This Gray Spirit

by Heather Jarman

  “You Think I’m Being Unfair to the Cardassians?” Second Minister Asarem Asked.

  “Ambassador Lang is asking for medical supplies, not quantum torpedoes, ”Kira said. “How does taking a hard line, making it difficult to save Cardassian lives, benefit Bajor?”

  “Your attitude surprises me, Colonel,” Asarem said pointedly. “You of all people should appreciate the need to ensure that Cardassia is never again in a position to harm Bajor, or anyone else. Perhaps the reports of your patriotism are exaggerated.”

  Kira’s eyes narrowed. “Have you even been to Cardassia since the war?”

  “No,” Asarem said. “I haven’t.”

  “Then what right do you have to dismiss Ambassador Lang the way you did just now?”

  “The rights given me by the people of Bajor who elected me to serve them.”

  “And the people of Bajor elected you to be their avenging angel? To single-handedly make the Cardassians pay for fifty years of wrongdoing?”

  Asarem slammed her case on the table. “I decided to hear you out because as the commander of Deep Space 9 you’re owed a measure of input. But I’m done.”

  Kira persisted. “For all the horrors inflicted on us by the Cardassians, half our population wasn’t executed and millions of our children haven’t died since with flesh melting off their bodies due to radiation sickness. We didn’t emerge from the Occupation drowning in our own dead. Where is your compassion, Minister?”

  “With the generations of dead and brutalized Bajorans who committed no crime save being born Bajoran. The Cardassians allied with the Dominion. They brought destruction on themselves. Now get out of my way before I call First Minister Shakaar and inform him that we need to reconsider your position as commander of this station.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

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  Copyright © 2002 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

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  Cover art by Cliff Nielsen

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  “What do you fear, lady?” he asked.

  “A cage,” she said. “To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.”

  —J.R.R. TOLKIEN,

  The Return of the King

  For my husband, Parry, and my father, Jeff—

  because they handed me the key

  and

  In memory of my brother Tad:

  “Not all those who wander are lost.”

  Acknowledgments

  If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a family to write a book. Many deserve thanks.

  First, I would be remiss if I didn’t express gratitude to the Deep Space Nine family of actors and writers who gave us this incredible universe to play in. Long after this book is garage sale fodder, DS9 will endure.

  My husband continually pushed me to aim higher; without his encouragement I never would have tried, let alone succeeded. He and my daughters—Sara, Ally, Rachel, and Abby—showed admirable patience and positive attitudes throughout this process. My parents, Marge and Jeff Clayton, must have wondered how they grew a geeky daughter in the midst of my cheerleader sisters, but they have always supported me with enthusiasm. My siblings deserve notice as well: Laurie reintroduced me to Star Trek after years of hiatus; Jane was my steady support; Tad shared my love of sci-fi and fantasy; and Julie was a bud. My brother Peter is a marvelous thinker, genetics researcher, and social policy innovator who gave me the tools for the Andorian backstory. My sister-in-law Amy inspired me with her bravery. Peter Jarman’s loan of his laptop assured there would be a book.

  A tender thank you to my fellowship of writers, all of whom own part of this book. My incredible writing partner, Kirsten, might not have co-written this with me, but she’s been with me in the trenches the whole way—middle of the night, weekends, deadlines. She’s the godmother of the project. Jeff Lang, whose wit, wisdom, and open arms saw me through rewrites, incessant whining, and everything else. A gifted writer in her own right, Bethany Phillips is the reason the outline was eventually completed. Thanklessly, she proofread, talked plot points, and offered advice whenever, wherever. Jim Wright, a comrade in arms, who, in a way, started me on this road when he said, “You should write a column for The Starfleet Journal. ”Keith DeCandido was the voice of pragmatic experience who talked me off a few proverbial ledges!

  Dena’s blanket hugs and prayers kept me warm through long hours at the computer. My dear MIA Mikaela brought the funny whenever I needed it. Both of you deserve smooches.

  The amazing Susannah just gets it: Law, hîr nín, ú dollen i Rîw. Anírach, nui lû, gwannad uin gwaith lín? Cathy, Marsha, Betsy, Eden, and the toytrucks gang supplied the cheering section. The team at Oak Hills School that supported the girls has earned special thank yous—Wendy, Chris, Heidi, Ashley, Tammy, and Cynthia. My resident genius, Dr. Fraser Smith, brought the tech hooks that made me look good. Without Patti Heyes, Katie Fritz, Sara Wilcox, and my friends in PTF—D’Alaire, Julie, Monica, Janet, and Marianne—I never would have made writing Star Trek fiction a priority.

  To the “father” of this project, Marco Palmieri: for your brilliant instincts, incredible talent, unfailing patience, and daring to take a chance on this new kid, I owe you my deepest gratitude. Thank you for giving me the chance to build foundations for my castles in the air.

  I am a part of all that I have met;

  Yet all experience is an arch where through

  Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades

  Forever and forever when I move….

  …And this gray spirit yearning in desire

  To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

  Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

  —ALFRED, LORDTENNYSON,

  “ULYSSES”

  1

  “qablIj Hi’ang!” Ngara snarled the traditional challenge at the approaching Son of T’Mokh. She crafted a dance of fast precise spins to the tempo of her anger. Sweat dripped off the glistening ridges of her forehead, beading on her eyelashes. “I will toast my father’s honor over your corpse, you sniveling p’takh !”

  A master of the spear, Lughor did not fear her. Blow for blow, he would match her dazzling display of warrior-craft.“qabwIj vIso’be!”he growled, revealing himself as one well schooled in the ways of battle. In one deft motion, he rent in twain her sleeve from shoulder to wrist. She roared in anger.

  Weapons clashed. Lughor pushed against her. Ngara deflected each blow. Grunting, she gained ground on him. She raised her spear over her shoulder, heaving the point into Lughor’s thigh. In pain, he staggered backward. Calling upon Kahless, he found the strength with which he could combat her fiery fury.

  The struggle began in earnest: thrust, parry, spin away. Weapons locked as the combatants matched rippli
ng muscle against rippling muscle.

  Her pulse, pounding through her ears, deafened her to Lughor’s mocking provocations. She cried, “On this night, I will stand in hot black pools of your blood, spilled when I slit your throat!” Ngara flew through the air, her spear before her, aiming for his throat.

  Lughor’s eyes narrowed. In a feline crouch, he leaped up to intercept her chonnaQ with his own. Ngara’s weapon snapped in two. Roping his arm around her waist, Lughor wrested her to the ground. In one swift movement, he stripped her of the knife strapped to her thigh.

  A battle cry rang from her throat. Ngara broke free of Lughor’s grip. Flipping him onto his back, she straddled his waist, curling her sharp fingernails into his skin. Lughor bucked, but Ngara bored him down, pressing his shoulders to the ground. The sticky sweat-slick cohesion of their bare limbs fused their bodies together as they wrestled on the forest floor. Pungent air, heady and thick with their mingling musks fed their desire.

  The smell of Lughor’s blood on her hands suffused Ngara’s senses; she longed to flick her tongue in his wound, greedily lapping the droplets from his skin. Hunger for her burned in his dark eyes. Pinning her arms above her head, Lughor slid his d’k tahg beneath the lacings of her leather corset, blade against breast. “I will have you!” he growled. And with a swift up-thrust—

  “Nog, what the hell are you reading?”

  The padd Nog had been holding with white-knuckled intensity almost flew out his hand when he heard the voice in his ear. With a clatter, he slammed the padd facedown on the mess hall table and rested his arm on it protectively. All things considered, Defiant’ s embarrassed chief engineer felt like he’d come precariously close to leaping out of his own skin.

  Nog looked up to see Ezri Dax’s upside-down face smiling mischievously at him as she leaned over the top of his head. “At ease, Lieutenant,” she said. “I can only assume that wasn’t the engineering status report I asked for.”

  Eyes still fixed on Dax, Nog felt around the top of the table with his free hand, past his bowl of tube grubs and his Eelwasser, and found the padd in question. “Umm, no. That would be this one,” he said, handing the padd to Dax. Blessed Exchequer, please spare me this humiliation…

  “Thanks,” Dax said, straightening up to examine the contents of the report. “I’ve got Bowers running a diagnostic from the tactical side. With any luck, we can identify where those false readings are coming from when we line this data up with his.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Nog agreed. She’s not gonna embarrass me! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you…

  “That must have been some fascinating reading on that other padd,” Dax said at length. “You don’t often encounter references to leather corsets in Starfleet’s engineering manuals.”

  Ears flushing, Nog winced. The jig, as Vic might say, is up.

  “Oh! Burning Hearts of Qo’noS!” exclaimed Engineer Bryanne Permenter, pointing at Nog from across the mess hall. Bringing her tray with her, she plopped down in the chair beside her boss. “Have you gotten to the part where Ngara has the bat’leth duel with the minions of the House of Rutark?”

  Nog looked up at Dax. She folded her arms and raised a teasing eyebrow as she waited for Nog’s answer.

  “Yes, all right! I’m reading Burning Hearts of Qo’noS! There, I said it! Are you happy?” Turning to Permenter, he said excitedly, “That was great! I never thought she’d make it past the bewitched targs guarding the moat, did you?”

  Dax rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Is this what all engineers do between duty shifts?”

  “Hey, not fair, Lieutenant,” Permenter said. “I got it from T’rb in sciences. So they started it. And if the text was in the library computer and not copy-protected, none of us would need to pass the same padd around from one person to the next.” Turning to Nog, she said, “Didn’t Richter have it before T’rb?”

  “No, Richter asked me to pass it to her when I was done,” Nog said. “Ensign Senkowski gave it to T’rb.”

  Retrieving his chef’s salad from the replicator, Jason Senkowski announced loudly, “Don’t you dare bring me into this. I wouldn’t waste time on that poorly written excuse for a novel. Imagine it, Lieutenant,” he said, addressing Dax, “a Klingon bodice ripper. I tell you, it’s the end of literature as we know it.”

  Permenter snorted. “This from the man who practically begged me to read Vulcan Love Slave.”

  Nog looked at Senkowski, surprised. “Really? Which version?”

  “The classic original, of course,” Senkowski said. “By Krem.”

  “That’s never been proven,” Nog pointed out.

  Senkowski shrugged as he sat down, one table over from the group. “Never been dis proven, either. I know Iskel is the popular favorite, but I’d say the evidence that Krem was the original author is compelling. Regardless of who actually wrote it, though, I’ll take Vulcan Love Slave over Burning Hearts of Qo’noS any day.” Senkowski turned his attention back to Defiant’s first officer. “And for the record, Lieutenant Dax, I happen to like Starfleet’s engineering manuals. I find them pithy, concise, and thorough.”

  “I appreciate your candor, Ensign,” Dax intoned solemnly, trying not to smile. Senkowski had made no secret of his ambition to earn a second pip by the mission’s end.

  “Still miffed Mikaela got the shift chief promotion, eh, Senkowski,” Permenter noted.

  “I take my engineering duties seriously,” he said, raising a forkful of salad.

  “As well you should,” Dax said, elbowing Nog.

  Taking the hint, Nog added, “You’re an invaluable member of the team, Ensign.” Pulling the padd close to his chest, he sneaked another look.

  Ezri laughed.

  “What!” Nog protested. “I’m at the good part!”

  The mess hall doors opened, admitting Lieutenant Sam Bowers. “Lieutenant Dax,” he called when he saw her, waving a padd.

  Whew. Dax can bug someone else for a few minutes. Nog returned to his novel. I just need to see what happens when Lughor’s brother…

  “Results of the tactical systems diagnostic?” Dax asked, weaving around several empty tables to meet Bowers halfway.

  Reluctantly, Nog tore his attention away from Ngara and Lughor’s heated encounter. Though he was off duty, the weapons systems problems could spill into the next shift; an advance notice of what he was facing could be helpful.

  Holding up the padd triumphantly, Sam told Dax, “Turns out we had a redundant programming problem. Nothing serious after all.”

  Dax took the padd and scrolled through the data. “That’s a relief. Last thing we need in a firefight is a malfunctioning torpedo bay,” Ezri said.

  Sam nodded in agreement. “Tell me about it. I like to think I’m good at improvising, but I prefer having a full arsenal at my disposal.”

  Satisfied that the Defiant’ s most pressing problem had been resolved, Nog settled in to find out whether Lughor had yet managed to break Ngara’s clavicle. Permenter leaned over to see what part he was reading, “oo-ing” and “ah-ing” appropriately.

  Unexpectedly, the lights dimmed. Every crewman in the mess hall froze in anticipation.

  Nog’s sensitive ears heard EPS conduits changing amplitude before plummeting into unhealthy silence. With Burning Hearts of Qo’noS tucked under his arm, Nog was on his way to main engineering before the call from the bridge rang out over the comm system: “Red alert! All hands to battle stations! We’re under attack!”

  Acrid smoke filled the corridor, stinging her eyes. Half blind, Dax and Bowers rushed onto a bridge in chaos. Along every wall, stations flickered and sparked as crewmen worked to contain fires and route control of key systems to other consoles, only to contend with new malfunctions at those stations. “What the hell happened?” she muttered, unable to hear her own words over the cacophony.

  Through the smoke, she made out Vaughn standing in front of the command chair, issuing orders to engineering over his combadge. She stumbled over burned
panels thrown aside to facilitate repairs, crunching pieces of shattered control interfaces and carbonized isolinear circuitry. The dim lighting wasn’t making it any easier. She heard Sam curse when he saw the condition of tactical.

  “Captain,” Ezri said, raising her voice to be heard over the Klaxon.

  Vaughn pointed toward one of the pulsing red alert lights as he struggled to hear the report coming in. Ezri got the message and found a working panel from which she could mute the Klaxon.

  Nog’s voice was suddenly audible to her, but he sounded frantic. “—targeted our energy systems with millions of nanobots. They’re eating through our EPS system like acid, bleeding our power. Warp core’s down and we’re running completely on the auxiliaries. But at the speed the nanobots are working, it won’t last long.”

  “Understood,” Vaughn said. “Do what you can, and keep me posted on your progress. Vaughn out.”

  “What do we know so far?” Dax asked.

  “We tripped some kind of sensor web. The instant we penetrated the field, the nanobots just shifted out of subspace and converged on Defiant, entering through the plasma vents. We didn’t know what hit us until it was too late. I want a shipwide status report immediately.” Turning to Bowers, Vaughn said, “Sam, make sure that whatever we’ve stumbled into is the end of something and not the beginning.”

  Seeing that sciences was vacant but at least partially functional, Ezri took a seat and attempted to assess the scope of the damage. Nearby, Prynn Tenmei knelt beside an unconscious Ensign Leishman, the bridge engineer on duty when the attack came. Judging from her injuries and the condition of her station, Ezri concluded at a glance that Leishman’s console must have blown right in front of her.

  Ezri moved to initiate a site-to-site transport to sickbay, but discovered transporters were down. She relaxed when Ensign Richter entered the bridge, carrying a medkit. Tenmei moved aside to give the nurse room to work. Satisfied that Leishman was being taken care of, Dax returned her attention to coaxing information from the uncooperative ODN.