by Peter David
“Not likely,” Bashir countered. “We’ve shielded the entire core with refined kelbonite. Unless you’re within half an A.U., this just looks like another piece of cold metal in deep space.”
Zek chimed in, “We’re not morons, O’Brien. We took precautions.”
“Uh-huh.” More skeptical than before, O’Brien inquired, “And where’d you get the kelbonite?” After a few seconds it became obvious that no one wanted to provide the answer. “You stole it, right?” Bashir rolled his eyes like a chastised teenager and looked away. “Of course you did,” O’Brien continued. “And to hide a fusion core, you must’ve stolen a lot of it. A material with no other tactical application except to hide things from sensors. You don’t think the Alliance is going to notice that sooner or later?”
“And what if they did?” Zek shot back. “What’re they going to do?”
“They’ll start asking themselves what we’d need it for. And they might wonder what else we needed. That’ll lead them to the fuel you stole, and the weapons.” O’Brien paced away from the group and eyed the stripped-down frame of the station, both inside and outside. “And what if the evidence leads them here? Have you thought of that? You built your shipyard on a station with no defense screens and no weapons arrays. Most of the power-distribution system was stripped for parts—one good overload and most of your onboard systems are done for. And with your main reactor running over its red line, it won’t take much to turn it to slag.”
His rant seemed like it was starting to sway some opinion back to the side of reason when Bashir stepped forward, between O’Brien and the rest of the group, and turned back to face the others. “What did I tell you, everyone? Isn’t it just what I said he’d do? Take our greatest achievement yet and try to make it sound like a failure!” The younger, thinner man turned and glared at O’Brien as if he were a prosecutor facing a defendant. “It makes me wonder whether he wants to win this war, or if he actually prefers being a victim. Instead of seeing our advantages, he sees only our weaknesses. Zek writes a plan for victory, but all O’Brien can see is a blueprint for failure.”
The only thing O’Brien could think about was using his fists to smash Bashir’s face to a bloody pulp. It would feel so good … and would solve absolutely nothing. Reining in his temper, O’Brien glanced out the window again, and this time he noticed the empty twelfth construction frame. “I see twelve frames but I only count eleven ships,” he said. “Something go wrong on number twelve?”
“Far from it,” Bashir said with a smug grin, then he turned and looked back at Zek.
The decrepit Ferengi flipped open the jeweled headpiece of his walking stick and spoke into it. “Zek to Demrik—decloak.” A few seconds later, a shimmer rippled the starfield outside the observation windows, then the specter of a Defiant-class ship resolved into the concrete reality of one. “The first one off our new assembly line,” he declared. “My ship: the Capital Gain.”
Structurally, the ship was all but identical to the Defiant. Its only major difference was its color scheme, which featured a large number of dark red panels and black accents. It gave O’Brien a chill as he recognized its cultural heritage—it was an homage to the last generation of ships produced by the Terran Empire. “In less than a week,” Zek continued, “the rebellion will have more than a dozen of these battle frigates, each one with a Romulan cloaking device. When all thirteen ships are operational, we’ll start building twelve more—and show the Alliance what a real war looks like.”
If you don’t get caught stealing any more supplies, groused O’Brien’s inner pessimist. If no Alliance ships make a close flyby during a routine patrol. If no one looks for a pattern in your heists. If you installed your kelbonite shielding properly. Those were a lot more if ’s than O’Brien was comfortable entrusting with the future of the rebellion.
One of the other rebel leaders, a brown-skinned Terran named Calvin Hudson, spoke up from within the huddle. “If we’re going to escalate this war, do we need to talk about the security on Terok Nor?”
“Terok Nor can handle whatever the Alliance can dish out,” O’Brien snapped, perhaps too defensively. “You want to worry about a station, start with this one. Bloody house of cards you’ve got here.”
“I wasn’t talking about weapons and shields,” Hudson said. “I was thinking more in terms of personnel.”
The glib insinuation raised O’Brien’s ire. “Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Hudson shrugged. “You haven’t exactly been careful about screening your top people. What if you’ve been letting in spies? An infiltrator could just walk in; how would you know?”
“I’d know,” O’Brien said. “Don’t tell me I don’t know my own people.”
Apprehensive glances worked their way around the group. A worried look passed between Hudson and Bashir, then Hudson looked back at O’Brien. “In the last two months, four of our camps in the Badlands have been hit by the Alliance.”
This was old news to O’Brien, who grumbled, “I know.”
“You know it happened,” Hudson said, “but do you know why?”
“Could be lots of reasons,” O’Brien said. “Maybe the camps’ sensor screens weren’t good enough. Maybe the Alliance intercepted some of our comm traffic.”
Nodding, Hudson replied, “Or maybe one of our people told the Alliance where to find the camps.” He added quickly, “All four camps were ones set up by your crew on the Defiant.”
O’Brien felt the noose tightening. “We set up plenty of other camps, too,” he said. “And we weren’t the last ship at any of the ones we lost.”
“No,” Hudson said, “you weren’t. But you and your crew are the common denominator. We can’t risk trusting anyone too much, not now.”
Zek pounced on O’Brien’s momentary hesitation. “I’ve been warning him about this for months,” he squawked. “But did he listen? Of course not. He just doled out ranks and racks like it was a clearance sale. He even made some woman he barely knows the X.O. just so he could get her in his bunk!”
“You shut your mouth!” O’Brien roared, lunging forward at the wizened Zek, who flinched. Hudson and Bashir caught the rebel leader and held him back.
“Back off,” Bashir said.
Hudson added, “Calm down.”
“The hell I will,” O’Brien said, twisting in their grasp. “I won’t let him stand there and call Keiko a whore!”
Zek responded with a broad, snaggle-toothed grin. “Actually, I was insulting you. I don’t know her well enough to call her a whore … yet.”
O’Brien almost broke free this time. Two more men stepped between him and Zek. Hudson tried to referee the situation. “Zek, do us all a favor and be quiet for a moment. Miles, stand down. We all know Zek’s over the line here, but there’s a reasonable point behind what he’s saying.”
Still firmly in Hudson and Bashir’s grip, O’Brien replied, “Yeah? I’d like to hear it.”
“We did some checking, Smiley,” Bashir said. “I talked to some of the people Keiko allegedly helped ‘liberate’ from the mining colony on Korvat. They say the Cardassians made her a supervisor because she was a collaborator. She helped them choose which workers were beaten, which ones got put into solitary—and which ones got put to death.”
Shaking his head, O’Brien said, “That’s a bloody lie.”
“You can’t know that for a fact,” Hudson said.
“Yes, I can, Cal.”
Looks passed between Hudson, Bashir, and several others. Hudson did his best to sound nonjudgmental. “Miles, try to see this from the other side. There are witnesses who’re telling us she might be a threat, an Alliance collaborator. Maybe they’re wrong—I hope they are. But if they’re right, then you’ve made an enemy agent the first officer of our best stronghold. Is that really a chance you’re willing to take? Is that a risk you’ll stake your reputation on?”
O’Brien relaxed enough that the men around him let go of his arms and stepped away to gi
ve him back some personal space. He met Hudson’s stare with his own certain gaze and said with perfect certainty, “Yes, it is. I know my crew. They aren’t spies. Now, if the only way to prove it to you is for me to spy on them, so be it. But I’m telling you now: if there is a spy, it’s not one of my people—and it’s not Keiko.”
Zek was in high dudgeon. He lifted his arms and wailed with steadily rising volume, “This is ridiculous! There’s no good reason to trust her, and a perfectly valid reason not to. Why can’t you be reasonable? Why won’t you listen to the facts? Why do you trust her?”
“Because I love her,” O’Brien admitted, without shame.
A collective groan rose from the group. Murmurs of “Oh, no” and “So, it’s true” fluttered around him. Zek’s voice shrilled above the chorus of dismay: “Love! The greatest of all natural disasters! The fastest way I know to get a man killed!” He pointed an accusatory, crooked finger at O’Brien. “No wonder you’ve gone soft!”
“I haven’t gone soft,” O’Brien protested, but part of him wondered if he might be lying this time. “I’ve just gotten a bit more conservative in my planning.”
Behind him, Bashir whispered to Hudson in a voice just loud enough for O’Brien to hear, “When did conservative become a synonym for cowardly?”
O’Brien held his tongue and kept his eyes on Zek.
“For all our sakes,” the old Ferengi said, “let’s hope you haven’t gone weak, O’Brien. Because now that the Capital Gain is ready for action, I’ve got her first mission planned—and it depends on the Defiant being strong by her side. The last thing I need is to go into battle and find out you’ve cut and run.”
“Don’t worry about me,” O’Brien said, full of anger and wounded pride. “I’ve never run from a fight in my life.”
“Good,” Zek said. “Because it’s time to hit the Alliance where it lives.”
It was very late. The comm alert was harsh and loud.
Bleary-eyed, out of sorts, and woken from a deep slumber, Ro Laren cast aside her bedsheets in a single throw. The flutter of mustard-hued Tholian silk looked gray in the sleep-cycle twilight of her quarters aboard the I.K.S. Negh’Var. Mumbling curses, she shuffled across the room to the wall-mounted comm terminal. A scroll of data on the left margin of the screen indicated that the incoming signal was from Cardassia Prime; the encryption marker was from the Detapa Council. She knew exactly whose face to expect as she opened the channel.
The screen snapped from idly dark to blinding. Her eyes took a moment to adjust, then she recognized the face of her strongest off-world political ally, Legate Skrain Dukat. His leer was smarmy. “Did I wake you, Intendant? My apologies.”
“That almost sounded sincere,” Ro said. “You’re improving.” Without waiting for him to continue their verbal thrust-and-parry routine, she added, “What do you want?”
Dukat smiled like a serpent. “Still not a fan of small talk, I see. Very well. I’ve heard from a mutual acquaintance that your predecessor has been spared by the mercy of Regent Martok.” He paused, as if anticipating some commentary by Ro. She flashed him a glare that impelled him to continue. “It’s also been brought to my attention that Intendant Kira has been entrusted to your loving care aboard the Negh’Var.”
Ro sighed. “Do you have a question you want to ask?”
“I was just curious how the two of you are getting along.”
Her tone was laced with bilious contempt. “Swimmingly. Like giddy sisters. Couldn’t be better. She completes me.”
“That badly, eh?”
She rubbed the fog of sleep from her eyes. “I didn’t have any choice about taking her onto my staff. Martok made that decision for me—no thanks to you.”
“Did you really think I was going to use up political capital over this? Really, Laren, be serious. I can’t afford to expend time and resources to block the Klingon regent from making a minor political appointment—no matter how odious you and I might consider it to be.”
Ro combed her fingers through her hair. “Having her here complicates things,” she said. “It might seem like only a minor annoyance to you, but it’s not your back she’s looking to stab.”
“True enough,” Dukat said. “I certainly don’t mean to say that she’s not dangerous. Given her knowledge of how things work within the Alliance—and her knack for dirty politics in general—I’d have to say she could interfere in any number of ways.” He cocked his head forward, as if he could invade her personal space through a subspace comm channel. “You have taken steps to marginalize her, haven’t you?”
“Of course,” Ro said. She set the comm unit to wide-field display with tracking so that she could move about her quarters while continuing the conversation. “I gave her the worst job I could find. Paperwork, permits, budgetary red tape.” Ro stopped in front of her replicator and pressed a quick key for raktajino; her preferred blend was cold and bitter. “It’s the sort of job that makes people hang themselves,” she added.
Dukat shook his head. “I wouldn’t count on that kind of luck with Kira,” he said. “The woman’s like a disease with no cure. Every time you think you’ve stamped her out, she comes back. Assassination plots fall apart; schemes to send her back to Bajor in disgrace always seem to backfire. It’s as if she leads a charmed life.”
After swallowing a sip of raktajino, Ro replied with a malicious grin, “You didn’t see her when we picked her up at Qo’noS.”
Ever attentive to salacious details, Dukat widened his eyes as he speculated, “I take it she was the worse for wear?”
“You know what they say about Klingons,” Ro replied. “Speaking of which, I’m stuck on a ship full of them. When are you going to send me a Cardassian ship to carry my flag?” It was a loaded question; the decision wasn’t up to Dukat, who continued to lag behind Martok in terms of his influence and prestige within the Alliance. For decades the Klingons had lorded it over the Cardassians as the predominant power, in both military and economic strength. It was a longtime point of contention between the neighboring empires.
Unsuccessfully masking his irritation, Dukat shifted in his seat and smiled again. “As soon as I can,” he said. “Until then, you should focus on keeping Kira under control. She’s a tricky one; she’ll constantly be looking for ways to manipulate you.”
“I know, Dukat,” Ro said, becoming more irritated. “I’ve known her longer than you have. She and I have spent most of our careers making each other miserable.”
“Good. It’s a pleasure to meet someone who holds her in the same kind of contempt that I do.”
Back in front of the display screen, Ro permitted herself a sly smirk at Dukat. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said. “An equal degree of contempt, certainly. But the same kind? I doubt that very much.”
He bristled at her comments, which made his strained smile become crooked with doubt and ire. “Why do you say that?”
She let him stew for a moment while she savored another long sip of her raktajino. Then she set down the drink and folded her arms across her chest. “My problem with Kira is political. I don’t like the way she mixes business and pleasure, or her habit of glorifying herself when other people do all the work. What’s more, she was a disgrace to this office; she treated it like her own personal orgy. Put simply, she’s a violent narcissist who consistently put her own pleasure ahead of the needs of Bajor or the good of the Alliance.” Dukat was nodding at Ro’s remarks, had been for several seconds. He stopped as she continued, “But you? I think your problem with Kira is personal. I know all about your little dalliance with her mother … and that you’ve had what can only politely be described as an unwholesome obsession with Nerys since she was a girl. And even though she’s been notoriously liberal with her sexual favors, sharing them with men and women of just about any species … she has been pointedly unwilling to bestow any upon you.”
“That’s enough,” Dukat said. He was fuming now, his eyes blazing with fury. Just as Ro had suspected, his inse
curities ran deep and would likely prove to be his greatest single personality flaw. Good to know, she decided.
In a more soothing tone of voice she said, “Now, darling, there’s no need to get upset.” She flashed a seductive smile. “Why would you want to waste your time with her, a lowly bureaucrat, when you already have me, the Intendant of Bajor?”
Her wheedling was enough to calm Dukat slightly, but his usual veneer of faux courtesy was now abandoned, replaced by his most abrasive authoritarian manner. “Don’t forget, darling, that the only reason you are the Intendant of Bajor is because I’ve expended a lot of effort to put you there. Bajor has been a puppet of the Klingons for too long; we’re finally on the verge of shifting control of the Alliance to Cardassia, but if there’s one person who can bring all our plans to ruin, it’s Kira. She has to be kept in check until a believable ‘accident’ can be arranged. Do you think you can handle that?”
“Don’t worry,” Ro said. “She’s not going anywhere.”
Dukat nodded. “Good.” Once more his mouth curled up into an arrogant smirk. “On a more pleasant note, have you given any thought as to when you might make another visit to Cardassia Prime? My bed has felt empty without you.”
A teasing smile softened the bite of her reply. “Which bed? The one in your home, in Coranum? Or the one in that little hideaway in Torr where you take all your mistresses?”
He shook his head at her, the way a father would reprimand a foolish child. “Always the same refrain,” he said. “Do you ever have a waking moment that isn’t colored with resentment?”
“No,” she confessed. She terminated the comm link, turned, and stalked back to bed, regretting once more her affair with Dukat. It had been a necessary sacrifice to secure his support, but as she was now reminded every time she saw his face, there was a bitter truth hidden in the phrase “stoop to conquer.”
• • •
The only stink stronger than General Duras’s body odor was his breath, which filled the air around Kira as the portly Klingon bellowed down at her, “You bothered me for this? For a jumble of trivia and old news?” He thrust her data padd back into her hands. “Get off my bridge, you ignorant trollop.”
