by S. D. Perry
“Maybe he was being run by a handler. You saw the communications device he had. Maybe the one in the ship was telling him what to do.”
“But look at his neck. He takes no white. How is that possible?”
“Keep your place,” the third warned.
Taran’atar lifted his head and opened his eyes. He saw three Jem’Hadar, all wearing the red-and-silver uniforms of the Khan.
The third—no, the First—looked down at him curiously. “Awake again? Good. I was beginning to think we’d damaged you too much.”
Again? This was strange. Taran’atar didn’t recall being conscious since the battle in the glade, but a quick glance around the interrogation room made it obvious that he had been there for some time. There were implements strewn around, most of which had clearly been used. He recognized a few of them, had even seen one or two used in his time, though information extraction was a specialized field, one Taran’atar had never developed a taste for. There were some who seemed to derive satisfaction from it and he wondered if he had fallen into the hands of one of those.
“Not so damaged,” Taran’atar rasped through cracked lips.
The First touched something to his side and Taran’atar felt his hearts spasm. He couldn’t breathe for five, ten, twenty seconds and the blackness began to close in around him. When he regained consciousness, the First was standing very near to him wearing an expression of genuine concern. Taran’atar attempted to summon the strength to lift his head, but he couldn’t control his neck muscles.
“Still there?” the First asked. “Impressive. I doubt any of my own men could take so much.”
His breath coming out in ragged gasps, Taran’atar forced himself to look his torturer in the eyes. “You…are…fools,” he muttered. “And your Khan…”
The two soldiers who had been standing behind the First drew their weapons and stepped toward Taran’atar, but the First held up his arm and signaled them to step back. The soldiers, he noticed, were glaring at him, but the First’s expression was something closer to curiosity. “Go,” he told his men. “Attempt to contact the Khan again and inform him that we have taken this prisoner.”
The soldiers were confused. “We’ve already tried to report to the Khan,” one said. “We were told he was not receiving messengers tonight.”
The First’s eyes grew cold. “You are young, so I will excuse you this time—the only time. Do as I say. If the Khan will not receive you, leave word with the chief of guards, then return to barracks.”
The two soldiers glanced at each other, but neither was prepared—or equipped—to argue. With one last curious look at Taran’atar, they turned and left.
He struggled to remain alert, but Taran’atar could feel his eyes fluttering, his vision dimming. Looking up, he saw the First leaning in close. “Do not take false hope,” the First said. “You will die, but there are good deaths and bad deaths.”
“I know that,” Taran’atar managed, and would have liked to add, better than you could ever know. Instead, he asked, “What do you want?”
“What are you?”
“Exactly what I seem,” Taran’atar managed. “A Jem’Hadar.”
“You lie.”
“You deny the evidence of your eyes? Scan me, if you have the technology. You will see I am exactly what I say. A Jem’Hadar of twenty-two years.”
“I already have. The readings are not possible.”
“So you deny your eyes and your instruments,” Taran’atar said.
The First grabbed at the knot of black hair behind Taran’atar’s head and forced him to look up. “Do you know who I am? I am First. First among my men, and the First born of the Khan. Whatever you may be, you were not created by him.”
“Very astute,” Taran’atar said, intrigued despite his agony. “Then how do you explain me? Either I am lying, as you say…or I am telling you the truth, in which case there must be other Jem’Hadar not of your Khan.”
Taran’atar saw that he’d scored a hit. Suddenly the First leaned in closer. “Earlier, you spoke of the Founders. Do you remember?”
Surprise kept Taran’atar focused. Here was a Jem’Hadar asking him for information about the Founders. “I don’t remember speaking of the Founders, but if you say I did, then I believe you.”
“Who are they?” the First asked.
“The Founders are the givers of life and of purpose. They are the true creators of the Jem’Hadar. Your Khan…is not what you think he is. He has only corrupted the Founders’ work.”
The First seemed to consider this statement with some care for several seconds. “You seem very certain of this,” he said. “How can you be sure what you have been told is true? Is it not possible that these Founders have lied to you? Perhaps they fear the Khan…which is as it should be.”
“Then explain my age. I am not the first of my kind. The Founders have been creating Jem’Hadar for centuries. How many changes of season have you seen on this world? Do you truly believe that a life serving this human is all there is?”
The First shook his head. “You are misinformed. The Khan is not human. He is something else, the next step beyond humans. He was born to rule the other humans.”
“So he says,” Taran’atar agreed. “The human I came here with is the equal of your Khan in every way, perhaps even better, but he is not a ruler. He is a medic.”
“Then obviously he is not the equal of the Khan,” the First said. “Perhaps he is the fool.”
“No,” Taran’atar said. “He is no fool. I believe he could rule the humans if he wished to—some of them at any rate—but he chooses not to. He is a soldier of a sort, but he fights a different war….” He barely understood his own words, but couldn’t deny the truth he felt lay at the center of them.
The First stared at him as if he were mad or rambling from withdrawal, but then returned to his own topic as if impatient to be done. “But what are the Founders? Giants? Columns of shimmering light?”
“All of these things,” Taran’atar replied, grateful to be able to return to the known. Here, at last, was a question he could answer without hesitation. “And more. They can be anything they wish. They are not trapped by flesh.”
The First seemed interested. “Are they immortal?”
Taran’atar had to hesitate. He knew that the Founders could die, had even heard that Odo himself had once killed one of his own kind. He knew too that the Founders were ravaged by a plague not so long ago. And still, some Jem’Hadar had speculated that there were not truly any Founders at all, merely a single great being that could subdivide itself whenever and however it pleased, each of the parts having the knowledge of the whole. Did that mean if one Founder killed another, then he was killing a part of himself? The more he thought, the more he felt trapped by the First’s questions, as much as he’d tried to trap the First in his own. “No,” he conceded. “The Founders are not immortal.”
The First listened without comment, waiting to see if Taran’atar had anything to add, then said flatly, “The Khan is immortal.”
“What proof of that do you have?”
“One does not ask a god for proof.”
“Even if you have doubts?”
“I have no doubts,” the First said. “It sounds rather as if you might have reason to doubt, but I do not. You say these Founders are gods, but they do not sound very godlike to me. They sound like mortals who have somehow tricked you into believing they created our kind.”
The First turned to go, leaving his captive alone with his pain, but offered Taran’atar a final thought. “Whatever you are, whatever you may believe about your origins…it seems your gods have forsaken you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Returning to Locken’s quarters that evening, Bashir discovered within himself a peculiar prejudice: he found that he could not believe that anyone who could cook well was entirely, irredeemably evil. Locken’s potato-leek soup was astonishingly piquant and he whipped together a lighter-than-air cheese soufflé with as lit
tle effort as it would cost Bashir to make toast. Bashir worked hard to beat back the envy he was feeling; he had never had the time to develop much in the way of culinary abilities. And the kitchen—it had seemed so small, but it was unbelievably well equipped.
“Where did you get all these utensils?” Bashir asked, looking at a rack of exotic kitchen tools. “The Dominion couldn’t have left them all behind. Jem’Hadar don’t need to eat and Vorta can barely taste.”
“They’re mine,” Locken said, cheerily chopping potatoes. “I brought everything I could salvage from my home when I came here with Section 31. We were going to be here for a while and everyone is always happy to find a cook in their midst. The plan was that I would cook for everyone…which I did. It’s how I managed to take them prisoner. A little extra dash of something in the morning omelets.”
“So they’re all still here?” Bashir asked, slightly surprised. He had imagined all the Section 31 agents were dead.
“In stasis,” Locken said, scraping up potato chunks with his knife and dropping them into a pot of boiling water. “Less trouble that way.”
“But long-term stasis can be…”
“…Very detrimental. Yes, I know. Don’t worry. I’ve worked out some of the kinks in that. They should be fine for a while longer.”
Bashir sat at the kitchen table, watching the chef work. There were four chairs at the table, but only one placemat when they came in. Locken had taken an absurd amount of pleasure in pulling out another place setting and putting it down before Bashir. The food preparation had been almost like performance art and Locken’s ongoing banter had been upbeat and witty. It was all so civilized, sad, and desperate that Bashir felt like he was going to scream.
“I’m impressed,” Bashir said. “Not only have you worked out the cloning process, but you’ve had time to do other work, too.”
“Oh, I did the work on stasis a long time ago,” Locken replied. “I just couldn’t publish it because…well, you know.”
“Professional jealousy. Didn’t want to draw too much attention to yourself. Yes,” Bashir said, drawing a breath and releasing a genuine sigh. “I understand.”
“Of course, all that will be different now. Think of it, Julian. Someday, years from now, maybe decades from now, we’ll look back on this night and remember it as the beginning of a Golden Age.”
“We could make sure it’s made into a holiday.”
Locken laughed. “You’re joking. I know you’re joking, but maybe someday you’ll say that and you’ll be serious. Or maybe that’s the sort of thing we should leave to others…”
“Maybe we should,” Bashir said. “It would be presumptuous to begin declaring galactic holidays. There are a few obstacles between…us and our goals.”
“A few,” Locken agreed, rinsing his hands at the tap. “Would it make you feel better if we discussed some?”
“It might,” Bashir agreed, then paused as if pondering. “For example—and I’m sure you’ve already thought about this—there’s the problem of sheer numbers. Even the Dominion, with their dozens of hatcheries, weren’t able to defeat the Federation. Now, granted, they’re weakened and we’ll be able to outthink them on most fronts, but you’re only turning out a handful of Jem’Hadar a week…”
“Which will soon change,” Locken agreed, “especially now that we’re working together, but you’re right. This is a key factor—but one I’ve been preparing for.” He checked the timer on the oven, then covered the soup pot and lowered the heat. “We have enough time for this,” he said, beckoning Bashir to the door. “Come with me.”
In the main room, Locken pulled out his control unit and used it to activate the computer console and a large holographic display tank. He clicked through several layers of security, entering passwords too quickly for Bashir to follow. Finally, colors swirled inside the holotank and an image formed: a protein model, accompanied by streams of data. “You recognize this,” Locken said.
Bashir studied the model and the data for several seconds, then realized what he was looking at and a cold shudder went down his back. “A prion,” he said. “But not like any I’ve ever seen.”
Locken grinned with satisfaction. “It gave me trouble. I admit it. But I’m a pretty good cook. I’d never done work like this before, but once you get the knack, it’s a great deal like making a good soufflé: mostly just following the recipe, but there’s artistry and luck involved, too.”
“You made this?” Bashir asked, genuinely awed despite himself. “It’s astonishing.” He wanted to add, “…and insane,” but he dared not. He had to find out what the—and there was no other expression for what Locken was—mad genius had in mind. “If I understand correctly what you’ve done…”
“And you do, of course.”
“…then this could infect almost every form of humanoid life in the quadrant.”
“As long as it has a central nervous system,” Locken explained. “There are one or two intelligent species it might not affect, but they’re inconsequential in the long run.”
Bashir continued to stare at the rotating image, at once impressed and appalled. This chain of proteins, he realized, could transform the brain of almost any creature in the quadrant into a mushy pastelike consistency. “How is it transmitted?”
“Airborne, waterborne, through sexual contact,” Locken said smugly. “It’s versatile.”
“But your Jem’Hadar are immune?” Bashir guessed. “And you, too, I assume?”
“Of course. And since your arrival I’ve taken care to make sure you are, too. I haven’t tested it extensively, but I didn’t think I would have to. It’s the beauty of simple things; they’re foolproof. But, just in case,” Locken smiled, “I have a planet picked out already—the Romulan protectorate in the Orias system.” He touched a control on his handset and another section of wall slid open to reveal yet another computer console. A large monitor lit up, presenting a medium-range shot of a missile-launching platform with a single completed gantry and two others under construction. Several Jem’Hadar soldiers stood around the gantries, weapons drawn and alert, while in the background a trio dressed in protective armor were busy fueling a medium-size missile. “I had to cobble the missile together out of components my Jem’Hadar salvaged from the ships and outposts we raided,” Locken explained.
“Outposts?” Bashir asked.
“Nothing very large,” Locken said. “I suspect they were secret bases set up by the Romulan Empire in case the Federation began to flex its muscles. Probably the Empire hasn’t said anything to the Federation about the attacks, though I’m sure it has left them feeling very suspicious.”
“And you plan to fire one of their own missiles at the Romulans?”
“Modified missiles,” Locken agreed. “Yes. There will be some parts on the missile that they may find afterward that will make them suspect the Federation.”
“But there won’t be enough evidence to make them act immediately.”
Locken smiled. “Julian, I can see you have a gift for this sort of thing. No, not immediately, but the Romulans will begin to arm themselves. They’ll begin to prepare. And then, assuming my prion weapon is as effective as I know it will be, shortly after the first launch, we’ll begin a full-scale assault. We’ll have at least six gantries completed by then and I have plans to outfit my ships with similar devices. I suspect I’ll be able to drive the Romulans from the entire sector within a week.”
“Drive?” Bashir asked skeptically.
Locken smiled, then almost giggled. “Excuse the euphemism. All right. They’ll be dead. Most of them, in any case. A few will escape, but not for long. I engineered the prion to lie dormant for a short time in certain genotypes—just long enough for survivors to get home and spread it around a bit. It won’t really matter, though, because by then the war will have begun.”
“A conflict between the Romulans and the Federation,” Bashir concluded. “And soon after, the Klingons will be drawn into it. Then, possibly the Breen,
at which point the entire Alpha Quadrant will become engulfed. And when they’re finished savaging each other, the genetically enhanced humans will step in, the New Federation will rise out of the ashes of the old, and the quadrant will be united at last.”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Locken said, beaming.
Bashir thought about trying to smile, but he was afraid the best he would be able to do was a grimace, so he gave up the attempt. “And the timetable for all this is…?”
Locken brightened even more, if that were possible. “Didn’t I say? Tomorrow we launch the first missile. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I think the soup is overboiling.” Locken slipped the control unit back onto his belt and ran for the kitchen. Bashir stayed behind for several seconds and studied the console, but then hurried after. After all, it wouldn’t do to look too interested.
Ezri knew that on some level she should be insulted that the Jem’Hadar guard wasn’t standing right outside the cell door anymore—obviously, she presented no real threat—but she was too busy working with the combadge module to let it bother her. Much. She had been fairly certain what she had to do, but not exactly sure how to do it. In the end, she had consulted Jadzia’s memories and learned that her predecessor not only knew the techniques, but had what amounted to a fascination for this kind of technological trickery. Ezri wondered if Julian knew this and had counted on it.
The metal shard wasn’t the ideal choice for altering the combadge’s circuitry, but she kept at it and eventually found the settings she needed. And then, there was the other problem, the question of what to do once she managed to get her cell open. Only one idea suggested itself—not a great one, but the best she could come up with under the circumstances.
She jiggled the circuit’s broadcast cluster with the shard until she found the correct frequency. The cell’s forcefield flickered, then stabilized. Ezri swore and tickled the frequency key again. The forcefield emitters surged; then the door flared and collapsed.
