“I know you don’t want to hear this,” he said, “but I’m gonna say it anyway. Be careful.”
Deanna smiled. “You too. I’ll see you soon.” Suddenly she had her arms around him, and Will was hugging her back, his long arms wrapped tightly around her.
“You know what I’m feeling, don’t you?” she heard him ask unnecessarily.
“Yes,” she said. “Me too.” After a moment, she said. “Promise me something, Will?”
“You name it.”
“Promise you’ll never let me go.”
Will smiled. He knew what she meant, and that it had nothing to do with their embrace. “That depends,” he said. “Does it work both ways?”
“Of course.”
“Then, yes,” Will said. “I promise.”
Later in the Defiant’s mess hall, as the ship warped through space under cloak, Deanna sat in silence, keenly aware of her turbulent emotions and finding the ship strangely disquieting. She missed the familiar decks and faces of the Enterprise. Vaughn, amazingly, seemed comfortable regardless of his environment and adjusted as easily to new surroundings as Data. Worf, to his credit, had provided them with every comfort his ship had to offer—such as they were.
She allowed herself a wistful sigh. She had hoped to spend time with Worf, but his duties as captain had kept him too occupied for them to share even a few moments alone together. Through his fierce Klingon demeanor, she continued to feel his devastating grief over Jadzia, and Deanna’s frustration at being unable to comfort her dear friend added to her agitation.
Shortly before their arrival at the edge of the Betazed system, she, Vaughn, Beverly, Data, and Worf had convened for a briefing in the mess hall.
In preparation for their assignment, the away team had donned their S.O.B.s, equipped themselves, and put on dark hooded coats that, Deanna assured them, were typical on the planet. With the exception of Deanna, the team wore dark cosmetic lenses that made even Data appear Betazoid at a glance, once Beverly had altered his skin’s pigment to something comparable to Deanna’s.
“We can’t transport directly into the city of Jarkana without risking detection by Jem’Hadar sensors,” Vaughn said.
Worf pointed to a map on his padd. “I suggest an insertion point here, a kilometer outside the city. You are less likely to attract attention, yet close enough to make your way into Jarkana easily on foot.”
Transporting directly into the prison facility would have decreased the risk for the away team, but the presence of Jem’Hadar security forces in the city had eliminated that option. From her previous stay in Jarkana, Deanna recalled little cover on the roads leading into the city and worried about exposure, but Vaughn explained that remaining in plain sight was another way to hide. The away team simply had to blend in with the native population to keep from being noticed.
Vaughn turned to Deanna. “When’s the most foot traffic on the main road?”
She considered what she remembered of the terrain and what she knew about the people. “When the farmers take their fresh produce into the city in the mornings. It’s only a short distance from the open market in the center of the city to Director Lanolan’s house, assuming he hasn’t moved in the last seventeen years.”
“Let’s hope he hasn’t,” Vaughn said, and checked the chrono on his padd. “That means we’re go for transport in less than thirty minutes.”
“The Defiant will remain cloaked,” Worf said, “until it is time to transport you onto the planet. We are out of the usual shipping lanes there, so we should remain undetected.”
Data frowned. “Have you ascertained if your modifications to the cloaking device will be effectual?”
Worf shook his head. “There is no way to know until the cloak is exposed to Dominion sensors. However, the current best-case scenario shows that remodulating the cloaking field will overtax the system in a fairly short time.”
“Overload?” Vaughn asked.
“That is one possibility,” Worf acknowledged. “The other is an automatic shutdown, which would merely require reinitializing the cloaking device after a cooldown period. But the end result would be the same: exposure.”
“Sounds like this may not be the breakthrough you were hoping for,” Beverly said.
“It is not,” Worf said, clearly trying to contain his frustration. “But we have no alternatives.” After a moment, he said, “As agreed, once you beam down, the Defiant will go quiet and remain out of contact for at least twelve hours. If you run into difficulties on Darona and Commander Data activates his subspace signal before the designated rendezvous, it may take some time for the Defiant to get within transporter range.”
“Understood,” Vaughn said.
A voice from the bridge sounded over Worf’s communicator, and the captain responded before turning to the away team. “The Defiant is approaching Darona. I am needed on the bridge. Report to the transporter bay. Die well.”
On the viewscreen, the class-M planet Darona spun with deceptive serenity as Worf strode onto the bridge and settled into the center seat.
“Half impulse power, Mr. Nog,” Worf ordered the Ferengi ensign at the conn before opening a comm channel to the transporter bay. “Away team, prepare for transport.”
“Ready, Captain,” Vaughn answered.
“On my mark, Ensign,” Worf told Nog. “Two . . . one . . . decloak and energize!”
In the common room of the resistance stronghold, Lwaxana Troi considered her two-year-old son with an objective eye. Every day he showed more signs of having inherited his mother’s indomitable disposition.
“Barin, please eat.” She lifted a spoonful of chopped sadi fruit to his tightly compressed lips.
“No!”
Pushing a strand of hair off her forehead, she stifled her frustration. No had become Barin’s favorite word, not an unusual development considering his age and stage of maturity. In a situation where food was scarce and strictly rationed, however, she couldn’t grant the little tyrant the luxury of his tantrums. He needed all the nourishment he could get.
“Just one taste,” she said reasonably. “You’ll like it, I promise.”
“No.” He stamped his foot and turned his head to avoid the proffered spoon. “Don’t want sadi. Want chocolate.”
She could thank Deanna for the boy’s preference. Her daughter had sent them an ample supply of the confection before the war started, and with careful rationing, Lwaxana had managed to dole out an occasional treat to Barin until only a few weeks ago.
“But this is chocolate,” she improvised. “It’s just yellow. And juicy. And tart.”
Barin shook his head defiantly, unconvinced, but Lwaxana’s attention had already been drawn to the approach of Enaren. She sensed his agitation even before she heard his footsteps pounding down the tunnelway. Within seconds, he thundered into the room.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded.
“Two members of the scavenging team just returned. The Jem’Hadar have captured Okalan.”
She dropped the spoon into the bowl of minced fruit and handed it to Chaxaza. “Where?”
“They grabbed him just as he was leaving the hospital-at Condar village,” Enaren said. “The others in his group were hiding and managed to slip away.”
“What about the ryetalyn?”
Enaren shook his head. “Okalan had it when the Jem’Hadar captured him.”
Lwaxana bit back a curse of frustration. The doctor had used the last of the ryetalyn to save Enaren’s grandson, but afterward, three more children had come down with the fever. One hovered near death. Without medication, he’d die before sunrise. “Perhaps Okalan dropped it along the way in the hope we’d find it.”
“We can search,” Enaren said. “It was the last ryetalyn known to be within a hundred kilometers.”
Lwaxana reached for her cloak on the bench behind her. “Let’s go.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Enaren asked in amazement.
Taking charge, Lwaxana d
rew herself to her full height and tinged her voice with the irrefutable tone of command. “The other members of his team will show us where Okalan was captured. Then we’ll follow his trail and locate him.”
Enaren gaped at her as if she’d lost her senses. “And if we find him? What good will that do?”
Lwaxana bristled at his lack of faith. “Okalan and I are two of the strongest telepaths in this cell. If I can communicate with him without his guards seeing me, he can tell me what happened to the ryetalyn.”
Enaren shook his head. “It’s a fool’s errand.”
Lwaxana’s eyes flashed with fury. “Tell that to the parents of those sick children.”
Enaren hesitated. “It’s almost sunset. The beasts begin foraging at dark. And if we use our phasers, we’ll draw the Jem’Hadar down on us.”
“Then arm yourself and the others with blow guns,” Lwaxana ordered. “And hurry.”
With few modern weapons, the resistance had reverted to the blow guns and darts of their primitive ancestors to protect themselves from wild animals and even to kill tunnel rats. Most of the men and women had become proficient in the use of the small tube, fashioned from the hollowed stems of the corzon plant and armed with tarna thorns dipped in the deadly poison of the zintaba root. The toxin killed instantly.
After ordering Chaxaza to persuade Barin to eat and swiftly kissing her son, Lwaxana led the way into the tunnel that exited the caverns. Enaren followed. The other members of Okalan’s team, the stocky young cavat farmer and a gigantic blacksmith, both from Condar, joined them as they left the stronghold.
What if the Jem’Hadar have transported Okalan? Enaren demanded. We’ll never find him.
I know where he might be, the cavat farmer answered. The ugly brutes have commandeered the community hall as a temporary headquarters in this province. My guess is they took him there.
We have to hurry, Lwaxana insisted, before they decide to move him somewhere else.
The rest of her thoughts she shielded to herself. If the Jem’Hadar suspected Okalan was a member of a rebel group, they’d torture him for information. Both the Dominion and Cardassians were experts at painful interrogation, and although Okalan was strong and dedicated, she had no assurance he could withstand his captors’ brutalizing tactics. If he broke, he might give away the location of their stronghold, and, gods forbid, the terrible secret of Hent Tevren.
With the cavat farmer in the lead, they raced along the narrow wilderness path worn by the beasts they hoped to avoid. Branches whipped Lwaxana’s face until it stung with lacerations, and she stumbled over rocks and tendrils of vine, but she refused to slow her pace. Only once, when her cloak caught on a bush of tarna thorns, did she stop and force herself to unhook it carefully. The least scrap of fabric would alert an enemy patrol to their presence in the area. With her garment freed, she sprinted after the others, ignoring the stitch in her side and the painful compression of her lungs as she struggled for air. On one occasion she heard beasts crashing through the underbrush, but the sounds led away from them toward the river, not the village.
The tiny group maintained their draining pace for over an hour until the farmer stopped and held up his hand to signal a halt.
The village is just ahead, he announced.
Take us to where the forest comes closest to the community hall, Lwaxana instructed. We can’t risk being seen.
I played in these woods as a child, the blacksmith said. Follow me. I know the way.
The glow of village lights was barely visible through the trees, and the only sounds the occasional barking of dogs and the rustle of a gentle wind through the overhanging branches. Lwaxana followed the men, at one point dropping to all fours to creep through the vines that blocked their way.
After several minutes of tedious travel, the blacksmith motioned them to stop. The community hall is over there, he said, pointing east through the trees.
I can’t see it, Enaren grumbled.
If we move any closer, the blacksmith said, anyone at the community hall can see us.
Then I’ll have to try from here. Lwaxana settled on a nearby tree stump, drew her cloak around her against the encroaching chill, and opened her mind. Okalan, are you there?
The answering blast of agony and fear almost knocked her to the ground. Lwaxana, is that you?
Yes, I’m here, in the woods near the village hall. Where are you?
The pain of his injuries cascaded through her, setting up sympathetic responses along her nerve endings. Her entire body vibrated from the shared agony. A glance at the men who accompanied her indicated they had not picked up Okalan’s thoughts.
Okalan’s nearby, she told them, and in horrible pain.
They have me in the hall, Okalan managed to send through his suffering.
The ryetalyn, she asked. What happened to it?
When they brought me here, there was a Cardassian officer, Gul Lemec. He took the ryetalyn and poured it into the dirt.
Lwaxana suffered a spasm of grief for the dying children at the stronghold, then turned her thoughts back to Okalan. We’ll try to get you out.
It’s no use. I’m half dead already. The gul suspects my involvement in the resistance. They’ve tortured me for information, but so far I’ve denied everything.
Lwaxana sensed not only Okalan’s pain, but the weakening of his spirit. His torturers would keep him alive and in excruciating distress until he told them what they wanted to know.
We’ll get you free—Lwaxana began.
No! Okalan’s refusal was powerful, in spite of his injuries. They’ve gouged out my eyes. My fingernails are gone. And they’ve passed more electrical current through me than I ever thought a body could endure. There’s only one thing to do for me now, and for yourselves.
Lwaxana refused to consider what he was suggesting. Okalan, no.
Dammit, listen to me. My interrogators just left. They’ll give me time to recover to keep me alive. Then they’ll begin again. Before they took my eyes, I saw an open window in this room. Every ten minutes, a Jem’Hadar sentry passes and checks on me. One is almost due. If you kill me as soon as he passes, you’ll have ten minutes to escape before the next sentry sounds the alarm.
Tears sprang to Lwaxana’s eyes. Okalan must have sensed her anguish.
Lwaxana . . . don’t make me beg you.
Lwaxana turned to Enaren. He had sensed much from hearing her side of the conversation, but when she told him Okalan’s request, the blood drained from his ruddy face. His lips trembled for a moment, then he squared his shoulders and met Lwaxana’s gaze. He’s right. We have no choice.
Steeling herself, Lwaxana held out her hand to the cavat farmer. Give me your blow gun.
Enaren pushed her hand aside and removed his own weapon. Okalan’s my oldest friend. I’ll do it.
Before Lwaxana could protest, Enaren slipped through the underbrush toward the clearing. In what seemed only seconds, Lwaxana felt Okalan’s gratitude and relief that his old friend was ending his life, his pain, and any chance that he might break and betray those he loved.
Okalan welcomed death the way he’d lived, fearlessly, bravely, and with dignity. Wrenching sadness at the loss of a good man tore Lwaxana’s heart. Okalan’s thoughts slowed, emotions dimmed, then ceased for all eternity.
It’s done. Enaren’s grief at the loss of his friend and his rage at the Jem’Hadar were palpable.
Let’s get back, Lwaxana ordered when Enaren reappeared, tears streaming down his aged cheeks. To herself she thought, We have a vigil to hold for a dying child.
Chapter Eight
AS THE TRANSPORTER EFFECT TOOK THEM, Deanna felt certain that the Defiant was shaking under weapons fire. But when she solidified on the planet’s surface, she stood intact with the other members of her team in a field of cavat that towered high above their heads. Before anyone could move, Vaughn spoke quietly. “Jem’Hadar patrol. Four of them on the road about one hundred meters ahead.”
Deanna heard the heavy
boots of the Jem’Hadar tromping closer on the adjacent road. At the ominous rumble, her muscles tensed and her mouth went dry. Above her, high thin clouds rippled across the scarlet sky, and the morning sun hung low and bright on the horizon. A hawk wheeled overhead, and close by, the melodic trill of a songbird provided an ironic counterpoint to the sinister tread of the approaching enemy patrol.
“Act natural,” Vaughn ordered the away team in a soft voice.
“Respectfully, sir,” Data said with a puzzled frown, “how does one act naturally in a cavat field?”
“First, don’t call me sir,” Vaughn responded quietly. “Then try picking cavat.”
Deanna forced a smile and reached for the nearest ear of cavat, a Betazed staple comparable to Terran corn, and tried to ignore the trembling of her hands. Her previous encounters with Jem’Hadar had been at a distance in ship-to-ship fighting. She expected her first face-to-face meeting to be intimidating, to say the least.
Data shrugged, then gamely grabbed a ripened ear, wrenched it easily from the stalk, and glanced around. “We need a container.”
Deanna unwound her wide scarf and held it in front of her. “Will this do?”
“You are very resourceful.” Data dropped the cavat into the scarf and reached for another ear.
“When I was a little girl,” Beverly said in a bright and animated tone with only a slight quaver of nervousness, “my grandmother had a huge garden. One of the high points of the year was the first ripened corn. Grandma Howard would start water boiling on the stove, and I would pick the corn and rush it straight inside to the waiting pot. That hot corn dripping with fresh butter was the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“As good as chocolate?” Deanna asked in disbelief.
“Uh-huh,” Beverly said, “but in a different way.”
“Good,” Vaughn murmured, “keep up the chatter.” Then louder he added, “We should take some cavat back to the city for lunch. As hungry as I am, I don’t know if we can carry enough.” Vaughn’s deep, hearty laugh echoed through the field and sent the nearby songbird into flight, squawking in protest. The others—even Data, who had engaged his emotion chip in order to blend in more easily—joined in the laughter.
The Battle of Betazed Page 9
