Deanna tensed. “I can’t.”
“Show me the move in slow motion,” he ordered.
She did as he asked, stiffening her hand and cocking her wrist at the required angle.
“That’s fine. At least you know the drill.”
She rolled off and sat on the deck, breathing heavily more from stress than from exercise. “Taking a life has never been easy for me.”
Vaughn sat up next to her. “When the time comes, you’ll react with the necessary amount of force,” he assured her.
“How can you know that?” She hated the taking of life, and she wondered if she could perform adequately and efficiently to protect herself and her crewmates in dangerous situations. “I might hesitate at a critical moment.”
“You won’t.”
“How can you say that with such assurance?” She not only heard the meaning in his words, but felt his complete faith in her.
In the space of a few short minutes, Vaughn had proved that even though he was a hardened soldier, he was also someone who didn’t use more force than required to do a job. Neither did he exhibit any joy in combat. Clearly he understood her dislike of killing. But the question, she knew, wasn’t whether or not she could trust Vaughn. It was whether she could go through with her decision to join him on the mission.
She reached out empathically, sensed in him complex emotions, feelings that he reined in tightly, and she assessed his deep weariness, at odds with his tough and energetic exterior. Unable to pinpoint whether he was tired of special operations, the war, some other aspect of his life, or a combination of the three, she came to believe he had a good heart. Sparring with him suggested he wasn’t the type to hurt anyone he didn’t feel compelled to. He valued life. He wasn’t a career soldier because he relished the thrill of battle; in fact, as far as she could tell, he truly hated it. He was doing a job he didn’t want to do, simply because he believed in the objective.
“I know you won’t fail when the time comes,” he said finally, “because you have good genes.”
Deanna frowned. “You mean from my father.”
“Don’t sell your mother short, either. Lwaxana is as formidable an individual as I’ve ever met. She and Ian—” He stopped and looked at her, then, smiling wistfully. “You probably don’t remember the first time we met. You were just a baby.”
“No,” Deanna admitted. “But I do remember the last time we met.”
Vaughn’s smile faded, and he looked away. “I’m sorry, Deanna,” he said quietly. “Your father was a good friend to me. He saved my life once, and I’d have given anything to do the same for him. I know that doesn’t change the fact that I went home from that last mission, and he didn’t.”
Deanna didn’t know what surprised her more, the fact that her father had saved Vaughn’s life, or the revelation that Vaughn had been there when he died.
Seeming to guess her thoughts, Vaughn shook his head. “The details aren’t important. What matters is that when things were at their worst, Ian Troi always did what needed doing. Your mother is the same way. And, I suspect, you are too. But believe me when I tell you that if there was anyone else I could turn to so I could spare you all this, I would.”
Deanna felt ashamed then, knowing she would never wish the dilemma she was faced with on anyone else, but knowing also that to turn her back on it was never really an option. Where this path she was now on would take her, she didn’t know. But her course, at least, was finally clear.
Deanna got to her feet, offering Vaughn her hand. “Show me more.”
Vaughn looked up at her. A look of sorrow came briefly to his eyes, then quickly hardened into determination. After a moment, he took her hand and pulled himself up.
Tilting her head back, Deanna closed her eyes as the spray of hot water warmed her skin, soothed her aches, and relaxed her mind. After four grueling hours sparring with Vaughn—followed by two more hours of combat with holographic Jem’Hadar after Vaughn had excused himself for another meeting with the captain—Deanna had gone back to her quarters, stripped off her uniform, stepped into the shower stall, and simply let the heat and steam envelop her. The water, as hot as she could stand it, massaged her flesh in ways the sonic setting couldn’t compare.
Deanna collected water into one cupped hand and then released it, letting it dribble through her fingers. Plans were proceeding apace now. After weeks of inactivity, the Enterprise had come alive as repair teams scurried throughout the ship, battle drills got under way, and new crewmembers rotated aboard from the starbase. One way or another, it seemed, the assault on Sentok Nor was going forward, though what would follow was still anyone’s guess—just as it was still uncertain how her team was going to make it to the surface of Darona undetected.
Something stirred suddenly in her mind. As always, she sensed Will’s presence at the door of her quarters before he signaled. “Come in, Will,” she called.
Through the sound of the cascading water, she followed the trail of Will’s emotions as he entered her quarters: his surprise at seeing the combat uniform tossed carelessly on the floor of her living area; his boyish thrill of realizing she was in the shower; his gentlemanly hesitation as he realized he’d come at an awkward time. “You want me to come back later?” he called.
Deanna said nothing, her eyes still closed against the water, soaking in Will’s reassuring presence in her mind as she soaked up the heat.
Imzadi . . .
“Deanna? Did you say something?”
“Just a second, Will,” she said finally, her eyes opening. She couldn’t see past the steam.
“I can come back—”
“No, it’s all right,” she said, turning off the shower. “Hand me my robe, would you?”
Hesitation again. He was wondering if she was sending him a signal. And part of her, she realized, was wondering the same thing. Her history with Will was long and passionate on numerous levels, and always seemed just on the verge of reigniting, especially during times of personal crisis.
You really should know better, Deanna, she admonished herself. Try to remember you’re a counselor.
She heard him fumbling for the robe near the entrance to the bathroom. “That’s quite a head of steam you have going in there,” he commented.
“Helped me to relax,” she said, reaching through the steam. “You should try it sometime.” She could see him now, a silhouette in the mist, which of course meant that he, in turn, could see her.
He handed her the robe. “It seems to be having the opposite effect on me,” he admitted. “But I think you knew that.”
She froze. Of course, she thought. Will wasn’t empathic, but he also wasn’t likely to forget that she was, and he knew perfectly well that she could read him like a book, emotionally.
Nudity wasn’t an issue to most Betazoids. But realizing that Will had seen through her, Deanna suddenly felt naked. Exposed. She quickly wrapped her robe around herself. “I’m sorry, Will. That was . . . that was unfair of me. And stupid.”
The fog was lifting. She could see his face now. He was smiling at her. Not mischievously, but affectionately. “Why? Because you feel that if we gave in to our impulses, it would be for the wrong reasons, and at the worst possible time?”
“Isn’t that how you feel?”
“That’s a rhetorical question, Deanna. You know how I feel.”
“Then why do we do this to ourselves?”
“Honestly? Because I think when you get past our suppressed mutual lust, we actually care about each other too much to risk making this choice just because we’re suddenly afraid it may be our last chance. But either way, it’s not something either of us should feel sorry about.”
Deanna smiled crookedly and looked up at him. “Are you after my job?”
“God, no. Who would want it?”
Will let out a satisfying “Oof!” as Deanna punched him in the stomach, after which she reached for a towel and wrapped it around her head as she walked past him into the living area.
“So what does bring you to my quarters at this late hour, Commander?”
Will made a show of holding his abdomen as he staggered after her. “Some news that I thought might brighten your evening,” he gasped dramatically, then sobered, grinning in that way he had that came more from his eyes than any other part of his face. “I just found out how Vaughn expects to get to Darona.”
Chapter Six
GUL LEMEC ASCENDED the turboshaft of Sentok Nor, the Cardassian-engineered space station that glittered in the sky above Betazed. Unlike the majority of Nor-class stations, Sentok had not been designed as a facility for refining space-borne materials. The Dominion’s war with the Federation had led to new uses for the massive assemblage of steel and composites. Instead of miners, Sentok Nor’s habitat ring housed Cardassian soldiers and engineers, while its central core was outfitted as the system’s primary Jem’Hadar breeding facility. The station’s cargo holds stored war matériel and captive Betazoids brought up from the planet, as well as the lab complex for the experimental work that played such a big part in the Dominion’s decision to target Betazed for annexation in the first place. And its graceful pylons—only three of which had been completed so
far—served as docking ports for Dominion and Cardassian warships.
If the decision had been his, Lemec would never have allied his world with the Dominion. He despised the vat-grown soldiers and their unctuous Vorta keepers. First and foremost, Lemec was a patriot, and he harbored a deep resentment of the alliance that had been bought with Cardassia’s independence. Only the chance to be on the winning side in a war against the hated Federation offset being forced to share his command of the Betazed occupation with the Vorta Luaran and her Jem’Hadar.
And if cooperating with the soft-voiced, repellent Luaran strengthened his position as prefect of Betazed and Sentok Nor, then Lemec would swallow his distaste and appear conciliatory. At the present, Luaran was less an impediment to his success and eventual promotion than the ego-driven Dr. Crell Moset, the renowned Cardassian scientist who had set up shop aboard the station to direct the bio-research that the Dominion had made their top priority.
Unfortunately, Moset’s insatiable requests for more subjects for his experiments prevented the Betazoids from accepting their fate and cooperating fully with their conquerors. The more civilians Moset required, the more rebellious and entrenched the resistance movement on the planet became. Lemec was counting on Luaran’s help to stem Moset’s excesses, at least until Lemec could ferret out the resistance leaders and stabilize control of the planet.
He forged his way through the day crew in the operations center to the commander’s office and tried to keep his impatience under control. Much to his annoyance, the Vorta had called another meeting of the administrative staff.
He entered the office, and Luaran glided smoothly around the desk to greet him. With difficulty, the Cardassian smothered his frown of distaste. Her frail form and soft pale face offended his sense of aesthetics. Lemec, however, kept his opinions to himself. He would not allow his dislike of Luaran to show. He would hold his tongue and bide his time, hoping for her support in tempering Moset’s demands.
Luaran offered the gul his favorite morning beverage of hot fish juice, and he accepted with a curt nod of thanks, then mumbled a greeting to Moset.
The exobiologist was on sabbatical from the University of Culat so that he could contribute to the war effort. Renowned for his brilliance in nonhumanoid exobiology, Moset, in addition to his classified experiments, oversaw the production of Jem’Hadar on the station. With a weathered visage and graying hair, Moset had entered Luaran’s office humming as if he had no cares in the world. He was always humming, Lemec thought with irritation. Someday he was going to stuff a combat boot down the doctor’s throat to shut him up and give a poor gul some peace. Apparently unaware of how much his habit annoyed others, Moset brushed a speck of lint from his laboratory coat and accepted a cup of hot fish juice.
“I need more Betazoid subjects,” Moset demanded before the Vorta had a chance to state the purpose of her meeting.
The muscles in Luaran’s face tensed slightly before returning to their customary calm. “You have received an adequate number.”
“Yes,” Lemec agreed. “Use the ones already being stored in the docking ring.”
“They don’t have the appropriate genetic markers.”
“Then send them back to the planet,” Lemec insisted. “They’re a drain on our resources.”
“They will be of use later, once I’ve broken the genetic code.” Moset glared at Lemec. “If you’d bring me half as many subjects as you’ve been executing, I’d have what I need.”
Lemec was unperturbed by the accusation. He would not tolerate insurrection and sabotage.
“You’re shooting Betazoids?” The disapproval in the Vorta’s voice was muted but unmistakable. “Can’t you find a better way to control them?”
“The ones on the planet were shot as an example against their resistance movement,” Lemec said. “The ones executed on the station were attempting to destroy our production of ketracel-white. I think you’ll agree that we must deter both.”
“I remind you, Gul,” Moset said, “that my research is the reason we are here at all. But I cannot do my job if you keep shooting prisoners I could use—”
“You won’t have a job or a life if I don’t keep this station safe.” With the greatest effort, Lemec reined in his temper another notch. “In the past few days we’ve found ruptured EPS conduits, sabotaged replicator systems, and turbolifts that stop only between decks. Defective airlocks are a constant problem. I suspect the slave laborers did much of their sabotage during the building of the station, but only now is the full scope of the damage they inflicted becoming known. The new laborers are equally duplicitous. Their telepathic abilities inform them of what’s happening in your laboratories, Moset, and they’re rebelling against it.”
“That’s why I called you here today,” Luaran told them. “We must rectify these problems.”
“I need more Cardassian troops,” Lemec answered. “Thanks to the good doctor’s experiments, we can’t even keep Jem’Hadar soldiers aboard the station. Those we breed here have to be ferried to the surface before they reach maturity. We should request reinforcements for the station from Cardassia Prime.”
The Vorta folded her arms over her narrow chest and shook her head. “We have the full allocation. The others are needed elsewhere.”
Lemec started to press the issue, but held his tongue at the determination in her expression. Moset, however, seemed not to know when to quit.
“Give me the rebellious Betazoids instead of executing them,” he pleaded. “It’s just senseless killing.”
Lemec’s derisive laugh escaped before he could squelch it. “I wouldn’t think the man who experimented on living Bajorans and killed thousands in his so-called hospital would be so sensitive.”
Moset frowned. “You’re a fool, Lemec. My concern is for my work—not the welfare of my subjects.” The doctor’s lips quivered in outrage. “Minds far superior to yours respect my genius. The Legate’s Crest of Valor for my work on the Fostossa virus is proof of that.”
“You know where you can put your Legate’s Crest,” Lemec said with a snarl.
“Gentlemen.” Luaran held up her hands, her violet eyes glowering. “I expect you to do your jobs, which”—she smiled with irritating sweetness—“you cannot do if you are quarreling with one another.”
Lemec nodded in reluctant acquiescence. “Luaran,” he said, forcing his voice to sound calm and reasonable, “I cannot adequately govern both the planet and the station without more Cardassian soldiers. And commandeering additional Betazoids from the planet will only compound the station’s—and the planet’s—security problems.”
“I implore you,” Moset’s voice swelled with passion. “I cannot continue my research until I have Betazoids with the appropriate genetic makeup. And,” he added as if in afterthough
t, “the Dominion must have a steady supply of Jem’Hadar and ketracel-white to keep up the war effort. I need slave laborers to help with production.”
Lemec bit his tongue. Moset didn’t give a vole’s ass about the Dominion war effort. All the damned doctor cared about was his cursed science. But the crafty Moset had taken the tack that Luaran would favor.
She nodded in calm agreement with Moset. “I have been given specific instructions by the Founders to do whatever is necessary to facilitate your project, Doctor. You have my personal assurance that more Betazoids will be rounded up.”
Moset preened at his victory, and lorded over Lemec with a triumphant grin.
Luaran turned to Lemec with an apologetic smile. “As for you, Gul . . . Please don’t shoot them.”
Breathing deeply, Dal Cobrin fought against claustrophobia and tried to estimate how long he’d been in the capsule that enclosed him. The bright lights burned without ceasing in the Cardassian doctor’s laboratory on the space station, so Dal had no method of calibrating time. It seemed like months since the Jem’Hadar had grabbed him and loaded him, along with dozens of other frightened Betazoids, onto the freighter headed for Sentok Nor. Once aboard the station, he’d been transported directly from the docking ring into the tiny container that held him now.
From what he’d managed to ascertain from his fellow Betazoids, they had all been similarly imprisoned, confined in these narrow tubes and further restrained by some kind of energy field. Their minds had been unimpaired, but Dal had long ago begun to wish for blessed unconsciousness. The knowledge that he and his friend Ellum were the last of the dozens who’d accompanied them to the station brought him no satisfaction, only the certainty that either he or Ellum would be the next victim of Dr. Crell Moset.
Dal no longer cherished any hope for survival. Moset’s assistants had transferred one Betazoid after another from the pods to the laboratory tables. Dal had been painfully aware of the agonies they’d suffered there. None of them had ever returned to their pods.
The Battle of Betazed Page 7
