—they’re tired, that’s all.”
Nog nodded slowly, frustrated but thinking he could understand being tired. When the Jem’Hadar on AR-558 had shot off his leg, when he’d run from the reality of the war into Vic Fontaine’s innocuous and engrossing world, there had been times he’d woken up in the small hours and lain there, remembering, over and over, staring at the ceiling that wasn’t really there, his new leg aching. Struggling with his first real understanding of his own mortality, a terrible gift given to him by the Jem’Hadar. The faces of dead Federation soldiers fresh in his mind, in the dark…
I was so tired then that I couldn’t leave the holosuite. The same kind of deliberate ignorance to reality as the people he’d talked to last night at Uncle’s; it made sense when he thought about it. They wanted to believe Kitana’klan’s story, because the alternative was to consider new deception by the Dominion. And no one wanted to think about the Dominion at all.
“So what do I do?” Nog asked, his anger subsiding to a grudging understanding of what he was up against.
“If you think he’s bad news, kid, you stick to your guns,” Vic said firmly. “Talk to some more people, find out how the scene is sitting with them. Stay cool, though, try to keep in mind that everyone has a right to an opinion…and keep your eyes open.”
There was a knock at the door, presumably Vic’s breakfast. Nog and Vic both stood up, Nog finding a smile for his friend.
“I have to get to work,” Nog said. “But—thanks, Vic. I feel better. Sorry about waking you up.”
Vic smiled back. “Anytime, kid. I mean that; I still owe you for rent.”
Nog held his breath as he brushed past room service, a young simulated hew-mon holding a steaming plate of noxious food, and headed for the exit, feeling stronger about his position. It was a relief to know that at least one other person on the station hadn’t lost his reason. Nog wasn’t overreacting; everyone else was underreacting.
Kitana’klan was bad news, no doubt about it, and Nog also had no doubt that behind that scaly, spiky face was a mind calculating how to destroy them all.
Ezri nodded at the guards outside the cargo bay, shifting the two staffs she carried as she approached the door, praying that she wasn’t making a huge mistake.
No. Trust has to start somewhere, and this is as good a beginning as any. She hoped.
Yesterday’s initial interview with Kitana’klan had given her very little to work with; he had only repeated the story he gave Kira, that he had been sent by Odo to act as a kind of cultural observer on behalf of the Jem’Hadar. Of the four strike ships that had come through the wormhole, he claimed to be the pilot of the one ship that had tried to protect DS9 from the other three, all supposedly rogue Jem’Hadar fighters. He said he’d transported to the station even as his ship was destroyed, and remained shrouded for fear that his motives would be suspect following the attack.
It was a good story, and it certainly explained a lot. If it was true, if the Dominion wasn’t behind the attack, then there was no need for the Allies to send a battle-ready fleet into the Gamma Quadrant. If he was lying, he was an enemy.
Which means it all comes down to whether or not I can figure out if he’s telling the truth. No pressure, Ezri. Her inner voice sounded a bit amused; she was actually eager to see how her rapidly evolving self-image would affect her insight.
A few deep breaths and she nodded at one of the two security guards, who tapped at a control panel, unlocking the bay. The door slid open and a second guard, Corporal Devro, preceded her inside, phaser drawn.
Ezri had to admit to herself that she was relieved to have an escort. Fear wasn’t the issue; the extra set of eyes meant she could relax more, to start seeing how he said the things he said, to try and get a better understanding of his capabilities. There wasn’t enough known about Jem’Hadar behavioral psychology for her to assume much of anything.
And Julian will certainly be glad to know I didn�
��t do this alone. He had expressed some concern with her new assignment, although he hadn’t pushed, not with the current tension between them. They weren’t fighting, but they weren’t talking enough, either…
…and now is definitely not the time. Ezri cleared her mind, feeling the whole of her come into balance.
The Jem’Hadar soldier stood in the middle of the cavernous bay, empty except for a few stacks of broken-down storage containers and some shelving. As instructed, Devro remained near the door as Ezri approached the Jem’Hadar, still holding the two staffs. Each was about two meters long, made from a light but dense alloy—a sparring weapon with a decent heft, common to many martial arts. Jem’Hadar fought, it was what they did, and although she wasn’t as physically capable as some of her predecessors, she thought she could hold her own with Kitana’klan in an exercise. Long enough to earn his respect, anyway.
The staffs were safer than bat’leths, or the Jem’Hadar’s usual blade weapon of choice, the kar’takin…but she wasn’t going to kid herself; a Jem’Hadar could kill with whatever was at hand. She was counting on the fact that, whether he was telling the truth or not, it would be against his purpose to kill her here and now.
She stopped in front of Kitana’klan, who looked down at her with an absolutely unreadable expression. As usual. He hadn’t expressed any emotion that she had understood, although Kira said he’d been quite adamant about swearing his loyalty to her, even offering the colonel his ketracel-white cartridge. As long as they had white, Jem’Hadar didn’t need food or sleep to survive, but they died horribly if their supply of the enzyme ran out. Most of the time, at least; she knew that Julian had once met a soldier who could survive without white, but he had been a genetic anomaly.
“I thought you might be restless,” she said, carefully keeping her expression neutral. “My last host once trained with some Jem’Hadar for a joint mission, before the war. So I’m familiar with a few of your hand-to-hand combat drills.” She tossed him a staff, and he scarcely moved as he picked it out of the air with one hand. “Let’s dance.”
He hefted the staff with one hand, not taking his dark, ambiguous gaze from hers. From what she knew about them, Jem’Hadar were both intelligent and inquisitive. They also responded to directness, and Ezri hoped that by challenging him to a physical contest, she would finally make meaningful contact.
“Agreed,” Kitana’klan said, and backed up a step, crouching slightly.
Ezri held her staff loosely in both hands, one hand facing up, watching as he took a few sliding steps to his right. He held his staff the same way, suggesting that he was familiar with the weapon…or maybe for a Jem’Hadar it was instinctive, coded into their genetic sequencing. Neither would surprise her.
Ezri summoned up all of her Starfleet combat training. Then she reached within herself, first to Jadzia’s experience battling Jem’Hadar on Vandros IV, then to her sparring sessions with Worf. She tapped into Curzon’s lifelong study of the mok’bara, and further back still to Emony’s athletic prowess. She then extended her awareness outward, reaching with her senses to take in all of her opponent; his face and body, stance, which muscles were flexed. The chest and the waist were crucial; staff action would begin in one of those two areas. Looking into your opponent’s eyes was a mistake, a look could be faked, and Kitana’klan certainly knew—
—slap, a blur of motion, and the back of her right hand was stinging, the move so fast that he was already back and away as she registered the pain.
Uh-oh.
She nodded in acknowledgment, startled and not a little impressed; he could have broken her fingers just as easily.
They circled, Ezri turning off her consciousness as much as she could, letting her observations take its place. What she thought wasn’t important, because it didn’t matter; the first rule of Galeo-Manada was not to worry about what your opponent might do, but to flow with what he or she did do.
Except Jadzia was the wrestler, not me—
—relax, dammit!
She was Ezri, and their memories were hers. She held the staff at a slight angle in front of her body, watching and waiting, circling as he did. She had no plans to attack, for physical as well as psychological considerations; he was better than her, obviously, but she also thought an attack by her might reinforce his negative beliefs about—
—a thrust, aimed at her gut. Ezri parried, knocking the staff down and away, but it was an effort. He was strong. It was all she could do to avoid his follow-through—
—and as he leaned into his thrust, Ezri spun into her dodge, wheeling around and raising her staff for a blow to his shoulder, but he was already gone. He’d stepped away, moving faster than any being she’d ever fought, only a breeze across her face.
She continued the turn, putting a leap into her spin as he stepped back into her range, crouching even lower, feint for his head and come in low—
—and in a single, brutal movement, Kitana’klan raised his staff with incredible force, knocking her own out of one hand. She lost her balance for a split second, but it was all he needed—if he even needed that to beat her. He brought the staff around, low, sweeping her feet out from under her, the weighted stick cracking painfully against the side of her left ankle.
She went down, slapping the ground with her free hand, vaguely aware that the security officer was shouting something. The light was blocked, Kitana’klan towering over her, staff aimed for her throat—
—his eyes, look at them—
—and she felt the cold metal tap at her windpipe, so slightly that it was almost a tickle. The Jem’Hadar stepped back, lowering his staff.
“It’s okay!” Ezri called, breathing deeply as she sat up, afraid that young Corporal Devro might open fire. Kitana’klan looked down at her, his face as blank as ever as he reached out to help her up.
“You fight well,” he said, his voice without inflection.
“You lie poorly,” she answered. “I respect your greater skill, and appreciate your mercy. Perhaps we can talk, once I put away these weapons.”
Kitana’klan nodded dismissively. Ezri collected both staffs, thinking of how he’d looked at her, thinking of the killing rage she’d seen in his eyes at her moment of complete vulnerability. He hadn’t just wanted to kill her; he’d craved it.
He’s Jem’Hadar, he can’t help what he is. And he could have easily done it, if he wanted to. He restrained himself, that’s what matters.
Another mental voice, just as loud. Of course he restrained himself, killing me would only hurt his situation. He didn’t strike because he has other plans.
She didn’t know what to think. All she knew was that she wasn’t going to plan any more therapeutic sparring sessions, certainly not any in which she was an active participant. However positive she was feeling about her other skills, Kitana’klan was clearly superior in a fight…and that look in his eyes…
She had her opening to ask questions, it was what she’d wanted. Aware that he was watching her, she did her best not to limp as she walked to the door, Devro covering her. Kitana’klan simply stood there, needing nothing from any of them.
Chapter Three
It was time to enter the wormhole.
The Venture had been floating in the shadow of a massive section of hull from the lost Aldebaran, on the off chance that the wormhole was being visually monitored…and according to his shuttle’s course reads, it was very close. Close enough that he shouldn’t have to do any more than tap the piece with his shields.
This is crazy, Jake thought, manually setting the controls to ease the shuttle forward, wondering what his friends would think of what he was doing, knowing that his father would understand. It was a charge from a prophecy that Jake wholly believed, because his heart told him it was true; how could he possibly do anything but try to fulfill it?
You could have stayed on the station, he told himself. You could have talked it over with someone a little more objective. You could have helped your friends deal with their lo
sses, helped with the investigation into Istani Reyla’s murder, helped Nog deal with having a Jem’Hadar on board—
“It’s a little late for that now,” he murmured, unblinking, his gaze glued to the navigation screen—
—and a funnel of swirling energy blossomed around the tiny shuttle. He felt a trickle of sweat run down his back, hands on manual, hoping that his good luck would hold, that he could have just another few seconds as the Venture edged incrementally through the wormhole’s brilliant entrance. Hoping that he wasn’t about to totally humiliate himself in the process of botching his mission.
Help me, Dad, help this to happen.
And then he had crossed the threshold.
Nog was watching his boards in ops with only half an eye, working up another repair-time estimate on the Defiant, when the sensor alerts flashed. Tactical and science jumped to attention.
Nog put the wormhole on the main screen before Lieutenant Bowers could ask for it. A frozen field of debris was illuminated across the screen, standing in harsh silhouette contrast to the blinding beauty of the lights.
“No trails, no increase in energized particle count…and I’m not reading any displacement in the field,” Shar said, and Nog realized he’d been holding his breath when he blew it out in a rush. Another fragment.
“It is one we were tracking…” Shar continued, his long fingers running across science’s control board. “But it shouldn’t have tripped the entrance yet, not for another three hours, twenty minutes. It wasn’t moving fast enough.”
“Is the disparity within a reasonable range, counting for probable collision factors?” Bowers asked.
“Affirmative.”
Bowers nodded, looking relieved. Nog didn’t blame him; Colonel Kira had called in to say she had some other business to see to before coming up, which meant the lieutenant would have had to make any necessary split-second decisions. It wasn’t a responsibility that any of them wanted, not with how things currently stood.
