Twist of Faith

by S. D. Perry

  One way or another, she had to make a choice soon: charge or fall back.

  The Ingavi could still melt back into the forest, though she knew it would spell their doom. If Locken and his Jem’Hadar won today, even if they never took control of the Alpha Quadrant, they would control Sindorin long enough to wipe out the Ingavi. She turned and looked at Kel, who was huddled down by her side, working hard to be as small a target as possible.

  “What do you think?” she shouted. To their left, an Ingavi broke and ran for the edge of the forest, but was cut down before he had gone ten meters.

  “I think,” Kel said, grimacing, “that we may die soon, whether we flee or fight.”

  “I’m afraid I agree.”

  “So,” he said, gripping the stock of his phaser more tightly, “we might as well die fighting.”

  Ro nodded in agreement and checked the charge on her phaser.

  “You do not understand me, Ro Laren,” Kel said. “I am saying that the Ingavi should stay and fight, not you. We are not your people, and this fight is not yours. If we are distracting the soldiers, you might stand a chance to escape in your ship and warn your brothers and sisters, might you not?”

  Ro was surprised by the idea. She had been preparing to die. She thought about the recording she’d made and realized that she had been hopelessly optimistic when she thought someone might find it before Locken had been defeated. This was his home base; no one would be able to make it down to the surface. It might be important that she make it back to the Federation with the information she had gathered…which was exactly what? That Locken was a genuine threat? And what would make that more obvious than not returning?

  But this was all just rationalization. Ro Laren was too brutally honest with herself to continue in this vein. She wanted to stay because she felt she owed these people a debt. Someone had to try to make things right. She held out her empty hand and after looking at it curiously for several seconds, Kel took it and they pressed their palms together. “In my culture,” she explained, “this means we have made a pact.”

  “In mine,” Kel said, “it means you have agreed to watch over my children while I go look for something to eat.”

  Ro considered it and finally said, “All right. Good enough. Now, go over there and find out how many of your cousins will attack the gate with us.”

  Kel nodded and crept away. Seconds later, a bolt creased the turf where he had been sitting.

  They must be using tricorders now, Ro thought. We don’t have much time….

  Chapter Eighteen

  Locken ran.

  He was fast, much faster than Bashir could have expected, faster even than he himself was, and it made him wonder if Locken had made some additional enhancements to himself. Nerve and motor-system tweaking, though illegal on Federation worlds, were far from unknown.

  Bashir watched as Taran’atar raised his disruptor and coolly tracked Locken as he sped across the room, but before the Jem’Hadar could fire, Bashir barked, “No! Don’t!” Taran’atar jerked his arm up and the energy bolt sizzled across the lab to shatter one of the large picture windows overlooking the lawn. The Khan never looked back, but bolted through the door, disappearing from sight.

  “Why did you tell me to do that?” the Jem’Hadar asked.

  “Because I want him alive.”

  Taran’atar moved to the doorway, then glanced outside to make sure Locken wasn’t waiting in ambush. “But he’s insane,” Taran’atar remarked.

  “Yes,” Bashir agreed, following Taran’atar down the hall. “But it may be treatable. He was…I think he might once have been a great healer. I owe it to him to try…” Immediately in front of them, two small panels opened in the ceiling and a pair of lightly armored fighting drones dropped down.

  Taran’atar calmly sighted first one, then the other, and blasted them out of the air before either had a chance to lock on to their targets. Then, before they moved again, he checked the rest of the corridor’s ceiling and walls for traps. “This will slow us down,” he said. “We’ll have to check every corridor before we can move. We could go faster if I knew his likely goal.”

  Bashir pondered, then answered, “The barracks. No, wait. The lab. He said Ezri poisoned the white.”

  “Someone assuredly did.” The thought seemed to remind Taran’atar of something. He tore at the tube of white on his neck and tossed it on the floor. Bashir saw that it was a fake, rigged to loop the flow so that it only appeared to be working. “The other Jem’Hadar have become slow, semiconscious.”

  “That makes sense. I suspect she probably concocted a powerful sedative and added it to the reservoir. That means Locken will head to the distillery and barricade himself inside with as many soldiers as he can, then see if he can cure them.”

  Taran’atar nodded. “Then we must hurry.”

  “I agree. It won’t take him long to figure out what Ezri did to the white. It can’t have been too complicated….”

  “No, you misunderstand,” Taran’atar said, moving quickly, but alert for traps. He was favoring one side, Bashir noticed. “If you want him alive, we must find him before any other Jem’Hadar do, especially the First.”

  Bashir retraced the route to the reinforced double doors. “We have to find another way in,” he said. “Perhaps the ventilation ducts…” Before he could finish, Taran’atar had entered a passcode into the security system.

  “Inside information” was all he would say.

  As they turned the next corner, another pair of security drones dropped from a shadowy corner. One succeeded in firing before Taran’atar could destroy it and the wall above his head exploded into shards of molten metal. He dropped to one knee, gulped air, and groaned. Bashir knelt beside the Jem’Hadar and tried to steady him with a hand to his back. When he pulled it away, he noticed it was damp with blood.

  “You’re hurt,” the doctor said.

  “It can wait,” Taran’atar hissed. He pushed himself away from the wall, wavered once from side to side, then straightened. Pointing down the hall, he asked, “That way?”

  “Yes, that way,” Bashir nodded. “One way or another, let’s end this.”

  Crouching low, Taran’atar peered around the corner that led to the lab door, disruptor at the ready. Bashir stood behind him wishing he had some kind of weapon—a club or even just a sharp stick to fend off attackers—but then he almost laughed. If whoever we’re going to fight gets past this Jem’Hadar, how long could I possibly last? Better to go forward unarmed, he decided. It will help me resist the temptation to do something stupid.

  Then Bashir was distracted by an unexpected sound: Taran’atar grunting in a tone that sounded like satisfaction.

  “What is it?” Bashir whispered.

  Taran’atar straightened, groaned slightly, then cupped his hand over the side where Bashir had seen the blood stain. Broken ribs, Bashir decided. Possibly a collapsed lung. “Come and see,” Taran’atar said, beckoning to Bashir.

  In huge letters, someone had painted the word “False” across the lab door. “The situation is worse than I thought,” Taran’atar commented.

  Bashir examined the “paint” more carefully. “Is this blood?” he asked.

  Taran’atar leaned forward and his nostrils flared. “Yes,” he said. “Locken’s Jem’Hadar are coming out of their stupors. They’re beginning to mutilate themselves. Soon, they’ll begin to fight. I’ve seen this before….”

  “Then we have to hurry,” Bashir said, stepping forward and tapping the entrance controls. Just as the doors parted, Taran’atar leaped forward and shoved the doctor to the ground. Multiple disruptor shots erupted from inside the lab. Taran’atar kept Bashir covered with his body until the first volley was over, then dragged him out of the line of fire. His ears ringing, Bashir realized how stupid he had been. There might be as many as two hundred enraged Jem’Hadar ranging throughout the complex. Bumbling into a room was an invitation to be shot.

  One of the disruptor bolts must have destr
oyed the door mechanism, because it remained ajar. Bashir could hear cries from within, a chorus of Jem’Hadar soldiers bellowing, “False! Faaallllssssse!”

  But as pathetic as were these groans of the lost and fallen, more pitiful still was the single voice raised against them. Locken was trying to sound commanding, but there was, to Bashir’s ears, more than a little desperation in his every word. Determined to know what was happening despite the danger, Bashir dropped onto all fours and carefully peered around the corner.

  He could see Locken’s head above the throng of Jem’Hadar, so he must have been balanced on the narrow platform the cloning tubes were resting on. Bashir couldn’t get an exact count from his vantage point, but he thought there must have been almost two dozen Jem’Hadar in the room, most of them milling about randomly, not looking where they were walking. Bashir could see their eyes and they were dull, heavily lidded, dead, but still there was a palpable feeling of dreadful expectation. The room was literally a powder keg and it would only be a matter of time until something touched a light to the fuse.

  Perhaps Locken would even do it himself.

  Only one of the Jem’Hadar did not move. He stood stock-still before Locken, studying his face and demeanor. Bashir guessed from the bit of collar brass he could see that this must be a First, perhaps even the same one who had freed Taran’atar. As if to confirm the doctor’s suspicions, the Jem’Hadar held up his hand and made a complex gesture. The others froze in place.

  “Yes,” the First said softly, as if he were piecing together the syllogism as he spoke each word. “Perhaps you are our god. But if you are, then you must be a weak god, because you have had to use the white to keep us faithful.” He paused and seemed to collect his thoughts. “And if you are weak and we are your creatures, then we are weak, too.” A throaty growl rumbled through the room. The First raised his hand again and the growl died away. “But we will not be weak now,” he continued. “We are Jem’Hadar. True Jem’Hadar!” And a shout went up, a roar from every throat.

  Bashir looked at Locken and saw in his face the first pencil-line crack in the façade. The corner of his eye twitched and there came from his throat a sound somewhere between a whine of terror and a cry of defiance.

  “We are strong,” the First concluded. “So you cannot be our god. You…are…false!”

  With this, Locken reached into his pocket and drew a hand phaser. He moved deliberately, without haste, and pointed it at the First’s head. It was, Bashir realized, either because he did not expect anyone to defy him or because he no longer cared. As he lifted his arm, Locken said simply, “I am your Khan,” as if it would explain everything.

  Two dozen disruptors came up. There was a massive thrum as they fired in concert. The Jem’Hadar, for reasons known only to them, continued to fire long after Locken had been reduced to atoms. The incubation tubes ruptured and the gestational fluids boiled away in the intense heat.

  When he opened his eyes, Bashir realized that Taran’atar must have pulled him away from the door. There before him were two pairs of booted feet. One pair belonged to Taran’atar. The other belonged to the First.

  “He’s dead?” Taran’atar asked.

  “Yes,” the First replied.

  “Good,” Taran’atar said.

  Angry, Bashir surged to his feet. He knew he would probably regret saying what he was preparing to say, but he could not countenance their callous attitude. A man had just died, after all. He might have been insane, but he had also been brilliant and, if not a god, then certainly a creator. Bashir was prepared to say all these things and more. He wanted the Jem’Hadar to feel as humbled and ashamed as he himself felt for his part in the tragedy—because surely there was some element of tragedy in this situation—but then he saw their eyes.

  Bashir had studied Jem’Hadar anatomy closely enough to know that their faces didn’t have the flexibility of some of the thinner-skinned humanoid species, so it was frequently difficult to “read” their expressions. But in the First’s eyes he saw the truth. He saw a grim acknowledgment that the universe was without foundation. After all, if God could be killed, what other horrors might be possible?

  Bashir clamped his jaw shut and looked back into the room….

  The Jem’Hadar who had been in the lab—the same soldiers who had been gripped by a killing frenzy only seconds before—were once again become passive, like sleepwalkers. The First and Taran’atar stared at the group, then looked at each other only long enough to nod, a suspicion confirmed. Bashir was about to ask him what this meant when he heard a loud crash behind him.

  Bashir spun around, but, surprisingly, neither of the Jem’Hadar reacted. A grate fell out of the ceiling, and, seconds later, two legs dangled in the gap. Ezri Dax dropped to the ground, absorbed the impact with a roll, then came up on her feet. Her hands, face, and uniform were filthy, covered with the dust, dirt, and mold that accumulate in ventilation shafts and out-of-the-way corners, but, at that moment, she was the most welcome sight Bashir could have imagined.

  Bashir helped Ezri to her feet and saw that though her face was almost gray with soot, her eyes shone bright with pleasure. Bashir embraced her so fiercely that she yelped. “Sorry,” he muttered into her hair, then wrapped his arms around her more tenderly. Even as he enjoyed the feel of her warm body molding into his, Bashir was stabbed by a pang of guilt: why hadn’t he been more concerned about her over the past several hours? For all he had known, she might have been lying in a dungeon or trapped in a narrow ventilation shaft or even dead, shot by a Jem’Hadar soldier who was standing at the wrong place at the wrong time. He released her, held her at arm’s length, and began to ask, “Are you—?”

  “I’m fine, Julian,” she said, smiling. “Fine. Don’t worry. How are you? And what was all that weapons fire? It sounded like it was right here.”

  “In the lab,” Bashir said, glancing behind him at the still open door. “Things haven’t gone exactly like…” He stopped. “I’m afraid…” He became frustrated with his inability to form a coherent thought. Shock, he thought. I’m in shock, and realized that the only thing he really wanted to do was wrap his arms around Ezri and sleep for three or four days. She seemed to read the thought on his face; without speaking, she pulled his head down onto her shoulder and rubbed the back of his neck. Bashir closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. She smelled of sweat and grease and mold, but yet, underneath all that, he still could find the essence of Ezri. He let it sweep through his senses and, briefly, Julian Bashir was comforted.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Truly sorry…for you. But not for him, Julian. Not for him.”

  He pulled away from Ezri and saw that she was weeping, but not, he thought, from sorrow, but anger.

  “If you had seen…” she whispered, her voice cracking. “If you had seen some of the things he did…”

  Bashir pulled the cuff of his sleeve up over the heel of his hand and wiped away her tears, taking several layers of dirt with it. “It’s all right,” he said softly. “I understand. It’s all right. I don’t think…I don’t think anyone could have helped him. Not even me.”

  “Hey,” a voice said from the other end of the hall. “Break it up, you two. I’m getting embarrassed just watching you.”

  Ezri spun around and Bashir looked up. It was Ro looking, if possible, even more weary and begrimed than Ezri, but smiling, obviously relieved to find her companions alive and well.

  “Ro!” Ezri cried, and threw her arms around the Bajoran’s neck, almost dragging her to the ground. This turned out to be a mistake. Suddenly, half a dozen small green-furred humanoids appeared from out of the shadows behind Ro, each of them hefting an energy rifle of some kind. Behind him, Bashir heard Taran’atar and the First stir. From all around him there came the unmistakable sound of weapon chambers beginning to charge.

  “Ro,” Bashir said evenly. “Please tell me these are friends of yours.”

  “Doctor,” Ro said, then swallowed dryly, “these are my friends, the Inga
vi.” She turned around and waved her hands down, speaking softly and quickly in clicks and long, guttural fricatives. Without his combadge, Bashir couldn’t make out what she was saying, but the response was reassuring. The Ingavi lowered their weapons and shuffled back into the shadows. Ro flicked a look over her shoulder at Ezri. “Don’t do that again,” she said.

  “Right,” Ezri said. “Noted.”

  Obviously deciding it would only be appropriate to respond in kind, Taran’atar pointed at the lab door and he and the First slipped inside. It was still ominously quiet within, but Bashir sensed that the two Jem’Hadar knew this would not last much longer.

  When Ro returned, she was escorted by one of the aliens who moved, Bashir thought, with a jaunty nonchalance. “This is Kel,” Ro said. “He’s the leader of these Ingavi. Most of the others are outside watching the perimeter.”

  “And the Ingavi are…natives of this world?” Bashir asked.

  “It’s a long story, Doctor. I’ll try to explain later. But they deserve our help if only because of what they’ve done for me today.”

  “All right,” Bashir said, and that seemed to settle things. The little Ingavi hunkered down on his heels, phaser rifle on his lap, eyes locked on the open lab door.

  “So, what’s been happening?” Ro asked.

  Ezri launched into her tale. “After I broke out of our cell, I wasn’t sure at first what I could do. I found the air duct and started nosing around. Eventually I found the white distillery and got inspired to do a little creative chemistry. After that, I spent most of my time avoiding Jem’Hadar patrols. It wasn’t much fun the first few hours, but then the tainted white began to affect them and it got easier. Sometime after that, the shooting started.” Turning to Bashir, she said, “I figured you would be here—one way or another.”