by John Peel
"There's no sign of them trying to overload their reactors," the first officer objected. "Surely they'd do that to take out another ship?"
"Maybe," Marel agreed uncertainly. He'd never encountered anything like this. The alien ships, all in pairs, were now targeting his ships and moving to intercept. What kind of soldier went into battle without weapons?
The answer was obvious: none. They had to have some kind of weapon.
So—what was it?
"Careful," he muttered to himself, as the first of his interceptors sped toward the spreading alien ships. "They're up to something."
And then the firing began. The two lead ships phasered blasts at the closest of the enemy ships. There was a brief flare of shields. "Report!" barked Marel.
"The alien ships' shields are standing," his first officer answered. "They're very strong from the prow," she added. "Built to take attack."
He nodded his comprehension of the report, and through narrowed eyes surveyed the images on the screen. The enemy still hadn't fired back, and there was no sign of any weapons. What was going on here?
The firt of the twinned alien ships approached one of his interceptors. Marel concentrated on seeing what they were going to do.
Apparently, they did nothing. Each of the ships simply passed the interceptor by on opposing sides—
—leaving only minute wreckage, as the interceptor seemed to just disintegrate in space.
"What the hell happened?" Marel growled, frustrated, puzzled and furious. "What did they do?"
His first officer looked up, stunned. "I don't know," she answered. "They didn't use any kind of energy at all. The ship just … fell apart."
"Ships don't just fall apart!" he exclaimed. "They must have done something, and I want to know what!" His eyes were riveted to the screen, when two more alien ships passed over and below a second interceptor.
Like the first, it seemed to simply fall apart as it fell, dissolving into tiny, indetectable pieces.
What was going on here? What kind of weaponry did these aliens possess?
And was there any defense against it?
Marel knew he didn't have very long to discover the answer to that. Phaser blasts seared across the screen again, but their energy was dissipated against unflagging shields. A third and fourth interceptor simply ceased to exist.
They were losing this battle; he was losing his men. And the aliens were simply plowing through his ships as if they didn't exist. Once they had passed, the ships didn't exist. . . .
Tork stood nervously, clenching and unclenching his hands as he watched the holographic representation of the battle above the conference table. The aliens had begun the fight, true, but they were being annihilated by the Hive forces.
Why did he feel so bad inside?
"It is never very pleasant to watch anyone die," Hosir told him gently. "I know; I'm very old, and I've seen most of my friends, colleagues, and family die." He gestured at the ongoing battle. "Even if they are aliens, and insane, it is still regrettable that they perish."
"Yes," Tork agreed. "I wish it had not come to this. If they had only been reasonable."
Hosir smiled. "If snarks had wings, maybe you could train your breakfast to come to you, "he quoted. "What is, is. That is another thing you learn with age. Regrets help no one, least of all the one who regrets. These aliens are what they are. We are what we are." He pointed again at the whirling images. "Because of that, this was inevitable."
Tork sighed. "And how many more times will it be inevitable?" he asked.
"That depends on the aliens in this new galaxy, youngster." Hosir sighed, too, a long, protracted sound. "To be honest, I am afraid it we may be compelled to repeat this every time. Still, let us try and speak of less violent matters. You are new to the Hivemaster status, and I know very little about you. Tell me about yourself."
Unable to tear his gaze away from the battle, Tork wrinkled his nose slightly. "This is not the time to speak of peaceful things."
"On the contrary," the oldster answered. "Now is the perfect time. When wars wage without," he quoted, "there is only peace within."
"Actually," Tork couldn't help but reply; "the original reads: When war is without, seek peace within."
"Does it indeed?" There was a hint of a smile on Hosir's face. "How could I have misquoted so badly?"
"It is not your fault, sir," Tork said quickly, thankful he hadn't caused offense with his unthinking reply. "It is just that … well, I am a scholar of the Texts. I have been researching them for some time."
"And you've found … errors?" asked Hosir, obviously being deliberately provocative.
"Not that," Tork said, aghast. "Merely … some small changes."
"Indeed?"
Hosir seemed to be genuinely interested in hearing what he had to say, unlike most of the elders. Tork had been afraid that his research might have brought him trouble. Instead, they had brought him the badge of a Hivemaster. "You no doubt recall the time of the Two Hundred and Third Hive," he said.
"Not personally," Hosir answered, laughing. "I'm not quite that ancient. But I know all the stories of the mutineers, and their overthrow, of course. And their attempts to change the Texts and alter our Great Design. But nothing came of it."
"Not exactly," Tork answered. "You see, I studied the commentaries from the early Hives—Two Hundred and Four through Seven specifically."
Hosir's nose twitched. "Not many now read those commentaries," he said slowly. "They've been considered obsolete and generally pretty foolish for fifty millennia. I hope you have not been too influenced by them."
"Not the commentaries," Tork agreed, with a bark of derision. "I assure you, they are just as foolish as legend has it. No, what interested me is the way the scholars quoted the Texts. Their versions are very similar to ours, but in some cases they differ slightly. As in the quote you just used. Now, it seems to me that the ancient scholars were much, much closer to the Texts than we are, and would therefore have known them better. To misquote them—and to do so quite consistently—is hard to believe."
"And you chose to believe instead?" prompted Hosir.
"My conclusion was that there have been some minor alterations to the Texts over the millennia," Tork answered slowly. "Nothing large, nothing significant, but changes nonetheless."
"An intriguing suggestion," Hosir said dryly, "and not a popular one, I would wager. So, how is your research progressing?"
"Not too well," admitted Tork. "Being a Hivemaster is virtually a full-time occupation. And, with the Great-Design now so close to fulfillment …" He spread his hands helplessly.
Hosir nodded, and then directed his gaze across the table. Tork followed suit, and saw that Dron was watching them closely. As soon as he realized he had been seen, Dron looked away.
"I wonder if that is why you were made a Hivemaster?" mused Hosir. "So that you wouldn't have time for your research?"
Tork couldn't follow this. "I am sorry, I do not understand."
Hosir gave a throaty chuckle. "In my youth, I was a bit of a rebel, too," he confessed. "I am not shocked by your suggestion, though I'm sure that many in the Hive would be. Perhaps you have been kept deliberately too busy to continue your studies. It is worth considering, you know. After all, if the Texts have been changed, only the Hivemasters could have done the work. And I doubt the current Grand Master would want that fact known."
Startled by this, Tork exclaimed, "You cannot be suggesting what it sounds as if you are."
"Can I not?" Hosir shrugged. "I am old; perhaps I am too old. Perhaps my words get away from my brain." His nose wrinkled. "Or perhaps you are too young to be dedicated completely to the truth." He patted the youngster on the shell. "Think about what I have said. And then think about what you will do about it."
Kira glanced up as her board registered an incoming message from Bajor. It had been pretty peaceful on the station for the past few days—if she ignored two fights in Quark's, one smuggling arrest, and several
minor breakdowns. It had seemed even quieter since O'Brien and his engineers had been spending most of their waking hours working on the Defiant, trying to get it spaceworthy once again. It was strange not to see him fiddling with the systems here in Ops.
This was probably nothing but a routine call, but Kira felt a little tense as she punched the command to bring the call up on her screen. Her worries faded as she saw Shakaar's face. "Shakaar!" she exclaimed in delight. She had fought under his superb leadership as a freedom fighter while Bajor had been occupied by the Cardassians, and now sadly saw far too little of him. "I haven't heard from you since you won the election! By the way, I haven't cong—"
"This isn't a social call, Nerys," he said tightly, and Kira stopped talking. There was pain in every line on his handsome face. "Can I speak to Captain Sisko, please? It's most urgent."
"Ten seconds," she promised, recognizing the urgency in his voice. She glanced up at Sisko, who was conferring with Dax in low tones at the science station. "Captain," she called. "First Minister Shakaar is calling—extremely urgently for you."
Sisko sighed. "If it's not one thing …" he muttered. He strode across the room to her panel. Kira moved aside to give him access, but remained close enough to hear what was said. "First Minister, it's always a pleasure."
"Not this time," Shakaar said bluntly. "I've just received a distress call from Darane Four. They're under attack by some unknown alien species and need help desperately. I've already dispatched what ships I can spare, but …"
"Understood," Sisko answered. Kira could see the tension grip him as he spoke. "I'll do what I can. We'll contact you again when we're on our way. Sisko out." he cut the line and turned to Kira. "Tell O'Brien that the Defiant is leaving now," he ordered. "Assemble the crew. I'm going to punch through a request for aid from Starfleet."
Kira knew she had to state the obvious. "Captain, the Defiant is still not repaired. According to O'Brien's last report, there's still only partial shields, and the weapons aren't on-line."
"I'm aware of that, Major," Sisko said softly. "But do you want us just to sit here and do nothing?" She shook her head vehemently. "Neither do I. Tell him we launch in fifteen minutes, and he can do whatever work he's able to in transit. But, battle-ready or not, we launch."
CHAPTER 8
THE BATTLE WAS faring far worse than Marel could ever have feared. So far, over twenty of his small fleet had been annihilated by the aliens' peculiar weapon, and none of the enemy's ships had been even damaged. The intruders were well protected, and the few Daranian ships were not well armed. This had never been considered a dangerous system, and the need for defense had seemed slight.
What he would give for a single dreadnought right now …
But this was not the time for wishful thinking. Marel called out to his first officer: "Order Red Flight to attack the six alien ships on heading one zero nine mark four. I want two ships to go for the head-on assault, and the other four to try from behind. Tell Red Leader to single out one of the intruders and attack it with all of their firepower."
She nodded. "An idea?"
"A hope." In fact, it was more of a wish, but Marel had little else to try. In all of the attacks, the intruders had always flown in pairs, a precise distance apart. Whatever their weapon, perhaps it required two ships for it to be effective? In which case …
He watched the schematics as Red Flight whirled to meet the targeted enemy craft. Marel tensed, as he saw two of his ships flying directly for the three pairs of alien vessels. The other four of his ships boosted, spun, and came whipping in from the rear of the aliens. All four opened fire on a single ship.
"Their shields are overheating," his first officer reported. "If they can keep this up just a short while longer …"
There was a burst of white light from the screen. "One alien down!" she called, elated. Then, grimly: "Two of Red Flight are also destroyed."
They were bad statistics, but Marel felt a little happier knowing that the intruders could be taken out. "And the destroyed ship's partner?" he snapped.
The first officer studied her screen. "It's … pulling away," she reported. "Red Leader is initiating pursuit."
"No!" Marel ordered. "Let it go. Tell him to target another ship instead." His hunch had been correct, then—the enemy had to fight in pairs. "We only need to destroy one of each duo to stop the attacks. Order all units to so target their attacks. We can beat them," he added, trying to sound a lot more confident than he felt. They had destroyed one enemy ship—at a cost of almost two dozen of their own. At this rate, the battle wouldn't take long—and his forces would be utterly annihilated. . . .
Pakat glanced up from the projection, grimly. "One of our ships has been destroyed," he reported to Dron. "Its partner is returning to the Hive."
"How soon will the next flight be ready?" Dron asked.
"Very shortly," the Defense Master answered. "Two time units at most. The natives cannot possibly destroy many more of our ships."
Dron nodded his understanding, and then turned to Boran. "How soon before we can commence extractions?"
"In slightly less than three units," he replied. "The generators are almost at peak. The fields are beginning to be generated. As soon as we are in orbit of this world, we can start our work."
"Good." Dron studied the projection of the battle again. "The fewer of our youngsters who die, the better." He clenched his fist, as if clutching at the planet ahead of them. "And the aliens will pay for this attack of theirs."
"Give us full power," Sisko ordered as he took the command chair on the Defiant.
O'Brien sighed. "I wish I could, Captain." He shrugged. "Eighty percent's about the best you'll get. And there's still no weapons on-line; Fontana's working on them right now, but I can't promise anything."
"I know, Chief," Sisko said gently. "Whatever's humanly possible, I know that you'll accomplish. But we must try to help."
"Aye," O'Brien agreed. "We'll do all that we can."
"Helm ready," Dax reported. "Course plotted and laid in."
Sisko nodded, and glanced around the bridge. It was a lot tidier than before, with most of the circuit boards replaced, and all of the nonrepaired material removed. "Then let's go," he said simply. "Warp as soon as we possibly can."
"Understood," Dax assented. She tapped in the codes, and the umbilicals attaching the Defiant to Deep Space Nine were retracted. Dax nudged the ship away with the thrusters, and then switched to impulse. They streaked away from the station, which hung in view on the main screen.
Sisko wondered with a pang whether any of them would make it back again. There was so much still to be done. And there was Jake, waiting there. . . . Would he see his son again? Shrugging off the depressing thoughts, Sisko tried to concentrate on the mission. Even without weapons, there had to be something that they could do to help out.
Didn't there?
Startled by the sudden chime that shattered her train of thought, Sahna answered her comp. Harl's face floated out from the screen. Disappointed, she said, "Harl …"
"Yes, I know you were hoping it was Tork instead," her friend said, his nose twitching. "Sorry it was just me. You have not managed to reach him yet and tell him about your predicament?"
"No," Sahna answered. "He is in a meeting with the other Hivemasters, and cannot be disturbed."
"Well, I know why," Harl informed her. "The Great Design is under way, Sahna. We are ready to begin Phase Two."
Sahna stared at his image. "How can you know that?"
He gave a barking laugh. "I have just had my Determination," he informed her. "I am now a proud processor. Imagine that. And I have been told that we are in emergency working conditions. Preparations have begun. You know what this means, don't you?"
Icy dread clutched at her shell. "Yes," she said softly. "I knew that we were approaching our target star. We must now be preparing to mine it for everything we need."
"Exactly. And Tork and the other Hivemasters are in session because
there are aliens on this world. They are refusing to allow us to take what we need."
Sahna let that thought sink in. "Then we are at … war?" she asked, using the unfamiliar word.
"Yes." Harl's face twisted in anger. "Those bastards have finally done it, Sahna. They're planning to wipe out an alien civilization to take what we need. And Tork has obviously gone along with their plans. Now what do you think of his lofty morals?"
Sahna felt the shock of Harl's accusation sinking into her stomach. She could not believe that Tork would ever agree to anything immoral, let alone the destruction of a race of alien creatures. Hart had to be wrong. He had to be! "I do not know," she said, finally. "But I will discover the truth." She stood up, determined to act. "I shall go to the Hivemasters' chambers and demand to speak with Tork."
"They'll never allow it," Harl replied.
"They will have to kill me to stop me," Sahna said simply. "I must know the truth."
Harl hesitated, and then nodded. "You are brave, Sahna. Listen, there is one here I am assigned to work with who shares my views about the Hivemasters. We are evolving a plan to create a little trouble."
"Harl!" she protested, afraid for her friend. He was so hot-tempered, and if he wasn't careful, he might do something very foolish. "You are an adult now," she admonished him. "And can be punished for your actions, instead of merely being reprimanded."
"I know that," he answered. "I am not stupid. I will be careful. Take care in your turn. And …" He grimaced again. "I know how hard it is for you to think ill of Tork, but you must be prepared to see that he may have already changed. He is a Hivemaster now."
"He is a Hivemaster now," Sahna agreed. "But he has been Tork all of his life. He will not change." She lowered her head slightly. "But I, too, am not stupid. I will hear what he has to say, and I shall make my own decisions."
Harl nodded. "Be strong," he said, and then cut his transmission.
