Twist of Faith

by S. D. Perry

  Ro peered closer and saw it again—a faint glimmer. Reaching out, she touched a tree trunk, brushing away a piece of loose soil or moss, and found what she had seen from the corner of her eye: the flat head of a nail. Now that she knew what she was looking at, she saw another, perhaps a meter to the left of the first. A small, pale stick was wedged between the nail’s head and the tree trunk. She reached up, touched it with the tip of her finger, then pulled back, shaken.

  It wasn’t a stick.

  Ro knelt down and turned on her palm beacon. Here were more, many more, a jumble of tiny bones. They were too small to have been an adult’s. Ro felt the bile at the back of her throat, but she willed it back down. She would not further dishonor this place.

  She stood, a little light-headed, and walked around the tree, studying it carefully. Yes, there were more nails, most in sets of two, some high, some low. Here and there bits of bone and fur clung, and Ro tried not to think about the bit of moss she had brushed away earlier.

  Moving faster, willing herself to be calm, she walked from tree to tree and studied each, wanting to check them all, but desperately wanting each one to be the last. There were more nails, many more. Most of the bones were small, but not all. It quickly became obvious that not all the victims had been brought here at the same time. The atrocities that had been committed in the grove had happened over the course of many weeks, possibly even months. The insects, the molds, and the elements had done their work; they had reclaimed the raw materials for another cycle of life, but not all the evidence had been erased yet.

  It didn’t occur to her until she reached the spot where they had come into the grove that she hadn’t seen or heard Taran’atar since they’d entered the grove.

  “Taran’atar?” she whispered.

  He shimmered into view halfway down the trail. “Are you finished?” he asked.

  “Finished?” she asked irritably. “Yes. I’ve seen what he wanted us to see. What about you?”

  “What about me?” he asked as she fell into step behind him.

  “Did you see?”

  “I did not have to see anything,” Taran’atar said. “I could smell it.”

  “What? Smell what?”

  “Fear,” Taran’atar said. “Uncomprehending dread. An echo of horror. The trees are saturated with it.”

  “They were children,” Ro said. “Most of them. Why would they do that to children?”

  “‘They’?” Taran’atar repeated.

  “The Jem’Hadar.”

  “Jem’Hadar did not do this,” Taran’atar said. “Or if they did, they were very poorly trained Jem’Hadar. It was not…orderly.”

  “Then who?” Ro asked. “The Section 31 agents? If so, why? What would it prove?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, Ro?” Kel called from a branch overhead. They had reached the spot where they had turned off the main trail. “It was him, the one you are here to find: Locken. The Khan.”

  “Locken?” Ro asked incredulously. This did not fit the mental picture she had formed of the man. He was ruthless, but she hadn’t imagined him capable of such casual brutality. “But why? It makes no sense. He was…he was a pediatrician. He treated children, all kinds, from every species in the Federation…I don’t understand.”

  “What don’t you understand?” Kel asked. “Why he would order his Jem’Hadar to kill the adults, the parents, but would tell them to save the children and bring them here? Why he would press their limbs against the trees and then…” But it was more than he could stand. Kel cupped his hands over his eyes and lowered his head. Above them, invisible, dozens of voices hooted and cursed. “And then,” Kel finished, “he would sit on the ground and watch them. For hours sometime. However long it would take and sometimes it would take so very, very long. We tried to save them, every one of them, but the Jem’Hadar…” Here his voice cracked and he stared at Taran’atar. “They ringed the place around, faces pointed outward, not hearing the cries of parents or children.”

  Kel fell silent and Ro waited for him to speak again, but it was clear he had no words for what he was feeling, not even an inarticulate cry of rage.

  “But why?” Ro asked again.

  “Why?” Taran’atar asked. “Isn’t it obvious? Because he could. Because he knew that whatever he once had been, he was no longer. Because there was no one who could tell him he could not. Because it is what unchecked power will always do.”

  There was something about the way Taran’atar said these words—so knowing, so serene—that rankled Ro. “You would know, wouldn’t you?” she asked. “Isn’t that what the Dominion is all about? Don’t the Founders do pretty much whatever they want? Isn’t that what they wanted to do to the Alpha Quadrant? Nail us all up to a tree?”

  Taran’atar stared at her impassively, then slowly shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he said. “You obviously know nothing of the Founders. They…” But he checked himself. “This is not the place or the time. We have much to do still, if we can do anything at all.” He looked up at Kel. “We have seen what you wanted us to see. Now, lead on.”

  Kel nodded and leaped up onto a higher branch, then swung forward, moving gracefully, almost carelessly. It was a breathtaking display of athleticism and Ro could not help but admire it for its simple beauty. When she looked around, she found that Taran’atar was also gone, having either shrouded or slipped away into the jungle unnoticed. For all Ro could tell, she was alone in the forest, the only humanoid creature for hectares around. The wind shifted and something fell rattling through the branches to the ground. Readjusting the straps of her pack and setting off down the trail, Ro tried not to think of bones.

  “Commander, a call for you. Colonel Kira.”

  Vaughn, sitting in the center seat and studying a padd with the specs for the command/control module, looked over at Bowers and said, “Put it through, Lieutenant.”

  “You’ll have to use the controls next to your chair, Commander. I can still only transmit text from this console.”

  Vaughn looked at the panels and cursed under his breath. Whoever it was who designed these things never seemed to be content to follow the layout of the previous generation.

  “Comm channel three-eight-five, sir.”

  Vaughn found the contact, pressed it, and said, “Vaughn here.” No response. “Nothing’s happening,” he told Bowers.

  “You have to hold it down until the connection is made, sir.”

  Vaughn pressed hard on the contact with three fingers. “We’re going to do something about this later,” he said ominously to the entire bridge, but before anyone could respond the main viewscreen lit up.

  “Do something about what?” Kira asked.

  “About the whole ship, Colonel,” Vaughn replied. “I’m beginning to think it doesn’t care much for me.”

  Plainly amused, Kira shrugged. “Sorry to hear that. I hope you both can work it out. I’d hate to have to choose between the two of you.”

  “Ouch,” Vaughn said. “Noted.”

  “I imagine the Defiant isn’t much like the last few ships you served on, is she?”

  “Not very,” Vaughn said, smiling. “She reminds me of the ships of my younger days—all engine and weapons, halls too narrow to walk two abreast, and junior officers sleeping two or three to a room.” He inhaled deeply, smelled burning insulation and lubricant, grateful that the Defiant’s bridge did not remind him of a hotel lobby.

  “Those were the days, eh, Commander?” Kira said. “So how’s it coming? Admiral Ross is expecting a progress report.”

  Vaughn found the proper contact on his left armrest, calling up a status screen and dropping the data as an inset in one corner of the viewscreen, which would be duplicated on the colonel’s own monitor. “Fairly well,” he said. “All things considered. What I should have said earlier was that the Defiant seems to occasionally resist refitting. She warmed right up to the new biochem lab, but she’s being positively cranky about the new stellar cartography equipment. Shar thin
ks he has the problem sorted out, although we blew a main when we tried to reroute power for the new navigational controls earlier today. How’s that coming, Tenmei?”

  Prynn Tenmei, the conn officer, checked her status board and replied, “Repair team estimates three hours fifty minutes, sir.”

  “It’ll be fixed by the end of the day, Colonel. And we’ve swapped out one of the old short-range probe launchers for a long-range tube. That seems to have gone all right. No worries on the weapons systems, of course. And where are we with the upgrades to the conn, Ensign?”

  “Module one has arrived and is being unpacked, sir,” Tenmei said. “Module two failed the primary test cycle and we’re checking it for bugs. Anticipate completion at twenty-thirty hours tomorrow.”

  “Did you catch that, Colonel?”

  “Yes, Commander. You should also know we received a revised ETA for the new warhead module. The U.S.S. Gryphon should be arriving with it in tow inside of seventy-eight hours.”

  “Thank you, Colonel, that’s excellent news.”

  Kira nodded. “Oh, and Ensign? I’ve manned that station. Be good to her.”

  Tenmei grinned at Kira. “Of course, Colonel.” She stroked the main panel of the conn and said, “Though we’re still in the ‘getting acquainted’ stage.”

  “Maybe you should give the commander a lesson when you have a minute. He seems to make a bad first impression.”

  Tenmei’s face snapped shut. “Yes, Colonel,” she said curtly, but would say no more. There was an uncomfortable pause as Kira tried to figure out what she had done wrong, but Vaughn rescued her.

  “Anything else, Colonel?” he asked.

  “No, that’s fine. Admiral Ross should be satisfied, thank you.”

  “Any word from our friends?”

  Kira shook her head. “Not since yesterday.” She didn’t need to add since they signaled they were about to enter the Badlands. Vaughn could read the concern on her face. “Are you coming back to ops?”

  “Later,” he replied. “After I finish here, I’m going to get some dinner. Are you free?”

  Kira considered, then said, “No, not tonight. I don’t think I’d be very good company. Tomorrow?”

  Vaughn nodded. “Tomorrow.” Kira signed off and Vaughn absently stared at the blank screen for several seconds.

  “Commander,” Bowers called, crawling out from under the aft tactical console. “I’ve gotten as far as I can with this until the new units arrive. If you’ve no objection, I’m going below to check the installation of the industrial replicator.”

  Vaughn rubbed his temples, then felt his stomach rumble. “No, let’s call it a day. We’re making good time. Go relax, Sam. You can check the IR system tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Bowers said, “I’ll be sure to get on it first thing.” The lieutenant packed up his tools and exited the bridge, leaving only Vaughn and Tenmei. The ensign was struggling to lift the faulty conn module out of the panel.

  “Can I help you there, Ensign?”

  “No, sir,” Tenmei said, without looking up. “Thank you, sir.”

  Vaughn stood and walked around to the front of the conn. “No, really. That looks heavy.”

  “It’s not, sir. I’m fine.” She had poked the tips of her fingers under the lip of the module and Vaughn could see that the weight had turned them deep purple.

  “Are you sure? If you need help…”

  “I’m fine, Commander,” Tenmei said icily. “Thank you.” She yanked her fingers out and the module clacked back into its grooves. “Dammit,” she whispered, sucking on her fingers.

  “Are you hurt?” Vaughn asked, holding his hand out, beckoning her to show him her fingers.

  “No,” Tenmei said. “I’m fine. I don’t need any help.” She refused to look up at him, but when he looked at her more closely, he saw there were tears in the corners of her eyes.

  “Ensign,” Vaughn said, employing his command tone. “Show me your fingers.”

  Tenmei reluctantly pulled her fingers out of her mouth and held them out for Vaughn’s inspection. They were bruised from the weight of the module and there was blood oozing out from under three of the nails.

  Vaughn scowled. “Report to the infirmary, Ensign.”

  “Yes, Commander,” Tenmei said and walked stiffly to the exit. The doors opened as she approached them, but before she stepped through, Vaughn decided to take a chance. “Prynn?”

  Tenmei stopped, but refused to turn around. “Yes, Commander?”

  “Would you care to have dinner with me?”

  Tenmei’s head snapped around, the look of cold fury on her otherwise lovely face painful to see. She held his gaze as she spoke. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “By all means,” Vaughn said quietly.

  “I accept the reality that you’re my CO on this ship, and the first officer of the station. I respect and honor your rank, and I’ll follow your orders without question. I’ll even carry on the pretense in mixed company that I can stomach being in the same room with you. But beyond that…you can go to hell. Sir.”

  Tenmei turned and stalked out, the doors snapping closed in her wake, leaving Vaughn alone on the bridge of his ship.

  “I’ll take that,” he said, “as a no.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ro had carefully crawled up the side of the fallen tree trunk and peered out into the clearing. The runabout was nestled snugly in a small grove of crushed saplings about eighty meters dead ahead. It had looked surprisingly intact, and it appeared that Taran’atar had guessed right. But it only made her wonder why Locken had made no move as yet to transport the craft to his base. Maybe those patchwork ships of his aren’t good for surface-to-air towing. Maybe he thinks he can take his time, because he doesn’t know about Taran’atar and me. Or maybe the ship is much worse off than it looks, and he’s already judged it a lost cause.

  The last thought had troubled her…until she saw the first red-uniformed Jem’Hadar, then another, and another. She counted five in all, a figure Taran’atar confirmed when he unshrouded beside her, saying that there were strong indications that a larger group of soldiers was encamped some distance off. That settles it, Ro thought. You don’t post guards around something unless it has some value. The ship is still viable. The only questions now were how soon would Locken want it recovered, and could they take out the five guards without alerting any others?

  And, of course, had Dax and Bashir really survived? Assuming they had, they’d probably been captured, taken to Locken’s stronghold about fifteen klicks to the east. If they’d escaped into the forest, the Ingavi would have known about it.

  “How do you think we should do this?” Ro asked.

  By way of response, Taran’atar holstered his phaser and readied his throwing knives.

  “You have got to be kidding,” said Ro. “We could pick them off from here before they knew what hit them.”

  “Possibly,” Taran’atar said. “But energy weapons are loud. Even if we got them all before they could return fire, which I think unlikely, the sound of our phasers alone would attract attention from the rest of their unit.”

  “Oh, and they won’t shoot at you while you’re throwing knives at them?”

  “Watch and learn,” Taran’atar said.

  “I thought that was supposed to be your job,” Ro said.

  Then Taran’atar gave her a look that she could have sworn bordered on mild amusement, and was gone.

  Ro shook her head and resumed watching the patrolling guards. She hadn’t had the opportunity to get a good look at Locken’s Jem’Hadar until now, but she was finding them to be an interesting contrast to the ones she’d fought in the war. These seemed younger somehow, as if they wanted very badly to be fierce, but weren’t entirely certain how “fierce” was supposed to look.

  While she waited for Taran’atar to make his move, she once again tried to make sense of something that had been nagging at her since they’d set out for the runabout. Ostensibl
y, Section 31 sent Bashir against Locken because they believed that while their rogue agent could withstand an all-out assault against Sindorin, they didn’t think he’d respond to Bashir as a threat.

  But according to the Ingavi, Locken had created no more than two hundred soldiers. Locken’s resources and manpower were so limited, in fact, that he was using technological scraps to build spacecraft. His orbital weapons platform notwithstanding, it wouldn’t take more than a few dozen well-targeted quantum torpedoes to reduce his ships to the wreckage they came from, and the entire southern continent to a lifeless wasteland. So why hadn’t they done it? Was it that Locken was more powerful than she knew…or was Section 31 less powerful than everyone had assumed?

  Only an hour past dawn, the sun was just now high enough in the sky to send a few stray beams slanting through the dense canopy. Ro saw that the two Ingavi that had come with her—Kel and one of his cousins—were doing their best not to be seen or heard while waiting for Taran’atar’s plan to unfold. The rest of their party, about three hundred Ingavi armed with blowguns, slings, and spears, were camped a kilometer away awaiting word, downwind from the Jem’Hadar.

  Ro wasn’t sure what she would do with three hundred Ingavi, but she was dead set against throwing their lives away in a frontal assault. Taran’atar had agreed, and her confidence in him had risen considerably. At least, until he decided to start throwing knives.

  “Do you see him?” Kel whispered.

  Ro started to shake her head when, without warning, Taran’atar was there in the guards’ midst. He’d managed to find a spot in the center of the group where no one was looking, their attention all focused on the surrounding terrain. It was a sloppy mistake, very amateurish, and Ro wondered how much training these Jem’Hadar had received. They were bred for ferocity and strength, but there were other qualities—cunning and guile—that could only be gained through experience of the sort Taran’atar had.

  Everything happened very quickly.

  He was holding throwing knives in both hands and, with a terrifying grace and economy, he flung them at the opponents to his immediate right and left. The one to the left, closer by about three meters, was struck in the back of the head just below the base of the skull and crumpled to the ground without uttering a sound. The Jem’Hadar immediately to Taran’atar’s right spun around just in time to see the second knife as it shot through his eye and pierced his brain. The soldier was dead before he hit the ground.