Twist of Faith

by S. D. Perry

  “We’re here to stop Locken.”

  “Then let us be about it!” Taran’atar hissed.

  Ro sighed. “All right then. Let me put the question to you. What can we do in our present circumstances? What would you want to do to stop Locken?”

  Taran’atar’s shoulders relaxed and he seemed to give the question serious consideration. “A campaign?”

  “Call it what you will.”

  “If I am to wage a campaign, I need supplies and troops.”

  “I can get you troops, I think. The Ingavi will fight. And not for us. They’ll fight to win back their world.”

  “These creatures are no match for the Jem’Hadar,” Taran’atar stated flatly. “Not even these Jem’Hadar.”

  “Neither were humans,” Ro pointed out. “Or Bajorans. Or Klingons. Or Romulans. Or anyone else in the Alpha Quadrant. That was what the Dominion once believed, wasn’t it?”

  Taran’atar stared back at her, his pebbled brow knotted in turmoil. Finally he sat on the ground cross-legged, elbows on his knees, palms spread. He looked, Ro thought, strangely like a Bajoran monk in meditation. “We will need more supplies,” he said. “And weapons. I do not have enough here to outfit an army…not even this army.”

  “Then, we’ll have to find some more,” Ro said, feeling hope rise in her for the first time since they beamed down to the planet’s surface…how many hours ago? She had lost track of time.

  “What about the ship?” Taran’atar asked.

  “What about it?”

  “You yourself thought it unlikely the runabout was destroyed, and I tend to agree. I’ve been considering the matter since you first brought it up. The runabout was little more than a conveyance, not a real threat, even to the limited forces at Locken’s command. And those forces are limited. Especially if he must resort to gathering wreckage for his spacecraft.”

  Ro was following Taran’atar’s train of thought. “Locken wasn’t trying to destroy the runabout,” she realized. “He just wanted to disable it so he could salvage it for himself.”

  “Precisely,” said Taran’atar. “And if he hasn’t yet recovered it—”

  “He has not,” a voice said. Kel again, standing in the opening between the root chambers. He had, she realized, been standing there for some time, listening to her debate with Taran’atar. “I believe,” he said, “that there may still be time to find your ship. And we can help.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “How many crash landings is that for you now?” Ezri asked.

  Bashir rolled to the edge of his bunk and looked down at Ezri, who was stretched out on hers a meter below. He thought for a moment, then said, “Four.”

  “Only four?” Ezri asked, surprised. “Are you sure?”

  “Actual contact between a ship and a planet’s surface? Yes, just four: the Yangtzee Kiang; the Rubicon; that time in the stolen Jem’Hadar ship; and now.”

  “Huh. I guess I thought it was more than that, you being such an adventurous fellow.”

  “I’m adventurous,” Bashir replied, “but careful.”

  “Ah. Well, that must make all the difference.” She climbed out of her bunk and stretched, rolling her shoulders from side to side.

  “How’s your collarbone?” Bashir asked.

  “A little stiff, but all right.” She had cracked it in the crash, the worst of their combined injuries. He had been permitted to treat the break as well as various cuts and bruises, but then the Jem’Hadar had relieved him of his equipment—communicator, medical tricorder, hypo, and all the medication—and he felt slightly naked without them. “How are you?” she asked.

  Bashir sighed, then sat up, almost hitting his head against the ceiling. “Annoyed. Angry. Fearful for…” He almost said “Ro and Taran’atar,” but changed it to “the future.” There was no sense in openly discussing their comrades since, in all likelihood, the cell was being monitored. A small black dome in the center of the ceiling was obviously the decoy, with the real surveillance device probably hidden among the needlessly complex-looking lighting fixtures in the corner of the room opposite the bunks. Bashir made sure to act as if he didn’t care whether the cell had cameras or not, scrutinizing every part of the room with equal emphasis. It wasn’t bad as cells went, he decided. Hot and cold running water. Even a small screen around the toilet for privacy’s sake.

  The Jem’Hadar had left them alone since they had been brought in and Bashir suspected their jailers were attempting to unnerve them, make them anxious about when Locken might arrive. Pitching his voice low, he asked, “Did you ever find your combadge?” When the Jem’Hadar had searched them, Ezri’s had been missing.

  “No,” she said ruefully. “It must have fallen off during one of the bumps.”

  “Too bad. Did you have a chance to check the status of the runabout before they beamed in?” This was a safe topic since their captors undoubtedly knew more about the current condition of their craft than they did.

  “Not really,” Ezri said. “I think the fuselage was intact and I didn’t hear any warning alarms from either the warp nacelles or the coolant system, so there weren’t any leaks. Other than that, the only thing I remember is my board giving a funny little burp just before we crashed—some kind of power surge through the system just before the emergency shutdown. Did you see that?”

  Bashir shook his head. “No, sorry. Missed that. Any idea what it was?”

  She shrugged. “Can’t say. Wasn’t consistent with a burned-out system, though.”

  Bashir was struck by a suspicion, but he decided not to voice it just then. Changing the subject, he asked, “Did you get a chance to look out the view-ports before the Jem’Hadar beamed in? Any idea about the crash site?”

  Ezri opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted before she could speak by a calm, clear, reasonable voice. “You were,” it said, “extraordinarily lucky.” Dr. Ethan Locken was standing in the cell door, beaming rapturously. He was wearing the same coat and smock they had seen him in on the Romulan ship, though in every other regard he appeared much less threatening than he had in the recording. Indeed, he seemed nervous and was unconsciously picking at the cuticle of his left thumb with his right one. “Dr. Julian Bashir,” he said with undisguised admiration. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to finally meet you. Never in my wildest imaginings did I think Section 31 would be stupid enough to send you after me.”

  Bashir stood up. “Why stupid?”

  “Because you’re probably the one person who will truly understand what I’m trying to do here.”

  “And that is…?”

  “Save lives,” Locken said simply, his cheerful smile never wavering.

  “You said we were lucky,” Dax said suddenly, before Bashir could inquire further. “In what way?”

  “There’s a salt marsh about a hundred meters to the north of where you crashed,” Locken said, still addressing Bashir. “If you had gone down there, you would have sunk. Even assuming you didn’t have any hull breaches, it would have been hard to get you out. To the north and west, there were much larger, much stronger trees. You would have dashed yourself to pieces against those. The grove you landed in, the trees are all young and much more flexible. They acted as a kind of crash net. Now there’s an ancient word for you: ‘crash net.’ Do you know what I mean?”

  Bashir nodded. “We used them on the station, in case the tractor beams failed when a ship was coming in hot. Our former chief of operations installed them.”

  “Yes, of course,” Locken said. “O’Brien liked his low-tech solutions, didn’t he?”

  Bashir felt himself visibly start at the mention of his old friend’s name and saw by the expression on Locken’s face that he knew he had scored a direct hit.

  “Don’t worry, Doctor. Nothing sinister. I made it my business to keep tabs on you. Someday soon we must discuss your little obsession with the Alamo.”

  Ezri almost smiled despite herself.

  “You might be interested to hear,”
Locken continued, “that I have a similar fascination with the Battle of Thermopylae.”

  “The three hundred Spartans against the army of the Persian Empire,” Bashir recalled.

  “Very good, Doctor,” Locken said, smiling. “It’s always a pleasant surprise to meet a well-rounded scholar. Is it only me, or have you also found that most people in the medical profession aren’t really interested in the liberal arts?” He spread his arms expansively and exulted, “This is already better than I’d hoped. I feel like I know you, that we are simpatico.”

  “Except, of course,” Ezri interjected, “that we’re in a cell and you aren’t.”

  Locken did not respond to the barb, but only walked away from the frame of the cell door. Seconds later, the forcefield was deactivated and Locken stepped into the cell. Sketching a quick bow, he asked, “Would you please accompany me to my chambers? I’ve prepared a light supper.”

  “Good,” Ezri said, heading for the door. “I’m starving.” For a second, Bashir thought that Locken hadn’t planned on including her in the invitation, but then their “host” nodded and lifted his hand, giving her permission to pass. Ezri smiled ever so slightly, then waited for the two doctors in the corridor.

  Bashir saw only a single Jem’Hadar posted at one end of the hall. There were no other obvious surveillance devices in sight, suggesting that Locken’s resources were limited, and that he hadn’t yet been able to begin full-scale production of his troops.

  Though the place had a very “Dominion standard” look to it, Bashir couldn’t overlook that the walls were all hung with paintings and art in other media, all obviously executed by the same hand: Locken’s. There was a pair of gigantic, but well-balanced and aesthetically pleasing, pots standing guard beside the door to Locken’s quarters. When Bashir stopped to admire them, Locken smiled and said, “Don’t touch, Julian. The glaze isn’t quite dry.”

  Bashir was surprised. He knew a little about pottery, enough to know how difficult it was to throw such large pieces. He had assumed they were replicated. “You did these?”

  “Oh, yes. A hobby.”

  “I’m impressed.” A little fine art, a little galactic oppression, Bashir thought. When does he find time to sleep? But then he considered his own all-too-frequent bouts of insomnia and realized that the answer to the question was He doesn’t, and filed the fact away for later consideration.

  Locken’s private rooms were an understated mix of opulence and functionality. The living area was large, almost fifteen meters on a side, and Bashir assumed it had once been the compound’s communal area, the place first the Vorta, then the Section 31 agents, had gathered to work as a group whenever necessary. There were no groups now—only Locken—so he had taken over the entire space.

  One wall was dominated by a large computer workstation, probably the primary link to the computer core. Bashir made a mental note of this. On the wall opposite the door was a small but apparently well-equipped kitchen flanked by a large dining table set for one. No replicators. Bashir didn’t see anything in the room that stamped its occupant as a megalomaniacal dictator, no life-size portraits or graven images. In fact, the room’s most notable feature was its lack of personal touches, except for a small end table that displayed a selection of artwork created by children of different ages, from preschool to prepubescent, most of it addressed to “Doctor Ethan.” Most of the pictures were either water-damaged or charred, and, Bashir realized with a small shudder, most of the children were probably dead, killed on New Beijing.

  Amid the children’s artwork, Bashir found a single holo, a group of men and women, all wearing lab coats, all smiling nervously. Locken was easy to pick out in the group. Next to Locken stood a blond-haired gentleman who had a very paternalistic arm around his shoulder. “Nice holo,” Bashir said. “Was this the staff at your clinic?”

  Locken’s overly alert and attentive gaze relaxed into a genuine smile. “Yes,” he said. “My colleagues.”

  “Obviously you were good friends with this gentleman,” Bashir said, pointing at the blond man.

  “Dr. Murdoch,” Locken replied. “He was my closest friend, my…my mentor. I knew the techniques. It was all up here….” He tapped his forehead. “But I didn’t know how to treat patients. The children, a lot of them were afraid of me somehow, but Murdoch showed me how to set them at ease.”

  “It’s a difficult skill to master,” Bashir said. “Especially with children.”

  “I expect you two never met,” Locken said, a questioning note in his voice.

  Bashir shook his head. “No, never.”

  Awkwardly, as if he didn’t know precisely how to continue the conversation, Locken pulled out a small control unit something like a tricorder and said, “But I promised dinner, didn’t I?” He tapped a couple of keys and the lamp over the dining room table lit up. A moment later, an automated trolley covered with a selection of covered dishes trundled in and stopped before the table.

  “I’ve prepared several things,” Locken said shyly, indicating where Bashir and Dax should sit, then realized that there were no place settings. “I’ll get you some tableware and napkins from the kitchen,” he said apologetically, and ducked into the kitchen. When he returned, he continued, “Just take whatever you want from the trolley. No serving staff, I’m afraid. Even I wouldn’t dream of using Jem’Hadar as domestics.”

  “But you’re a god, aren’t you?” Ezri asked, peeking under covers. She settled on a small salad and some rolls. “Doesn’t that mean they’d wear an apron if you asked them?”

  “I’ve never asked,” Locken said. “You’re a vegetarian, aren’t you, Julian?”

  “More or less,” Bashir said, lifting the cover off a small bowl. He sniffed the contents. “Plomeek soup?”

  “Yes,” Locken said, taking the cover off what looked like a plate of lamb chops.

  “Replicated or homemade?”

  “Oh, homemade, of course,” Locken said, returning to the table. “It’s awful if you replicate it. The herbs just don’t come out right.”

  “Yes, I know,” Bashir said. “I’ve tried. This smells…good.”

  “Thank you. It’s taken me a lot of years to perfect the recipe. A Vulcan colleague in my postgrad days said mine was superior to her mother’s.”

  “You must have been so proud,” Ezri said, sitting down at the table.

  Locken did not respond, but as Bashir sat down beside Ezri, he saw the corner of Locken’s eye twitch.

  The soup was sublime. Locken ate at a stately pace and seemed to prefer to keep his peace, which surprised Bashir. In his experience, people who typically ate alone usually ate too quickly and tended to prattle on when they had company. That role, unfortunately, fell to Ezri, who seemed prepared to hold up the conversation for the entire table, gabbering merrily as a magpie about whatever entered her head.

  When Locken carried the dishes into the kitchen, Bashir asked her, “What are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The way you’re acting—the nonstop talking. Why are you doing that?”

  “To keep him off balance,” Ezri explained. “To keep him from engaging you in conversation. He wants to win you over.”

  Bashir shook his head in consternation. “He’s not going to ‘win me over.’ I’m not that easily persuaded, Ezri.”

  “He’s very charming,” Ezri said. “You have a weak spot for charm, Julian.”

  Bashir was stung by the observation and said, more sharply than he intended, “You obviously don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

  “I still remember when you first met Garak…”

  “Garak?” Bashir said. “I always thought of Garak as more mysterious than charming.”

  “He was both. It’s a potent combination—charm and mystery—particularly for you….”

  “That’s beside the point,” Bashir interrupted. “And not true, either, but we’ll discuss that later. The important thing is I want him to talk. I’m supposed to be tryi
ng to understand him. How can I empathize with the man if you won’t be quiet?”

  “What are you saying?” Ezri asked, narrowing her eyes. “I’m a trained counselor…”

  “…Which would be fine if we’re dealing with someone who needs help getting over a nasty breakup, but this is an entirely different order of being.”

  “Oh, of course, Julian,” Ezri said icily. “He’s just like you.”

  Bashir was staring at her openmouthed, stung by the retort, when Locken returned from the kitchen carrying a bowl of fruit. “Something wrong?” he asked. “I don’t want to interrupt…”

  “No,” Bashir said, “nothing serious. A difference of opinion.”

  “Well, that happens,” Locken said, picking up a pear-shaped fruit with a mottled purple skin. “Even with people who have a lot in common.” He smiled at Bashir, then began to tear at the fruit’s rind with his thumbs. “Try some of this,” he said. “It’s wonderful. I found a grove of them out behind the compound.”

  Bashir accepted the section of fruit, trying to imagine the neo-Khan picking fruit after disposing of the Section 31 agents. Locken was right. The fruit was delicious: lively and tart. Ezri refused any, claiming she had lost her appetite. When they were finished, Locken wiped his hands on a napkin and said, “I guess it’s time for the tour now. What’s the fun of having a secret base if you can’t show it off?”

  Locken looked at them both, obviously waiting for a smile. “You Starfleet types don’t have much of a sense of humor, do you?”

  Against his will, Bashir felt the corner of his mouth curl up. Ezri was right: charm and mystery were a potent combination.

  Locken took a delightful pride in his complex, and, Bashir thought, justifiably so, it being both elegantly refurbished and well maintained. As they walked, Locken pointed out areas of special interest or pieces of art he had created. As they talked, Bashir and Locken played at a subtle cat-and-mouse game, each of them attempting to draw information out of the other without revealing too much about himself. Ezri walked half a step behind the two men.