Obsidian Alliances

by Various

  “I’m sorry, O’Brien,” she said, and she sounded as if she meant it. “But I’ve been waiting for a ship like yours for a long time.”

  “Long enough that you’re willing to slaughter civilians?”

  Deep shame filled her eyes like a shadow. Unable to answer him, she turned away and joined the growing cluster that was following Zek and Bashir out of the bar. Her exit was a betrayal. In less than a minute, there was only one person left at the table with O’Brien: Eddington.

  Noting the absence of the guerrilla leader from his group’s ranks, Zek shouted back to him, “Eddington! What’re you waiting for?”

  “I’m not going with you,” Eddington said in a quiet voice.

  Consumed by ego and fury, Zek demanded, “In the name of the Blessed Exchequer, why not? You’d have a warship of your own to command! This is the moment you’ve been waiting for, the moment you’ve earned! Get off your ass and take it!”

  Calm and unintimidated in the least, Eddington responded with a wan smile and a simple, “Good luck.”

  “Fine,” Zek whined. “Stay here with O’Brien and write poems about this utopian vision of his. We’ll be at Cardassia Prime, scoring the biggest victory of the rebellion!” The old Ferengi walked out of the bar with Bashir at his side and all of the rebellion’s senior leaders except O’Brien and Eddington in tow. Kasidy lagged behind the others, as if she was grappling with second thoughts, but at the last moment she exited the bar, following Zek and his entourage to the Capital Gain, for transport to their new fleet at Empok Nor.

  A dark moment of disappointment hung over O’Brien. He was effectively finished as the leader of the rebellion. Zek would be calling the shots now. With the power of a dozen Defiant-class ships under his command, Zek and Bashir would go on a rampage. Not for a moment did O’Brien believe they would stop after the strike on Cardassia Prime. Qo’noS would instantly become a target. After that, any world that didn’t knuckle under to their demands would find itself the victim of a sneak attack by a cloaked fleet of the most devastating ships in the quadrant. It was a disaster on a scale that O’Brien didn’t even want to imagine.

  His glum ponderings were interrupted by Eddington. “What’ll we do if Zek and Bashir actually defeat the Alliance?”

  “I don’t know,” O’Brien said with a despondent shake of his head. “Start another rebellion?”

  The leather of Kira’s borrowed uniform fit her body more snugly than her body suit had, but she didn’t mind because it also flattered her, boosting her décolletage and accentuating her every curve. She took Kurn’s leers as compliments, and she found ego-pleasing amusement in the efforts his crew had to make to avoid being caught stealing their own glances in her direction. As far as they knew, she was Kurn’s woman—and she played the part with enthusiasm, draping herself over his shoulder like a tendril of black ivy. Acting as his adoring consort and obedient plaything suited her purposes; it kept the rest of the crew at bay for fear of his wrath, and it made it so much easier for her and Kurn to conspire without making anyone suspicious.

  Her breath rebounded from Kurn’s ear and warmed her lips as she whispered to him, “We’re close now.”

  Kurn knew what to do. “Helm,” he barked. “Take us out of warp on the edge of the Trivas system.”

  “Aye, Captain,” acknowledged Ronak, the Ya’Vang’s senior flight controller. Less than a minute later, the ship dropped back to sublight speed, and the stars on the main viewer retreated into themselves.

  Kira nuzzled the tip of her nose softly against Kurn’s ear as she mutedly advised him. “If you get within three billion qelI’qams of Empok Nor running at normal power, you’ll light up every sensor on the station.”

  An amused grunt rolled inside Kurn’s throat. He reached up and affectionately stroked his fingers through Kira’s hair. To her surprise, she liked the way his hands felt on her skin. He lowered his hand and leaned forward in his chair. “Helm, set course for Empok Nor. Accelerate to full impulse for ten seconds, then cut all engines; we’ll let inertia carry us in.” Pivoting the chair, Kurn turned toward his first officer. “Krona, rig the ship for silent running.”

  The slight but wiry-looking executive officer nodded his understanding and began translating the general order into specific commands at each duty station. Step by step, almost every major system on the ship was powered down. Active sensors were disabled; the main computer was shifted to standby mode. Environmental support, replicators, turbolifts all were shut off. Almost immediately, Kira felt the air start to cool; it would soon grow heavier, thicker with carbon dioxide. Around the bridge, monitors went dark. Lights faded to anemic flickers. The hum of the warp core faded away, surrendering to the unnerving silence of deep space. A noncom marched onto the bridge and approached Krona. “Engine room secured, sir,” the young engineer’s mate reported. “Ready for snap restart.”

  “Good work,” said Krona. “Go back and tell Hervog we’ll need weapons online at the same time as the warp drive.” The noncom nodded and ran back the way he had come.

  Nestled against Kurn’s arm in the darkness, Kira felt herself drifting inexorably into slumber. She was so tired; her limbs felt sapped of strength. To close her eyes for even a little while was tempting, but she had spent the past few months learning to stay on her guard, to remain vigilant against every threat she could think of, whether it had seemed imminent or not. Her head lolled forward, weighted down with drowsiness. She snapped it back upright, then blinked her irritated eyes against the ruby twilight of the Ya’Vang’s bridge.

  Kurn’s whisper was like a deep rumble in the earth, a low vibration that coursed through her. “It’s all right to rest,” he assured her. “You’re safe here…. Sleep.” His summons was all the urging she needed to let go. Propped against the side of his chair, his massive forearm a steady cushion beneath her head, she drifted off, releasing herself from consciousness.

  She snapped fully awake. It seemed at first as if she hadn’t slept at all, but then half-remembered nightmares lurked in her thoughts like shadows. She glanced at the chronometer in the lower corner of the main viewer and was taken aback to see that she’d been asleep for a few hours.

  A chill now subdued the ship, but the mood on the Ya’Vang’s bridge had become charged with anticipation. Everything remained hushed and dark, but there was a new urgency to the crew’s activity. Kira listened as Krona returned from one of the bridge stations to report to Kurn. “Passive sensors have detected energy readings inside the Empok Nor station, Captain. We’ve confirmed the readings are from industrial replicators.”

  Kurn asked, “Are you reading any power spikes in the station’s fusion core?”

  “No, sir. We detect no power-generation at all, but there are signs of low-level power consumption in the station’s main habitat area. Hervog thinks that the station’s power core might have been shielded to prevent its use from being picked up by ships outside the system.”

  “Shielded,” Kurn said, as if he were thinking aloud. Of all the people on the bridge, only Kira knew that Kurn was feigning ignorance as he inquired, “What could shield a fusion core that size, Krona?”

  “I asked Hervog the same question,” Krona said. “His best guess is that the core’s been wrapped in kelbonite.”

  A devilish smirk lit up Kurn’s face as he looked down at Kira to share their private joke. “Kelbonite,” he said. “Very clever.” He looked back up at Krona. “It seems we’ve found the rebels’ newest base.”

  “There’s more, sir,” Krona said. “Much more.”

  “Tell me,” Kurn demanded.

  Krona turned toward the tactical station at the aft end of the bridge. “Qeyhnor, put the passive-optical scan on-screen.” The static curtain of stars was replaced by a fuzzy, dim image of the Empok Nor station. Twelve huge, box-shaped conglomerations of metallic framework jutted out from all the major docking sites along the outer perimeter of its docking ring.

  Kurn leaned forward until he was perched litera
lly on the edge of his chair. “What are they doing? Raiding it for parts?”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” Krona said. “Qeyhnor, magnify.” The image on-screen enlarged, revealing the telltale outline of a Defiant-class ship inside one of metal scaffolds. “It looks like they’ve turned the station into a shipyard. We count eleven finished starships docked there, and a twelfth spaceframe just starting construction.” Krona cast a doubtful glance at the screen, then looked back at Kurn. “Perhaps we should summon reinforcements, Captain.”

  Instantly, Kira’s lips were at Kurn’s ear, her voice barely a breath of suggestion. “If you do, no one will sing songs in your honor,” she warned him. “Martok will rob you of glory.” Kurn seemed torn. His intense stare was fixed on the image of the improvised shipyard. She continued to nudge him in the only viable direction. “Reason it out, Kurn: What would the rebels have had to do to make that old, decommissioned station work as a shipyard? How much power would that take?”

  Long seconds passed as Kurn considered what she had said, and his crew watched him, waiting for his next order. Then Kira heard what she had been waiting for: a low growl of satisfaction from Kurn, followed by a sly grin on his face. “Maintain radio silence,” Kurn ordered. “We don’t need the fleet’s help. We’re going to destroy the rebels ourselves.”

  “Sir,” Krona said, his voice lowered. “We are outnumbered eleven to one. Any one of those ships could be a match for us, in both speed and firepower. They might also have working cloaking devices like the Defiant’s.”

  To the crew’s surprise, Kurn chuckled to himself. “It won’t help them,” he said. “Because it won’t be the ships we’re fighting—it’ll be the station.” He all but jumped up from his chair and marched toward the main viewscreen. Pointing at the image of Empok Nor, he continued, “Look how quickly they’re building those ships. Think about how much power that must take, how overtaxed that station’s fusion core is. Even if the Cardassians hadn’t stripped it of shields and weapons when they decommissioned it, the rebels wouldn’t have any power left to run them.” Turning on his heel to face his crew, he declared, “One good torpedo salvo in its fusion core is all it will take to destroy that station—and the rebels’ shiny new fleet!”

  Roars of appreciation answered him, growls and cheers of inflamed battle lust. Within seconds, the crew was chanting Kurn’s name, every utterance in synch with the stomp of boots on the deck and the pounding of fists against consoles. Kurn basked in the praise for a moment, then he held up his hands and motioned for silence. “Runner!” he shouted. A noncom stepped forward from the ranks to stand in front of him. “Take a message to Hervog: When I give the order to attack, I want to make the jump to maximum warp immediately. Go!” The runner sprinted away to take the message down to engineering. “Qeyhnor,” Kurn said, “if we jump to maximum warp, we’ll be in firing range in less than twenty seconds. You’ll have that much time to ready a firing solution.”

  “You’ll have it, Captain,” Qeyhnor said.

  Moving in long strides back to his chair, Kurn said for everyone present, “Stations. Prepare to attack, on my order.” He took his seat as Krona turned from station to station, issuing specific instructions and readying the ship for battle. “Tactical,” Krona said, “have the torpedo room load the first salvo manually. The station has no working weapons, so divert shield power to the disruptors. Helm, plot a course for a maximum-warp jump into firing range, followed by a half-impulse pass at the station. Make sure tactical has a clean shot at the fusion core. Communications, stand ready to jam outgoing transmissions from the station.”

  Moments later, the reports came back to Krona. The first officer turned to face Kurn. “All stations ready, Captain.”

  “Tell engineering to power up in thirty seconds,” Kurn said. “As soon as we have warp speed, attack.”

  Krona nodded. “Aye, sir.” He pointed at the communications officer, who relayed Kurn’s message down to the engineering deck, then nodded a confirmation in reply. “Thirty seconds,” Krona said, initiating the countdown.

  Kira clutched Kurn’s arm, giddy with excitement. The countdown felt slow, unable to keep pace with the flood of adrenaline rushing through her system. Twenty seconds…ten…then Beqar, the communications officer, called out, “Intercepting a transmission to the station! Beginning decryption algorithm.”

  “Hold the countdown,” Kurn ordered.

  As Beqar worked to unscramble the message to the station, Krona moved behind her and observed while she worked. “What’s the message’s point of origin?” Krona asked.

  Her flurry of activity slowed, then she leaned back from her console. “Source, a ship en route. Based on the frequency shift, the vessel appears to be cloaked.”

  Kurn asked Beqar, “Have you decoded the message?”

  “It’s from a ship that identifies itself as the Capital Gain, under the command of General Zek,” Beqar replied. “He says his ETA is nine hours, and he wants the ships at Empok Nor ready to deploy as soon as he arrives”—Beqar paused and turned to face Kurn as she finished—“with their commanders.”

  At first Kurn looked to Kira as if he was in shock. Then he laughed, guffawed with his head thrown back, at once triumphal and uproariously amused. His crew laughed wildly with him.

  Regaining control of himself by degrees, he was still laughing in fits as he told the crew, “Stand down…return to silent running…. We do nothing until the Capital Gain arrives. But when it does…we’ll kill them all.” His enormous hand was firm and warm on the back of Kira’s neck. He looked down at her with what she could have sworn seemed like genuine respect. He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear, but his eye contact with Kira made it clear that he was talking to her. “Destroying the rebel fleet would be a great victory,” he said. “But wiping out their leadership at the same time will make it a glorious one.”

  He’s smarter than Worf, Kira realized. More disciplined. She smiled at him, projecting both pride and respect. For once, it seemed, she had chosen a friend wisely; she would have to get her claws into him, deeply and firmly. “We have nine hours until the rebels arrive,” she whispered seductively to him. “How should we pass the time, Captain?”

  Her solicitation turned his head. His piercing gaze seemed to question whether she was serious, or merely playing her part. She bit her lower lip and flashed him a “come hither” look that made it clear that her offer was genuine. He smiled, apparently quite pleased at the surprises his day was yielding.

  “Krona,” Kurn said as he stood up. “You have the bridge.”

  7

  W hat do you mean it’s impossible?” O’Brien asked Keiko while his dinner materialized in the replicator.

  “Just what I said,” replied Keiko, who was sitting on the sofa. “You can’t prove a negative. It’s logically impossible.”

  The bowl of beef stew was warm in O’Brien’s hands as he picked it up. “How can it be impossible?”

  “What if I asked you to prove you can’t fly?”

  He walked back from the replicator, taking small steps to avoid spilling any of his piping-hot meal. “Easy,” he said. “I can’t fly. Case closed.” He paused behind Keiko and kissed her softly on the top of her head.

  She tilted her head back, smiled at him, and watched him as he circled around and sat down next to her. “No,” she said. “You have to prove it.”

  “What’s there to prove?” Poking at the chunky broth to let some of the heat out, he inhaled the escaping vapor and savored the stew’s aroma. “You want me to demonstrate it?”

  “How would you?” Her question was rich with implications. “If all you do is stand there, I could accuse you of faking, of not really using your ability.”

  He lifted a spoonful of stew and blew gently across it. “So, what am I supposed to do? Jump off a cliff and fall to my death?” He slurped down the first spoonful and enjoyed its saltiness.

  “That still wouldn’t prove anything,” Keiko said. “I could just say yo
u died to hide your secret, and make up a bunch of reasons why you might have done it. That’s why legal evidence is supposed to depend on proving what is, not what isn’t. If I’m the one saying you can fly, it’s up to me to prove that you can—because there’s no way you can prove that you can’t.”

  Between a third and fourth spoonful, he asked, “But couldn’t you prove, say, that I’m not a Cardassian?”

  “Not directly,” Keiko explained with a teacher’s gentle patience. “I could produce conclusive evidence that you’re a Terran—and that, by exclusion, you are therefore not a Cardassian. What’s key here isn’t proving that you’re not one thing but that you are another. See the difference?”

  He nodded as he set down his bowl. “I think so.” He took a sip of Bajoran springwine, which he found a bit too sweet for his liking, but which he also found vastly more palatable than any of the Cardassian swills or Klingon liquors that the replicators had been programmed with. “So what you’re saying is, Bashir and Zek called me and my crew guilty, asked me to prove we’re not, and that there was no way I could’ve done so?”

  “Pretty much,” Keiko said. “There are a hundred ways you can prove that someone is a spy, but there’s no infallible way to prove that they’re not.”

  “So I was spying on my own people for no reason,” he said, bitterly upset with himself. “And why? Because Zek and Bashir had the gall to call them traitors.” He put down his wine. “I’m such an idiot.”

  Keiko leaned close and put one arm over his shoulders. “You did what you thought was best for the rebellion,” she consoled him. “It’s not as if you did it for profit, or political gain. You just wanted to be safe.”

  He shook his head. “I’m still not sure that makes it right. I mean, who am I to play God and listen in on other people’s personal business?” A heavy sigh left him feeling empty. “I wanted to talk to you about it, get your advice. But they were talking like they might come after you next. I didn’t want to give them a reason.” He reached out and took her hand. “What’s done is done, I guess. The problem now is, what do I do about Sito?”