Star Trek - DS9 Relaunch 04 - Gateways - 4 of 7 - Demons Of Air And Darkness

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Ro looked up. Trek had a point. Although the outfit did technically conform to Bajoran decency statutes, about seventy percent of the Orion's green flesh was exposed, and her presence on the Promenade would cause a stir to say the least.

  "And," Treir continued, "I don't have a change of clothes. In fact, I don't have much of anything now, thanks to you."

  Ro ran her hands through her increasingly tousled black hair. "If you want to go back and sift through the debris of Malic's ship for your personal belongings—"

  "Very funny. The point is, Lieutenant, I had a life until you hijacked me into your harebrained scheme."

  Aghast, Ro said, "You were a slave!"

  "I was well treated, fed four exquisite meals a day, given luxurious quarters, and I was damn good at

  what I did. Then some Bajoran woman needs a hostage, and my life's turned upside down." She put her hands on her hips and glowered at Ro with a stare that reminded the security chief that this woman was almost two heads taller than Ro.

  "Look, I'm sorry about that, but—"

  Treir snorted. "No you're not. I know your type, Lieutenant. You think you've done me a big favor. Well, you haven't."

  Throwing up her hands, Ro said, "You're right, Trek. I should've left you on Malic's ship so you could've died when the Petraw blew them up. What was I thinking?"

  "Oh, please," Treir said, rolling her eyes. "You didn't take me hostage to save my Me, you took me hostage because it was the only way you could get off the ship safely. And you knew damn well that I'd be more valu­able as a hostage than Alhan. Did you for one second think about what your actions would mean to me?"

  During Treir's tirade, Quark approached the en­trance to the security office. "Lovers' spat?" Quark asked as he entered, smiling lasciviously.

  Glowering, Ro said, "Quark, I really don't have time for—"

  "Actually, I have a solution to your problem."

  Indicating the pile of padds on her desk with a sweeping arm gesture, Ro asked, "Which one?"

  "This one," he said, putting his arm around Treir.

  That one gesture had a remarkable effect on Treir. Her face transformed from angry to seductive—even though it looked to Ro like all she did was lower her eyelids slightly. She draped herself over Quark, which was no mean feat, since the height differential be-

  tween her and the Ferengi was even greater than it was with Ro.

  "What did you have in mind?" Trek asked. She had lowered her voice half an octave, and spoke in a breathy whisper.

  Quickly, Ro said, "Quark," in as menacing a tone as she could manage.

  Quark straightened—at least, as much as he could with a two-meter-tall woman hanging all over him. "Calm down, Laren. I actually have a business propo­sition for you, Treir, if you're interested."

  As quick as that, Treir extricated herself from Quark's embrace and took a step back, transforming from a seductress into something more akin to a Fed­eration negotiator. Ro found herself wondering which one was the real Treir, suspecting it might well be something else entirely.

  "Go on," Trek said expectantly.

  "Well, as it happens, I haven't been able to find a decent dabo girl to replace the one who married my brother and moved to Ferenginar. How'd you like a job?"

  Ro couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You want to hire her as a dabo girl?"

  "Why not? She's definitely got sex appeal, which is the only skill she'll need. She'll earn her keep. Plus it gets her out of your hair."

  "And you get to fulfill your lifelong dream of hav­ing an Orion dabo girl."

  Grinning, Quark said, "Exactly. So everyone wins."

  "Excuse me," Trek said, "but I haven't said yes yet."

  "Oh, come on," Quark said in what Ro was quickly

  coming to recognize as Quark's best wheedling tone, "what could possibly be better?"

  Trek laughed. The breathy whisper a thing of the past, she said sharply, "Listen to me, you little troll, I was the most respected of Malic's women. I had my pick of clients, I had the second-best quarters on the ship, I had clothes, jewelry—"

  Quark grinned. "No you didn't. Malic had all those things, and he let you use them."

  Ro almost cheered.

  "Maybe." Trek seemed to concede very reluctantly. "But now you're making me work as a dabo girl on some backwater station run by Starfleet and Bajorans."

  This time, Ro rolled her eyes. "Nobody's making you do anything, Trek. You're free to go wherever you want, do whatever you please." Grabbing a padd at random off her desk, she added, "And the only condi­tion to that is that it isn't in my office. Now, if you'll both excuse me...?"

  Trek went back to standing with her hands on her hips. Ro looked up at her face, which seemed to be wrestling with the decision, even though, to Ro's mind, she really only could make one.

  Finally, Trek threw up her hands. "Fine. It's not like I've got a lot of alternatives, thanks to you," she said with a glare at Ro.

  Biting back a retort, Ro said, "Good luck."

  Quark's grin widened so much that Ro was sure his head would split in half. "Come along, my dear," he said, offering his arm. "We'll get you a proper dabo-gkl outfit and get you started."

  Smiling a vicious smile right back, Trek said, "No, you'll get me some real clothes and then we'll talk

  about the terms of the employment contract—over a dinner that you're buying."

  Ro chuckled as she opened the door to let them out. At least she's not letting Quark play her for an idiot. Whatever Treir's other qualities, she wasn't just a mindless slave. Hell, she seemed to enjoy it.

  Trek stopped in the doorway and turned around. "Oh, Lieutenant?"

  Looking up at her, Ro said, "Yes?"

  "Have you ever heard of the Hinarian coding sys­tem?"

  Ro frowned. "It rings a bell."

  "You may want to use it when you're trying to crack the code for Malic's padd."

  With that, she and Quark exited the security office.

  Ro stared after them for several seconds. Damn it all, I'm starting to like her.

  Then she put the Orion out of her thoughts. The convoy was due with the last of the refugees within the hour, and she had to find somewhere to put them-----

  "You've got a message."

  Quark sighed. He had gotten Treir settled temporar­ily in his brother Rom's old quarters. He'd been forced to bribe its current occupants, two Europani of­ficials, with ten free holosuite hours, before returning to the delightfully overcrowded bar, only to have Frool announce what the bunking light on his corn-panel already told him.

  It was happy hour, and the place was near to burst­ing with Europani refugees. Apparently they preferred socializing, eating, and drinking to sulking in their as-

  signed quarters, a philosophy Quark could easily get behind and happily exploited.

  Ideally, of course, Quark would have brought Trek to his own quarters, but Gaila was there—and paying a princely sum for the privilege of rooming with his cousin, an amount that more than made up for the lost holosuite time. But this'll do. And she 'II melt before my charms before too long—and even if she doesn't, she'll definitely take the job. An Orion dabo girl! I may have to start charging ad­mission.

  Quark's hand brushed against his lobe as he went to his private area behind the bar to take the message. First Odo's gone from the station, replaced by the lovely Ro Laren, then I get to save her life, then I save Gaila's life, the station is full to bursting with Eu­ropani who are filling the tables in the bar, and now I have an Orion dabo girl. Life is good.

  The message was from Cardassia Prime. Uh oh, he thought, hoping it wasn't Deru.

  Instead, it was Garak.

  The always-smiling face of the former Obsidian Order agent smiled warmly at Quark from the viewscreen. "Good day, Quark. I hope this commu­nique finds you well."

  Oh, this is not good. Quark felt his lobes—which had been all tingly from the moment he'd entered Ro's office with the proposition for Trek—sh
rivel to the size of a human's.

  "/ just wanted you to know I recently spoke with Deep Space 9's new security officer, Lieutenant Ro. A delightful young woman. I can see the Promenade is in good hands. I hope you're treating her well—unless

  I'm mistaken, she seems to have a soft spot for you. But then, I suppose no one is perfect.

  "The lieutenant was kind enough to suggest I look in on an acquaintance of yours from before the Car­dassian withdrawal from Terok Nor—a gentleman named Deru. Perhaps you remember him from his days working in the military. Well, he's done quite well for himself in the private sector—made a sum of money that is, frankly, envious. Distressingly, though, he seems to have been involved in some, shall we say—illicit activities. Some kind of black-market deal­ings. A most unpleasant business for all concerned. Now he's fallen on hard times, the poor fellow. Most shocking of all, he's been saying the most slanderous things about you, Quark, suggesting you were some­how involved in the entire affair. You can rest assured, however, that I set him straight, explaining that Lieu­tenant Ro had vouched for you, and I had known you to be such an upstanding individual during our time together on the station.

  "Such a pity about Mr. Deru, isn't it, Quark? For­tunes can change so quickly." Garak heaved a sigh, then said, "Well, I must be going. A pity we couldn't chat directly, but affairs of state have kept me ex­tremely busy of late. Perhaps at a later date we can catch up on old times—and new ones. Good-bye for now."

  Garak had said it all in the most pleasant tone imaginable. He never lost his genial smile or his affa­ble demeanor.

  It was the most terrifying thing Quark had ever ex­perienced.

  23

  THE DELTA QUADRANT

  the alpha twisted his blade into the prey's chest, then removed it The Jem'Hadar's blood stained the broken sword end.

  A most satisfying hunt, he thought as he rose from the prey's now-motionless form. Now, however, it is time to see what that alarm is about.

  He went to the console. Sensors were working only intermittently, but he was soon able to determine a rather ugly truth: the power core was experiencing a malfunction. The tanker was likely to explode within the next fifteen minutes.

  The alpha pounded the console with his fist. To lose my ship was bad enough. Now I lose this one as well

  Still, all was not lost. A quick check of the ship's

  inventory—which took longer than it should have, with the console flickering in and out of power— showed that they had plenty of escape pods.

  The deck seemed to disappear from under the alpha's feet as the tanker rocked to the side. The ship righted it­self soon enough, but a quick check showed that the sta­bilizers were working at only forty percent of capacity.

  It is time I took my leave, the alpha thought. He had had one disappointing hunt, but one great one with a foe he never thought he'd face. Ultimately, that was what mattered. The Jem'Hadar had been most worthy prey.

  He was about to turn when a clattering sound drew his attention. The alpha spun to see the Jem'Hadar struggling to his feet, the Hirogen's rifle in hand.

  The alpha smiled. Truly this is worthy prey.

  Blood trickling out of his mouth, the Jem'Hadar spoke, every word sounding like an effort.

  "Victory ... is ... life ..."

  Then he pulled the trigger.

  It was a struggle for Taran'atar to make his limbs work. His right arm was completely useless, and his left arm was slow to respond as well He felt a weak­ness in his chest, and his legs were by no means steady.

  But the Hirogen was finally dead. Killed by his own weapon.

  Oddly, the alien died with a smile on his face. Taran'atar did not understand how one could take joy in losing a battle.

  Dropping the heavy rifle to the deck, he moved to the central console. While his body was gravely in­jured, his mind still functioned at peak efficiency. The Founders had made him well. It was the work of only

  a few minutes to figure out that the warp drive con­tainment field was in danger of collapse. Within ten minutes, the tanker would explode.

  Then he scanned the fifth planet Readings were difficult, but he did detect a Bajoran life sign—how­ever theta radiation on the planet was at fatal levels, and the life sign was very weak. It was only a matter of moments before Kira died.

  Then the sensors went down. Taran'atar quickly manipulated the console and got them back online.

  He no longer saw the life sign. And the theta radia­tion was increasing by the minute.

  "No!" Taran'atar pounded futilely at the console. It was my duty to die for her, not the other way around!

  I have failed my duty. I have failed the Founders.

  A part of him was tempted to simply remain on the tanker and die when it exploded. But no, he still had a duty to perform. The same sensors that told him that Kira was gone also told him that the gateways were online—apparently ch'Thane's attempt to shut them down permanently had failed.

  Taran'atar had to return to the Gamma Quadrant and inform Odo of his failure. For that matter, Kira's comrades on Deep Space 9—they too deserved to know how she died.

  The ship rocked once again. The stabilizers are failing. There are only minutes until the warp core breaches.

  The Hirogen had called up a schematic that showed the fastest route to the escape pods—no doubt intend­ing to make use of one himself. Taran'atar ran in that direction, as fast as he could make his legs move.

  24

  EUROPA NOVA

  "lieutenant, something's coming through the gate­way."

  Sam Bowers set down the birch beer he'd been drinking on the Rio Grande's console and checked the runabout console. Ensign Roness's words were accu­rate—something was coming through. About time something happened. He'd enjoyed the relative calm after the chaos of the Europa Nova evacuation—for about twenty minutes. Then the restlessness kicked in. Roness hadn't actually said anything, but it was obvi­ous from the looks she gave him that she was about ready to kill him.

  She, of course, liked the quiet. Bowers hated it. He

  had always been a man of action. That was why he went into tactical when he joined Starfleet.

  "Looks like an escape pod," he said. "I think. It's just managing to squeak past the blockage created by the Euphrates. I don't recognize that configuration."

  Roness said, "It doesn't match anything in the database. But I am reading a life sign." She looked up, a surprised expression on her face. "It's Jem'­Hadar."

  "Taran'atar?"

  Shrugging, she said, "That'd be my guess."

  'Trying to get a transporter lock," he said, manipu­lating the controls. The theta radiation was still too in­tense, unfortunately. "Damn. Can we get a tractor beam?"

  Roness nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "Do it." Bowers then set a course for the next planet over.

  'Tractor beam engaged. We have the pod."

  "Good." Bowers took the Rio Grande forward. As soon as they were far enough from Europa Nova to engage the transporter, he did so.

  Bowers had to admit that the sight on the run­about's small transporter platform was one that, in the past, he had enjoyed tremendously: a broken, bloody Jem'Hadar soldier. A part of him wanted to take plea­sure in it now, but he forced that out of his head. Toran'atar's on our side—hell, it was Odo who sent him. He's part of the team now.

  Intellectually, he knew that. It was convincing his gut—and his instincts, which had spent the last sev­eral years being trained to shoot Jem'Hadar on sight—that was the problem.

  As he got up from his chair, grabbed a tricorder, and approached the unsteady form of the Jem'­Hadar—who collapsed to his knees as soon as he ma­terialized—toe asked, "What about Kira?"

  "Colonel Kira... did not... survive," Taran'atar said.

  Bowers felt like the temperature had lowered in the runabout Dammit, no, not another one, he thought. First they lost Captain Sisko—and not even to the war, but to some ridiculous thing with those damn
wormhole aliens—then they lost Commander last when those rogue Jem'Hadar attacked the station. To lose the colonel...

  "I... must... return..." Taran'atar couldn't fin­ish the sentence. Bowers could see why. The tricorder indicated that he'd suffered half a dozen internal in­juries, not to mention the obvious stab wound to the chest. He needed Bashir's services posthaste.

  "Set course for DS9, maximum warp," he shouted to Roness.

  "Yes, sir." After a moment: "Course laid in."

  "Engage."

  It wasn't until after the runabout went into warp that Roness turned to Bowers. "What about Colonel Kira, sir?" Her tone implied that she wasn't entirely willing to take a Jem'Hadar's word for it that she was dead. On the other hand, he thought, she did wait until after we went to warp to ask.

  "For now?" he said. "Hope to hell he's wrong."

  25

  THE DELTA QUADRANT (FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER)

  blisters had now broken out on every millimeter of Kira's skin. The tricorder told her that the level of ex­posure was beyond what would be fatal to a Bajoran. Her life could be measured in seconds.

  There was no word from Taran'atar.

  Breathing became harder with each second. Her vi­sion started to cloud over.

  Then, miraculously, the gateway came back online. It once again went back and forth between Deep Space 9 and the comforting glow of the Prophets.

  Now the choice was easy. She was already dead. It was just left to her to take the final step.

  Colonel Kira Nerys stepped into the gateway, deter­mined to face what lay beyond ...

  TO BE CONTINUED IN...

  STAR TREK GATEWAYS, BOOK 7 WHAT LAY BEYOND