Morad glanced past the Romulan commander at the other man who stood beside him. At least, Morad assumed Keln, the Breen engineer, was male. With the opaque, constantly worn environmental suit, though, as well as the harsh electronic rendering of his—or her—speech, who could tell? As he considered the matter, Morad realized that he not only didn’t know what Breen looked like outside of their suits, but whether or not they even had two distinct genders. For all he knew, their people came in more sexes than that, just as those bizarre Andorians did.
In many ways, it saddened Morad that the True Way, a fundamental pro-Cardassian movement, needed to ally with aliens in order to help bring about the Union’s return to glory. But the last decade and a half had been beyond difficult for Cardassia. In large part, Morad’s people had brought about their problems by not assuming their natural superiority, not asserting their inherent dominance over other races. Central Command had given up on Bajor, allowing the weak to escape their duty to serve the stronger. After that, there had been negotiations—Negotiations!—with the usurping Federation, who coddled and protected the Bajorans. Then finally, when the righteous war had come, Cardassia’s own people, members of its own military, had turned into traitors and handed victory to the UFP and its allies.
And now we don’t just negotiate with the Federation, Morad thought bitterly, we ally with them. Castellan Garan had committed the entire population of the Union to an association that included more than the sanctimonious UFP, more than the brutish Klingons, more than the avaricious Ferengi; it included the Bajorans. Just the thought brought Morad to the threshold of apoplexy.
On the main viewscreen, the Vir-Akzelen asteroid sat in position in open space, the science complex based there clinging to its rough surface. Morad and his True Way compatriots had used Formek, the tug they’d acquired, to tow the entire Tzenkethi facility to its new location precisely 3.2 light-years from Bajor. Nelzik had specified that her equipment would function from as far away as 5.3 light-years, but even she agreed that it would be wiser not to tax the new technology.
The first officer of Vetruvis, Subcommander Analest, paced over to stand before Commander Kozik. For a Romulan, Morad thought, even with the pointed ears and the wavy forehead, Analest looked appealing. “Commander,” she said, “the crew reports that all systems are ready. The cloak is functioning at optimal levels. The impulse engines are on standby, the singularity drive ready for faster-than-light travel at your command. Our course for the Bronis star system has been calculated from our point of egress and entered into the navigational computer.”
Bronis II, Morad knew, would stand in for Overne III, the site to which the Breen and the Romulans had proceeded in their first attempt to acquire the needed equipment. That mission had failed because the Typhon Pact lacked a direct route to the Gamma Quadrant other than through Federation space. But circumstances had changed.
Like Overne III, Bronis II hosted an enormous starship manufacturing complex in the Dominion. Once they arrived there, the Breen engineer, Keln, would identify and extract the equipment that the Typhon Pact required in order to develop quantum slipstream drive. With that capability, the Pact would be able to attack the Federation and its allies—though not Cardassia, per the True Way’s agreement with Sela. Castellan Garan would have little choice but to withdraw from the Khitomer Accords, and once Cardassia’s ties with the UFP and Bajor had been cut, its people could finally begin their journey back to greatness.
“Are you ready, Keln?” Kozik asked the Breen.
Keln replied with a short burst of electronic distortion. The commander appeared to accept that as an affirmative response.
“And you, Morad?” Kozik asked.
“I am,” Morad said.
Kozik nodded to Analest, who stepped to the center of the bridge. “Centurion Rentin,” she said, “open a channel to the laboratory.”
At a console to Morad’s left, Rentin worked her controls. “Channel open,” she said.
“Go ahead, Morad,” Kozik told him.
Morad took a breath, then carefully enunciated, “Vetruvis to Vir-Akzelen.”
The image of the Tzenkethi facility replaced that of the asteroid on the main viewscreen. Morad saw the lightly shining—And lovely—form of Nelzik, the project’s lead scientist. When she spoke, he could not hear the chimelike quality of her voice, its sound obviously swallowed up by the Romulan ship’s translation software and spit out as a feminine but distinctly not Tzenkethi voice. “Vetruvis, this is Nelzik,” she said.
“Nelzik, this is Morad,” he said. “We are ready for you to begin.”
“I understand, Morad,” Nelzik said. On the screen, she gestured to her colleagues, who set to work on their control panels. Then, to Morad, she said, “Prepare to commence insertion.”
Morad turned to Kozik. “We should also watch the asteroid, Commander.”
Kozik nodded to his first officer, who ordered Rentin to display Vir-Akzelen on the screen. The view of Nelzik shrank to fill half of the display, while the other half showed the asteroid hanging in space. After a moment, a ray of vibrant blue light hurtled from the far side of the complex and up into space. As Morad watched, the light fractured into other beams that formed a conic shape. He waited with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety.
When the beams vanished, Morad could feel Kozik’s gaze turn to him, no doubt skeptical and accusing. But then a grand whorl of blazing red light coiled into existence. It curved around a radiantly white core. A probe launched from the asteroid and soared directly into the center of the vermilion whirlpool.
On the other half of the screen, Nelzik consulted a display. “The wormhole is generating . . . and has reached a length of one light-year . . . two light-years . . . three.” Morad knew that the critical juncture of the Tzenkethi’s scientific and engineering marvel lay just ahead, the final part of the process that had been borne out in theory and in simulations, but that they hadn’t been able to test in practice. “Three-point-one light-years,” Nelzik reported. “Three-point-two.”
Morad waited for the essential piece of information. And then waited too long. He felt his expectations sink into a morass of disappointment.
And then Nelzik announced, “We have contact with the Bajoran wormhole.” She paused again—maddeningly so for Morad—and studied her screens. “We have a solid connection,” she said at last. “Our wormhole is stable, and its far terminus is clear into the Bajoran wormhole.”
Morad looked to Kozik. “Let’s go,” he said to the commander.
“Ahead one-quarter impulse,” Kozik ordered. “Give me a whole-screen image.”
Nelzik blinked off the viewer, and the flame-red wormhole resized to fill much of the display. It grew larger as Vetruvis drew nearer. The white light at its center became almost blinding.
“Wave intensities are increasing swiftly,” somebody reported, obviously from the sensor station. “And I’m detecting very high proton counts.”
On-screen, the colored sides of the wormhole fell away, leaving its dazzling white heart. For a terrifying moment, it seemed to Morad as though they headed directly into a star. He feared that all his hopes would end in the fiery destruction of Vetruvis.
But then a tunnellike formation appeared on the viewer. Luminous streams of red light flowed around the ship. The warbird passed through enormous circles that seemed either to constitute or support the outer structure of the wormhole. Sets of concentric circles lined its periphery.
The ship began to quiver, like a boat entering the rough water of a river. Morad heard a whine develop in the sound of the impulse drive. The ship bucked, and he had to quickly adjust the position of his feet to prevent himself from toppling to the deck.
“Instruments show a change in the readings ahead,” said the officer at sensors.
“Is the wormhole destabilizing?” Kozik demanded.
“No, sir, it doesn’t appear so. I think that—”
The shapes and contours on the screen suddenly changed, the
ir colors going from scorching red to a cooler blue, the outlines of everything visible becoming clearer and better defined. The motion of the ship settled, though it did not calm completely. The bleat of the impulse drive eased back to a steady hum.
All of the differences forced Morad to wonder about the actual stability of Nelzik’s wormhole. She and her colleagues hadn’t been able to make any wormhole they created maintain its far end in a single location for very long, but their theory had told them that they could change that by anchoring their wormhole to something established and constant—the only known choice for such an anchor being the Bajoran wormhole. Morad could only hope that Nelzik’s theories proved true in practice. Otherwise, he would spend the rest of his life seventy thousand light-years from home . . . or he would have to chance that Kozik could successfully run Vetruvis through what must surely be a Federation gauntlet in the Bajoran system.
Suddenly, another turning flux of color swam into view up ahead, opening from the inside out. Like the lights of a city to a traveler lost in the desert, stars appeared and promised salvation. Vetruvis raced forward and into their midst.
Analest strode to a console and glanced over another officer’s shoulder, then said, “Confirming that we have reached the Gamma Quadrant.”
Morad felt exhilarated. It took considerable willpower for him not to call out in triumph. All of his careful planning—his reaching out beyond the True Way to the Tzenkethi, to the Romulans, his willingness to accept their assistance when his goals coincided with theirs, his desire for Cardassia to have power over a wormhole of its own, his realization that the Typhon Pact’s failure at the Bajoran wormhole could be surmounted—all of it had started moving rapidly toward fruition. In just days, once they collected the equipment they needed, they would be heading back to the Alpha Quadrant with the means to defeat the Federation. And with that, the Cardassian Union could reclaim both Bajor and its rightful place in the galaxy.
Beside Morad, Commander Kozik said, “Set course for the Dominion.”
20
The turbolift climbed along the outer wall, carrying Ro toward the second level of what had once been the Wyntara Mas Control Center, a management hub to oversee transportation within the province. Over the previous few weeks, it had transformed into something much different: Bajoran Space Central, a ground-based substitute for the lost Deep Space 9. With a much smaller crew capacity, no facilities for visitors, and only a limited presence in space—if that presence ever arrived—the new complex would fall well short of providing a complete replacement for all of DS9’s capabilities and services. But with the transfer of security for the wormhole to a squadron of Starfleet vessels, BSC would at least allow the resumption of transport and trade through Bajoran space. The rate and volume of traffic through the system and—once Starfleet Command approved it—to and from the Gamma Quadrant would necessarily have to drop, but the center would still supply a significant degree of continuity while the Corps of Engineers constructed another space station.
The lift alighted at the second level, the addition of which had doubled the number of personnel who could work in the complex on a single shift. Ro stepped out onto the new story at its open front side, where a transparent-aluminum barrier rose a meter and a half to a padded rail that ran across its top edge. The captain walked to the center of the floor, leaned on the railing, and peered out at the forward end of the building. No exterior alterations had been made to the two enclosed rooms that sat in the corners, though the plans called for an eventual expansion of her office.
Where the name of the control center had once emblazoned the forward wall above the two rooms, a large viewscreen had been hung. At present, it showed a view from orbit, from a runabout, Yolja. Stars mostly filled the display, but a verdant, cloudless arc of Bajor cut across the bottom right-hand corner, and one of the planet’s five moons, Derna, peeked out from just beyond the horizon. Ro hoped that Yolja would not remain alone in orbit much longer.
The captain turned and surveyed the expanse of the second level. Half-walls had been raised to divide the area into workspaces, some larger than others, depending on the use to which they would be put. She heard the agglomeration of many voices as her crew prepared to resume operations as best they could.
Ro turned and made her way to the nearest pathway between the workspaces. She walked along toward the rear of the building, swinging her head left and right as she did so, taking in the sight of her crew discharging their duties. A number of personnel saw her and offered a smile or a nod or a verbal greeting.
The captain reached the rear of the building and turned into the pathway there. Huddled together over a padd, security officers Cardok and Shul Torem carried on an animated conversation. As she recalled, Shul had spent more years on Deep Space 9 than just about anybody else, living there with his wife, Aba, a civilian. After the destruction of the station, Aba had relocated to Bajor to stay with family she and her husband had there, and so Ro had made sure to post Shul planetside.
Reaching the next pathway, the captain headed back toward the front of the second level. She passed by one workspace, where she saw Lieutenant Merimark busy at her computer interface, and an odd memory recurred to her. Ro recalled that, for some reason nobody had ever been able to adequately explain to her, Captain Vaughn had at some point taken to calling her Stefka, despite her first name being Kaitlin.
Thinking of Vaughn brought a sadness to Ro, but also a sense of hope. Not long after she had first arrived on Bajor to resettle her crew and plan for the future, she had visited the Vanadwan Monastery. On the heels of so much loss, Ro hadn’t particularly wanted to pay a final visit to an old friend with his still-mourning daughter, but she considered Prynn a friend too, and so felt that she needed to support her.
At Prynn’s request, Ro had selected something to read at Vaughn’s bedside. She intended to bring the actual book she owned that contained the piece, but it had been lost with the station. She found a soft copy of it and carried it with her to Vanadwan on her padd. An old tale she’d first heard as a child and which had always stayed with her, “Song of the Traveler” seemed a particularly apt story for Vaughn. Prynn seemed to appreciate it, and by the time Ro finished reading, they both had tears in their eyes.
The experience had been sad, but also uplifting in a way Ro hadn’t anticipated. It felt like an affirmation of life to pay tribute to Vaughn, but also a kindness to finally let him go—because, after all, he had truly been gone for a long time. Ro also found a deeper connection with Prynn, and believed that the closure she had at last decided to experience would free her to return to a normal, healthy, fulfilling life.
Ro arrived back at the front of the second story and turned right, toward the other side wall. When she reached it, she entered the other turbolift that had been installed and descended back to the first level. Once there, she did as she had above, taking a brief stroll among her crew. Later that afternoon, just before the center would officially go on line, she would address them, tell them of the tremendous pride she had in them, let them know how much they impressed her with their stalwart efforts in such a time of adversity, and thank them for making the BSC operational.
When Ro had first seen the erstwhile Wyntara Mas Control Center, she’d had serious doubts about whether it could really be converted into a workable replacement for DS9, and not just because of the station’s massive size, abundant facilities, and location in space. The control center did not seem ideally suited—or at all suited, really—to providing a base for her crew. But with no other better options, she forged ahead anyway. And while Transportation Minister Kifal’s original estimate of only ten days to transition the complex to a minimally functioning Starfleet facility had proven unworkable, Ro’s engineering staff had ultimately made the transition happen. The addition of Chief O’Brien helped enormously, although, with the design and construction of the new station beginning, the captain knew that she could use even more additions to her engineering crew—a need she had
already taken steps to address.
Minister Kifal had also calculated that, on top of the ten days he’d allotted for the initial adaptation of the center, it would require another thirty days to complete all necessary upgrades. Chief O’Brien believed that it would take at least twice as long to bring the BSC to an optimal level. Still, they would go operational later that day, and Ro felt grateful for that. She and her crew needed something better to do than replacing old, outdated equipment with modern but temporary equipment.
Ro reached the rear of the building, where the two rooms in the corners there afforded ’fresher facilities. Between them stretched the largest single space that had been set aside by itself—though it had been subdivided within—and the only area contained by full walls; it housed the infirmary. The captain approached its entryway and looked inside. She could see the main examination table off to the left, as well as several bio-beds along the far wall. Nurse Edgardo Juarez and Forensics Specialist Michael Strang stood talking together over a computer interface, while Doctor Pascal Boudreaux worked at a bank of medical displays.
Ro didn’t see Doctor Bashir, which might have been for the best. He’d been furious when she’d had Lieutenant Commander Douglas taken in for questioning about the bombs planted on Deep Space 9, though the captain had emphasized to him that Sarina hadn’t been charged with any crimes. Ro’s subsequent discussion with Bashir, after the doctor’s visit from the Section 31 operative, had unfolded even more uncomfortably, although the captain thought it might actually end up yielding a positive result.
Moving on, Ro walked up the next pathway, headed to the front of the building. She left the workspace and continued on toward her office. As she passed between the two transporter platforms, she gazed up at the viewscreen, where she saw essentially the same orbital vista she’d seen a few minutes earlier. When she looked back down, she noticed that her office door stood open.
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Raise the Dawn (Star Trek, the Next Generation) Page 29
