Star Trek Prometheus -Fire with Fire

by Christian Humberg

3

  OCTOBER 31, 2385

  Deep Space 9

  The new Deep Space 9 was one of the Federation’s largest space stations. It was a state-of-the-art technological miracle, the result of hard work and driven optimism. The design was based on its Cardassian-built predecessor of the same name, which had been destroyed by an act of sabotage. The station of the Frontier-class consisted of three perpendicular ring structures surrounding a spindle-shaped core. The rings were housing docking stations for visiting ships, cargo holds, sensors, weapons, and shields. The central sphere was home to ops, housing, workplaces, and recreational facilities for the crew of several thousand people. Many light years away from Earth and the Sol sector, the new Deep Space 9 kept watch near the Bajoran wormhole, which was still a volatile hub for interstellar travel and galaxy-wide politics. Despite only having been commissioned recently, it had already contributed more to the Federation’s history than its commander would have liked.

  “So, this is where it happened. This is where President Bacco was assassinated.”

  Captain Ro Laren nodded briefly. “Believe me when I say that we weren’t looking for that kind of fame. We wanted to be a symbol of hope, not one of horror.” She approached the food replicator in her office, partly because she was exhausted, partly because she was eager to change the subject. “Would you also like a raktajino?”

  Her visitor raised an eyebrow. “Klingon coffee? From a replicator? Captain, Captain… that is anything but classy.”

  Great, thought Ro, a snob. “Replicators may still fall short of the taste quality that farms and plantations yield, but you know as well as I do that you get used to them. And DS9’s raktajino is quite good. Half of the station’s crew is addicted to it. Our chief has programmed the replicators to produce a unique blend that one of the superior officers on our previous station really liked. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He’s serving as first officer on the Enterprise-E these days.”

  The second eyebrow joined the first one. “Well, that certainly guarantees quality. Who am I to reject a coffee from Commander Worf?”

  Smiling, Ro ordered two mugs of the strong Klingon brew, and returned to the desk in her office. Her guest accepted his mug, thanking her. Captain Richard Adams, who sat in the visitor’s chair in front of Ro’s desk, was by no means a small man. However, Ro’s view of his would have been occluded if she hadn’t pushed aside the mountains of reports, applications, and tactical analyses that had buried her desk. Now, in addition to a free line of sight, she had the misguided feeling that her immense workload had somehow lessened. Thomas Gray, the Irish poet of old, had been right: Ignorance was bliss.

  Ro’s unobstructed view showed her a man with dark hair, flecked with gray. He was slender and looked fairly fit. His blue eyes were alert and friendly.

  “So, Captain, welcome to DS9. This is your first time in the Bajoran sector, right?”

  Adams raised his mug to toast her. “That’s right. I wish this would have taken place under more relaxed circumstances.”

  “You’ve got to stay optimistic, Captain,” she said in a sardonic tone. She pointed at the closed office door that led to the station’s operations center. “I was told that the future will begin in half an hour, and that everything will be better then.”

  The United Federation of Planets was in the process of ending a phase of crises that had been unrivaled for generations. Numerous wars, invasions, and assassinations had nearly brought the once strong galactic community to its knees during recent years, and they had almost caused them to forget about their goals and principles… sometimes Ro’s fellow officers had forgotten even the very oath they had sworn to Starfleet.

  Today, all that was supposed to become the past. Today, the galaxy was about to draw the metaphorical line under everything in order to look ahead, and not back—no matter how difficult that might prove.

  “The future.” Adams snorted. “Do you really believe that, Captain Ro? After the Dominion War we all believed that we would be able to go back to concentrating on exploration and research and peace. And what happened? The Borg returned. After that, our longstanding enemies formed the Typhon Pact. And then the cherry on top, Andor left the Federation, calling us traitors of our own beliefs.”

  “I can’t blame Andor for that,” Ro said quietly. For decades, the four-gendered Andorians had battled a reproductive crisis which pushed their people to the brink of extinction. Secret documents from the Federation’s archives might have helped but they had been held back. The Tholians had publicized this scandal and thus destroyed a lot of trust, which was currently slowly being rebuilt, after recent medical successes.

  Adams nodded. “The situation was a huge mess, the latest in a series.”

  Wistfully, Ro looked at the piles of work that she had pushed aside. Who knows, she thought with the terrifying horror of an experienced commander, how many huge messes are lingering in that pile? Aloud she said, “Still, today is the big day, Captain. The entire galaxy is eagerly awaiting President zh’Tarash’s galactic address.” Her words were an attempt to motivate herself, and that attempt failed rather dismally. “I can promise you one thing, though: there isn’t a place anywhere in the galaxy looking forward to her inaugural speech more than here on DS9.”

  Kellessar zh’Tarash was Andorian, and she had become the new, democratically elected leader of the Federation. Ro had read the new president’s resumé during the past couple of days, and she considered it ideal for this post. Zh’Tarash had lost close family members during the Borg invasion. She had opposed the social dogmas that had pushed the civilization in her homeworld to the brink of extinction. She had also had firsthand experience of Andor turning its back on the galactic league of worlds it had helped found in order to build a relationship with the antagonistic Typhon Pact.

  Still, even more important was the fact that zh’Tarash felt bound by the political goals of her appraised predecessor Nanietta Bacco, the woman who had been murdered only two months ago on Deep Space 9 at the height of the crisis.

  Adams sipped his raktajino. “The past few weeks were insane, even for us out on the Tzenkethi border. President Bacco’s death almost became the final nail in the Federation’s coffin. We were all shocked. Not to mention the internal problems in the wake of her death…” Adams shook his head.

  “Yeah, we all saw how easily democracy can be abused,” Ro finished his thought, “when it’s timid and doesn’t take care of itself. I grew up on Bajor under Cardassian rule, so I got to see how bad things can get first-hand. Luckily, the Federation didn’t hit bottom the way Bajor did. We still have our ideals and we got back to embracing them. That’s what today’s about, Captain—starting a new era for the Federation and leaving the past in the past.” She smiled. “Gotta stay optimistic.”

  Adams crossed his legs, taking a deep breath. “From your lips to the Prophets’ ears, Captain.” Tilting his head, he corrected himself. “Oh, I beg your pardon. You don’t belong to the Bajoran religion, do you?”

  “No apology needed.” She waved his words aside. The times when she had opposed her people’s religion with an almost fanatical fervor were long gone. Today’s Ro Laren was no longer a rebel for rebellion’s sake. These days she was able to acknowledge not only black and white but also many shades of gray; something she had been unable to do in her youth or early in her career. It wasn’t that long ago that she never would have used “we” to describe the Federation, even though she was a Starfleet officer. “Believe me, if I was religious, I’d agree with you.”

  Her visitor from the U.S.S. Prometheus seemed sympathetic. “The craziness must have been a thousand times worse here, right?”

  Ro laughed without any sign of humor. “That is an understatement. President Bacco died during the opening ceremony for the new station. The Federation News Service broadcasted images of the assassination to every corner of the galaxy. There’s probably no one in the Alpha or Beta Quadrant who didn’t watch it—thanks to the wormhole and Project Full Circle
, it went to the Gamma and Delta Quadrant, too. Why this had to happen on my station…” She trailed off, grasping for words and not finding them. “I want to be honest with you, Adams. My entire crew is still suffering the aftereffects of this. I know, we’re all suffering to one degree or other, but for us it’s worse, because it happened on our watch. We stood right next to her when it happened. We should have been more careful.”

  “You were careful,” Adams said firmly. “The images made it to the Tzenkethi border, too, Captain, and so did the after-action reports. Trust me, sometimes disasters can’t be avoided, try as we might. Sometimes those opposing peace are simply stronger than us.”

  The Bajoran captain said nothing. She knew that Adams was right; she even agreed with him. Those were the exact words she’d used when addressing her staff whenever they felt depressed by the images of that dreadful day. Sometimes you simply cannot win.

  Still, it was one thing to grasp this concept; it was another to accept it. “I guess the trick is not to get disheartened.”

  “Well said.” Adams nodded, taking another sip from his raktajino while leaning back in his chair. “And you can tell Commander Worf from me: More beans!”

  Ro burst out laughing, and her tension dissolved. “You’re chipping away at his honor there, Captain.”

  “Absolutely not. I hold him in the highest respect as a man and as a warrior.” Adams placed his mug on the desk, regarding it skeptically. “Unfortunately, his taste in coffee leaves a lot to be desired. Tell me, Captain Ro, have you ever tasted Jamaican Blue-Mountain-Coffee?”

  Before she could answer, the door to her office hissed open. Major Cenn Desca, Ro’s first officer, appeared. “You wanted to be informed when the festivities were about to start, Captain,” said the middle-aged Bajoran, nodding politely toward Adams as well. “I believe they are ready on Earth.”

  “Thank you, Cenn.” Ro rose behind her desk, straightening her uniform. Looking at Adams she asked: “Care to accompany me, Captain? I thought we could both watch zh’Tarash in ops.”

  “In the ever-beating, proud heart of the great station Deep Space 9?” Mischief sparkled in Adams’s eyes. It made him look ten years younger. “How very symbolic, Captain Ro. My first officer chided me as a poet today, but you are a true romantic.”

  “Don’t let anyone from my crew hear that,” Ro muttered under her breath. Then she and her guest started toward ops, into the future.

  * * *

  “If this is the future, I’m already disappointed.” Indignantly, Lenissa zh’Thiin glanced over her shoulder, back at the counter where they had just placed their orders. “An embassy with integrated bar services?” The Andorian security chief of the Prometheus had a derogatory look on her face.

  “This isn’t the future, Niss,” said Sarita Carson who was sitting to her right, chuckling quietly. “Technically, right now, we’re in Ferengi territory. They have completely different ways—even in the field of diplomacy.”

  Quark’s Bar, Grill, Gaming House, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy to Bajor was the impressively voluminous name of the multi-level establishment deep in the belly of Deep Space 9 where their small group had assembled. This highly unusual diplomatic office was run by a Ferengi, the illustrious Ambassador Quark. He was a distinctly shady character with a huge, bald skull, ears the size of toilet seats, a sly smile, and a dress-sense that zh’Thiin thought to not only severely insult the eye of any beholder, but also cause it irreversible damage. Zh’Thiin had met several Ferengi in her youth, and she had never been able to acquire a taste for their devious behavior. Ferengi always wanted to make money, and they were constantly chasing profit. They even sold their principles on occasion—a trait that the proud Andorian could not condone under any circumstances.

  Zh’Thiin took a deep breath, smelling the alcohol that was lingering in the air and the odd odors of the many and varied alien species that made up Quark’s clientele. She heard the technological, yet melodic droning of gambling tables, where scantily dressed women and one man tempted visitors to place horrendous amounts of money on bets, and she caught snippets of conversations in more than a dozen different languages. This was no embassy, she decided. It was not even a bar. It was unadulterated chaos.

  “And you really used to be assigned here?”

  Carson nodded. “Well, not here, exactly, but on the old DS9. My post was actually to the Defiant, a battleship that belonged to the station, but my quarters were here on the station.” The lieutenant commander with the dark hair stared into space, apparently somewhat taken by her clearly pleasant memories. “Quark’s used to be a welcome haven. Especially when Chief O’Brien and Doctor Bashir held one of their darts tournaments, and Quark offered prize money.”

  Geron Barai, chief medical officer aboard the Prometheus, looked up incredulously. “Prize money?” the Betazoid repeated. Barai sat across from zh’Thiin on the other side of the circular table that stood in the center of the bar. His attractive features mirrored his doubts. “Offered by a Ferengi?”

  Zh’Thiin also had difficulties believing this notion. Gazing back at the counter she bent her antennae forward curiously. “Impossible. The guy just tried to sell me a glass full of greenish-yellow stuff, and didn’t even know what it tasted like. He won’t give away anything to anyone.”

  Carson laughed. “Ah, the good old Wormhole Surprise, Quark’s favorite cocktail. He basically throws together anything that’s past its sell-by date and needs to go, and then he calls it a specialty of the house. If I were you, I’d keep well away from that, Niss. Doctor Bashir once was bold—or stupid—enough to try a Wormhole. He was sick for three days after that… a doctor, remember!” She paused for a moment while a waiter served their drinks. Once he had placed the glasses in the middle of the small table, she continued. “You didn’t listen properly, Niss, and that can be a major mistake when Quark is involved. I said that he offered the prize money back then. I never said that he actually paid it.”

  Zh’Thiin nodded grimly. I knew it, she thought. Not a glimmer of pride in his body, but a big mouth. “That sounds more like a Ferengi.”

  “Aw, c’mon.” Carson touched her arm. “Don’t be so hard on the good old Quark. He simply won the tournament… every time.”

  Jenna Kirk, the fourth member of the small party, snorted derisively. “What an impressive coincidence.” She leaned back in her chair. “And you’re sure that wasn’t due to biased darts?”

  “That depends on who you ask, Jen,” Carson answered with an exaggerated innocent grin that made the chief engineer laugh.

  Zh’Thiin sighed quietly, casting a glance to her left. “And what about you?” she asked the fifth member of their little bunch. “Are you already counting your cash in your mind so you can waste it on the Dabo table, or why else be so silent? Truth be told, if you weren’t sat next to me, Lieutenant, I’d have assumed you’d stayed on Earth. This is your welcome party!”

  Lieutenant Jassat ak Namur blinked, as if to shake away confusion, and straightened his shoulders. The red-skinned exotic-looking Renao who was taking on the conn on the bridge of the Prometheus seemed to wake from a daydream that must have been just as fascinating as his extraordinary appearance. Perhaps his thoughts had taken him back to the graduating ceremony in San Francisco on Earth only a few weeks ago.

  “Excuse me, Commander,” he said. “I’m afraid I haven’t been listening.”

  “You mean, you’ve been taking forty winks,” Carson teased him. “Where did you let your mind wander off to? To one of your many amorous Academy adventures, perhaps?”

  Ak Namur faced the floor. “No,” he answered quietly, but smiling. “No.”

  The lieutenant was the only Renao in the entire fleet. He had come aboard the Prometheus as an exchange officer years before zh’Thiin had arrived. When his tour of service had come to an end, he had requested to be allowed to attend the Academy, and Adams had sponsored him. The Renao had jet-black hair, wore golden ear and nose jewelry, and had glowing,
yellow-golden eyes. Even in Quark’s motley diplomats’ bar he stood out like a sore thumb. When zh’Thiin looked at him, she thought of hot nights in the desert and a sky full of deep-cratered moons.

  “Oh, come on, Jassat.” Kirk patted the pilot’s shoulder in a companionable way. Zh’Thiin knew that their friendship went back to ak Namur’s days as an exchange officer. In fact, Kirk had organized this little party. “Don’t be so shy. We’re glad to have you back with us. Ciarese valiantly stood in for you at conn while you were gone. But if you ask me, he took a wrong turn here and there.”

  Ak Namur’s smile broadened. “I think, you’re exaggerating,” he said, and zh’Thiin noted yet again how much she liked his slight accent. “Mind you, so are the prices for drinks in this… embassy.”

  Chuckling with amusement, Carson looked at Quark. “I wouldn’t put it past him to raise them even more sometime soon. If he destroys that computer, he will probably have to replace it.”

  Zh’Thiin turned around. The barkeep hammered his fist against a small console that was embedded in the wall behind his counter. He seemed fairly frustrated, and apparently it didn’t help that the device promptly quit its service after the rough treatment.

  “You call this quality workmanship?” Quark ranted. “All right, we’ll try it the old-fashioned way—yelling at it!” Quark rushed around the bar and made his way between the busy tables, ignoring all the quizzical—and mocking—looks of his guests. He stopped right in the middle of the bar, looking straight up at the ceiling. “Computer, activate holoscreen!”

  A soft triad rang across the bar, followed by an artificial female voice that was a bit higher pitched than the voice used for Starfleet computers. “Activation impossible.”

  Quark’s fist clenched as if about to throttle the disembodied voice. “What? Computer, that screen was installed two days ago! It’s impossible for it to be broken!”

  “Confirmed. Holoscreen is fully functional.”

  Amused, Barai glanced at zh’Thiin, but the Andorian barely acknowledged his gaze. She didn’t want to appear too acquainted in front of everyone else.