by S. D. Perry
“Oh, Colonel. Heh, well, so you’re…ah…joining the fun, too. Well, okay. But Commander Vaughn won’t let Nog…”
“I’ll speak to Commander Vaughn,” Kira said. “All right?”
“Okay, Colonel. Fine. You two just have fun in there, all right. No problem.” He paused. “There isn’t any problem, is there?”
“Not unless you don’t go away,” Kira said.
“Right,” Quark said. “Gone.”
Kira and Taran’atar stood looking at one another for a moment or two. Then, Kira reached down, tugged the kar’takin out of the deck and hefted it in her two hands. It was heavy, heavier even than it looked. “Did you program a replicator to produce this, too?”
“Yes.”
Kira nodded, appreciating the balance of the weapon as she scrutinized it. “By the way,” she said. “How much did Quark charge you to use the holosuite?”
Taran’atar looked confused again. Kira was momentarily struck by a guilty feeling that she was using up the Jem’Hadar’s lifetime supply of confusion. “Charge?” he asked. “When I learned that this facility existed, I told the Ferengi that I would be using it today. He did not mention anything about a charge.”
“Yeah,” Kira said. “Okay. Never mind. No surprise here. I’ll set up an account for you. Try to remember that there are other people on the station who might want to use things and some of them might be in line in front of you.” She handed him back the weapon.
The Jem’Hadar accepted it.
“Now, getting back to my request…”
“Simply tell me what you want me to do,” Taran’atar said.
“I want you to consider accompanying Dr. Bashir on a mission to a planet where a human has taken control of a Jem’Hadar hatchery.” Briefly, Kira outlined the story of Locken and their guesses about his plans.
Taran’atar listened without comment until she had finished, then said, “It will be as you say. You may consider the Jem’Hadar serving this human already dead.”
Kira shook her head. “I’m afraid you aren’t getting this. I’m not asking you to go kill all the Jem’Hadar…”
“But there are Jem’Hadar on this planet who have been conditioned to serve this man whom you oppose. Correct?”
“Yes, correct.”
“Then I must either kill them or they will kill the doctor and anyone else who accompanies him on his mission.”
“Let’s get something straight,” Kira said. “Your participation in this mission is contingent upon your helping my crew according to their needs. I realize you have a genetic predisposition toward killing your enemies, and use of lethal force may in fact become necessary, but it isn’t to be your first option. Am I understood?”
The Jem’Hadar looked down at her. “You wonder at my willingness to kill my own kind. You think because you have fought my species, that you understand what drives it, that it’s defined solely by the controlled genetics used to create us. Tell me, Colonel, is that how you feel about Dr. Bashir?”
Kira was taken aback by the question. Taran’atar continued. “You have accepted that he is genetically predisposed to act differently, to think differently, to feel differently than you do, even though this disposition was devised by the hand of other beings no greater, no more divine, than yourself.”
Kira could see where the logic of the argument was headed, but she was helpless to steer a passage around the upcoming rocky shoals. “Yes,” she said.
Taran’atar then said, with surprising calm, “Then please extend the same courtesy to me.”
Kira’s eyes narrowed. “You make some very valid points,” she said. “But we’re still going to do things my way. So I’ll ask you one more time. Am I understood?”
The silence was deafening and seemed to last far too long for Kira’s comfort. “No,” Taran’atar admitted finally. “But it will be as you say.”
Chapter Six
With less than an hour before the Euphrates was to depart, Ro Laren sat in the security office, studying the copious and astonishingly detailed files Odo had left behind.
All but a few of her deputies and supplemental Starfleet personnel were already gone. With so few people on the station, and so much of it currently powered down, onboard security was far less complicated. Ro had decided to use her remaining time to listen to some of Morn’s stories, attempt to uncover whatever skullduggery Quark might be engaged in, and read through her predecessor’s database. She enjoyed Morn’s stories, had managed to quietly sabotage the worst of Quark’s indiscretions, and was dutifully amazed at the quantity and quality of Odo’s records. There was information buried in the security office that she suspected was unknown even to Starfleet Intelligence.
Shortly after she first came aboard, she had uncovered the first cache of redundantly encrypted files in an innocuous subsector in the office’s dedicated mainframe. She wondered if even Kira knew they were there. It had taken Ro five full days of studying the computer system just to figure out what Odo had done to safeguard the hidden files. Then another twelve days to devise a way to access them without tripping the EM pulse that would wipe the data if she’d made a single mistake. Her persistence paid off in the end; the files were hers now, and it was gratifying to know that some of the more subtle skills she’d learned with Starfleet and the Maquis could be combined so effectively.
After she started reading, Ro had been tempted to anonymously contact a couple of the most begrimed individuals mentioned therein and send them a tidbit or two, just to see what would happen. Fortunately, she waited long enough to let the temptation pass. Within a day or two, the wisdom of Odo’s designs had become clearer. This wealth of material was meant to be salted away until a moment in the indefinite future—the proverbial rainy day—when it would be most useful. Strangely, that day had apparently never arrived, even in the darkest moments of the Dominion War, but then again, this was not that kind of data. It wasn’t the sort of information that would save an empire or a world or even an army. It might save one or two lives—special lives, the lives of those who might someday change the luck of armies or worlds or even empires.
If Quark ever learned about this—She smiled at the thought.
Ro noted the time and decided she’d better get to the Euphrates. She closed the files and checked the encryption codes again. She’d considered backing up the data, a risky move, but she didn’t trust the station core right now for obvious reasons. Instead, she’d taken the precaution of asking Nog to physically retrieve the security datacore in the unlikely event that DS9 had to be abandoned. She was taking a chance trusting Nog, but not, Ro thought, a big chance. Ro liked him. He was an interesting commingling of Federation Boy Scout and scoundrel, both types she understood and whose responses she could predict, which was as close to trust as Ro Laren ever came.
After making sure everything was secure, Ro reached under the desk and pulled out her travel bag. She never had to look inside the bag, because she always knew exactly what was there: a change of clothes; some basic toiletries and first-aid items; enough condensed rations to last three days; a microfilter for water reclamation; a fully charged hand phaser; a tricorder; a small but powerful palm beacon; and, in a concealed compartment, a porcelain fractal-edged knife. If Ro ever found the last item in the possession of any visitor to DS9, she would have confiscated it immediately. It was illegal in the Federation and on numerous independent worlds, Bajor included. Fractal knives had only one use: they were weapons of terror, because their edges were too fragile for anything else. She had taken this particular blade from the body of a Cardassian “information officer” who had used it while interrogating Maquis prisoners. Someone—Ro had never found out who, having arrived on the scene long after the fact—had used the fractal knife on the inquisitor, extensively. She had kept the blade ever since, considering it the ultimate “you never know when you might need it” tool.
She paused at the door and took a last look around at the blank walls. Was it like this when Odo was here
, she wondered, or did someone take away his things when he left? From the little she had heard about the man and, more tellingly, from what she had gleaned from reading between the lines of his reports, Ro guessed that there had never been anything belonging to Odo in this room. Personal effects would have given the criminals he had brought here more information about himself than he would have wanted them to know.
Ro slung her bag over her shoulder, knowing that the walls of her quarters were as blank as these.
Bashir, Ezri, and Ro had assembled in the airlock outside runabout pad C. It was, Bashir noted, only a little more than eight hours since he and Ezri had told the Wayfarer to leave for Earth without them. Taran’atar arrived last, carrying only a soft-sided case of suspicious proportions. “Let me guess,” Ro said. “Weapons?”
Taran’atar didn’t reply, but only laid the pack down on the deck, unfastened a pair of clips, then unrolled it like a sleeping bag. It contained a standard-issue Bajoran hand phaser, with several replacement power cells affixed; what looked like a dozen or so photon grenades; and a sheathed weapon that Bashir guessed was a kar’takin.
“What, no throwing knives?” Ro asked.
Taran’atar indicated a small satchel bound into the case’s lining.
“Oh, good. Don’t want to forget those.”
Taran’atar regarded Ro speculatively, but still did not comment. He rolled up the case again with quick, precise movements so that when he was finished it looked exactly the way it had before he had opened it.
Just as Taran’atar was rising, everyone was surprised to see Commander Vaughn emerging from the runabout.
“Sir?” Bashir said. “We didn’t expect to find you here.”
“Thought I’d save you some time and run through the preflight,” Vaughn said. “She’s ready, by the way. Try bringing her back in one piece, please. I recently found out what a terrible record this station has when it comes to runabouts.”
Bashir almost smiled. “Thank you for seeing us off.”
Vaughn nodded. “Colonel Kira intended to be here herself, but she wanted to be on hand when Nog and his crew began detaching Empok Nor’s lower core. The operation started about two hours ago. Are you heading directly for Sindorin?”
Bashir shook his head. “Ro and I have been talking. We’re going to take a very indirect route, try to look like a survey ship and bore anyone who might be watching. We’ll be skirting the edge of the Romulan protectorate, so we’re working on the assumption that there are cloaked ships nearby.” Ro handed a padd with a copy of their flight plan to Vaughn, who scrutinized it carefully.
“All right,” he said finally. “But avoid going into the protectorate if you can help it. And check in periodically before you hit the Badlands. It’ll help keep up the pretense that you’re surveying.”
“Right. And we’d like to know how things are going here,” Bashir said. “If it starts to look like Nog is going to blow the place to pieces, could someone please rescue my ficus?”
Vaughn smiled. “I’ll see what I can do. Well. Safe journey.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bashir said, and started to follow the others into the runabout. Vaughn waited until Bashir was just on the threshold before calling, “Doctor? A moment, please.”
Bashir stopped and turned. “Yes, Commander?”
“A word of advice,” Vaughn said in low tones. “Don’t try to be a hero. Don’t think for a moment that you’re going to be able to find evidence you can use to expose Thirty-One. Just go in, do the job, and come home. Understand?”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Bashir said suspiciously, “but not why.”
“Because I’d like to see all of you come home alive. Cole needs you to do his dirty work for him, but that’s all he’s going to allow. Try to go beyond that and I can guarantee there will be unpleasant repercussions.” With that, Vaughn turned and walked away.
Bashir stared after the commander for several seconds, wondering not without some smoldering anger what he was supposed to make of all that. The doctor usually enjoyed a good mystery, but this was something else entirely. And as he entered the runabout, Bashir resolved that if and when they returned from Sindorin, he was going to get to the bottom of this particular enigma once and for all.
Chapter Seven
“How long is this going to take?” Ezri asked.
“To make it look good, about eighteen hours,” Ro said. “Just long enough for everyone—well, almost everyone—to get some sleep, eat a couple meals and get tired of looking at each other.”
Ezri, relaxing in the copilot’s seat, made a sour face.
Ro caught the look. “Don’t take it the wrong way,” she said. “I’ve been on a lot of these kinds of trips. The best thing to do is try to maintain your sense of humor and don’t get in anyone else’s way.” She glanced over her shoulder toward Bashir, who was just going into the aft compartment with a padd in hand. As he disappeared behind the door, Ro added, “Unless you want someone to get in your way.”
Ezri grinned. “I don’t think that’s really an option.”
“You’d be surprised what you could do on one of these runabouts. When I was in the Maquis, we had ships much less sophisticated than this—basically just big cans with engines mounted on them—and people used to find all sorts of ways to make private space. You had to, especially if you were spending a lot of time together.”
“This isn’t really like that,” Ezri said.
“Actually, it is,” Ro asserted. “A lot. It’s surprising how much, in fact. You people on DS9, from what I’ve seen so far, have a lot more in common with the Maquis than anything I ever saw on a starship.”
“We people on DS9, you mean,” Ezri corrected good-naturedly. “You’re one of us now.”
Ro shrugged. “Well, yes and no. I’m not old guard—you, Kira, Bashir, Nog. Don’t get me wrong: you seem like a good group, but you are a little insular. In that respect, you remind me of, well, another crew.”
Somehow Ezri knew Ro wasn’t thinking about the Maquis anymore. “You’re referring to the Enterprise, aren’t you?” Ezri asked.
Ro snuck a quick look at Ezri, then returned her gaze to the control board. “You’re not part Betazoid, are you?”
“No,” Ezri said. “Just a counselor. That, and I read your file.”
“Ah, yes. My file,” she sighed, as if nothing more needed to be said.
Ezri wasn’t quite ready to give up, though. “So, what was it like?”
Ro checked their course and submitted a slight correction while she considered her answer. Then, slowly, she reached out and ran her finger along the edge of the viewport. She showed it to Ezri, who saw it was covered with fine gray dust. “It was very clean,” Ro said. “Everything. Even the engine room. I’ve been in a few engine rooms since the Enterprise and I know how hard it is to keep one clean. And it was very well lit except, of course, when you wanted the light to be low.” Her expression, which had been set in a soft scowl, softened then and she said, “Life on the Enterprise was very tidy.”
“So you liked it?”
“Did I like it?” she repeated, as if it was the first time she had ever considered the question. “I suppose I did. For a while, anyway. It was so safe, so secure, so invulnerable. But then I came to be reminded about all the people whose lives weren’t so safe and secure and I knew I had to make a choice. Follow my orders, or follow my conscience.” Ro lapsed into silence again, then noticed the look on Dax’s face. “You want to ask me about Picard, don’t you? It’s all right. Everyone does eventually.”
“All right, you got me,” Ezri admitted. “I hate to seem predictable, but…what was it like serving with Picard?”
Ro smiled, but it seemed to Ezri that the smile was bittersweet. “He was pretty much what you look for in a captain: Tough, but fair. Committed to high ideals. Intelligent, even scholarly, but not stuffy. And he wore a very nice cologne.”
Ezri laughed, delighted.
Ro chuckled, too
, but tried to keep a straight face. “No, I’m serious. It was very subtle, but distinctive. If you were working on something, head down to the grindstone, and heard a door open behind you, it was always obvious when it was Picard because of this great cologne. And he has a very nice voice. Oh, that’s right—and he was a wine snob.”
“I think his family owns a vineyard.”
“Right. I’d forgotten that. But I’ll tell you something about Picard that you’d never know unless you served with him…”
“He’s not as tall as he looks in the news feeds?” Ezri asked, remembering the last time she saw him, standing on the Promenade next to Kira only two weeks ago.
Ro shot Ezri a sly glance. “Well, in fact, no, he isn’t, but that wasn’t what I was going to say. It’s just that, well…” She paused, gathering her thoughts, searching for words. “Maybe the universe seems just as confusing to him as it does to the rest of us. Maybe he feels like it’s difficult to decide what he should do, but it never seemed that way to the rest of us. He had a gift for looking, sounding, acting like whatever he was doing was the exact right thing to do…” She paused, looked like she was going to continue, then shook her head. “I don’t know any other way to put it.” Ro looked over at Dax. “Have you ever served with anyone like that? I’ve heard some stories about your Captain Sisko…”
“Benjamin?” Ezri shook her head. “He wasn’t that kind of commander, not that kind of man. You know that before I was Jadzia I was Curzon, don’t you?”
Ro nodded, watching the controls.
“I knew…I’ve known…Benjamin for more than twenty years, from the time he was little more than a boy to the day he…well, we don’t really know with complete certainty what happened to him, do we? You’re a Bajoran. What do you think?”
“I’m a Bajoran,” Ro explained, “but I’m not that kind of Bajoran. If you want the religious interpretation, you’ll have to ask the colonel. If you want my opinion, I’d say he died in the fire caves.”
