by Diane Carey
He would have to find a way to make her work with him, and definitely not against him. She had banished him, blinded, to the streets, and now he had returned. Checking his own bitterness might be the best path.
“You’ve learned how to release the Pah-wraiths?” he asked, unable to hide his real thoughts or his admiration for her obvious spiritual stature, which had been ignored by the Prophets.
“I have,” she claimed proudly.
“Then why haven’t you gone to the Fire Caves and freed them?”
Offering only a beguiling smile, Kai Winn leered at him. “I was waiting for you.”
Relief poured through Dukat. “Then you have forgiven me!”
“I need your help, Dukat.” She rose from her chair, crossed the rug that separated them, and finally stood before him. “It’s as simple as that.”
He turned his hands up. “All you have to do is ask.”
He reached for her hand—amazingly, she gave it. So she was still angry with the Prophets, or perhaps beyond anger and well into bitterness.
“Together,” he said, “we will free the Pah-wraiths so that they can tear down the Celestial Temple and destroy the Prophets.”
“And their Emissary as well.”
Dukat tucked his chin. “No. Benjamin Sisko will be dealt with by me, and me alone.”
“Assuming he survives the invasion of Cardassia,” the Kai observed cryptically.
“He’ll survive,” Dukat grumbled. “But I promise you, he’ll wish he hadn’t.”
CHAPTER
4
Bad hand. Figured.
“Do you have any threes?”
Quark surveyed his cards again, but they hadn’t changed. He kept them close to his face, as if the computer in the holosuite didn’t perfectly well know what cards he was holding.
“Go fish.” The computer-generated lounge lizard of the hololounge eyed him from his seat across the table.
Annoyed, Quark sighed and dumped his cards on the table. This just wasn’t working.
“Don’t tell me you’re quitting,” Vic Fontaine challenged.
“It’s just not my game,” Quark complained.
“Want to try pinochle again?”
Quark shook his head. If the computer couldn’t cough up something more interesting than these games, how could he possibly offer something new to his customers in his real bar, down the real stairs, with the real money?
“How about rummy?” Vic offered. “Or gin rummy? Five-card stud? Canasta?”
Quark kept shaking his head. There just wasn’t enough zap in any of those to distract the denizens of Deep Space Nine from what was going on way off in space. Not enough to get them to come in and start spending, anyway.
“How about some Tongo?” he countered snidely.
Vic eyed him. “Did they play Tongo in Las Vegas in 1962?”
A smart-ass computer. Great. “How could they?” he bothered to answer. “It’s a Ferengi game.”
He thought about shutting down the program, but for some odd reason he liked Vic’s company. Wasn’t that pathetic?
“Right,” Vic said. “Which is why my holographic program can’t create it.”
“I know, I know, this place is period-specific … but for a hologram, you’re not very accommodating.”
Ich—he’d been trying to be friendly with non-Ferengis for way too long. He was starting to be like them. He’d be humiliated to admit it to a fellow Ferengi, that the people around here—even the holopeople—were more like friends than customers. A moment of sadness and worry pushed in on his fantasy. He did want them all to come back safely—even if it didn’t make him a bit richer.
What if they lost? What if the Federation fleet were defeated and the Cardassians reclaimed Deep Space Nine? He didn’t like that idea at all, and—shamefully—it had nothing to do with the change of business. The Cardassians had been a lot easier to snooker than the humans and Bajorans, but he still didn’t want them back.
“Is that why you came by?” Vic asked. “To insult me?”
“I stopped by because I had nothing else to do,” Quark admitted. “My bar hasn’t had half a dozen customers all day. Seems like everyone’s off fighting this stupid war.”
“It’s not easy to stay behind, is it?” Vic asked. “Knowing your friends are out there risking their lives?”
How could a computer-generation possibly see through him like that! Had the hardware grown intuition?
He shrugged. “They think they have it tough. They should try living my life for a day. The hospitality industry isn’t for the faint-hearted.”
Vic nodded. “A bartender’s life is a lonely one.”
“That’s right. But few people understand that. They think it’s one big happy party. They forget that the person giving the party never has any fun. He’s busy making sure everyone else is having fun. All I do, all day long, is give, give, give—”
“Bartending is a very noble profession,” Vic agreed. “And you do it well. Under some very difficult circumstances, I might add. You should be proud.”
“You think so?”
“I know so, pallie.”
Quark sighed, then muttered, “I just hope Nog and the rest of those heroic idiots come back in one piece….
Just then, the girl called Ginger snaked up to Vic dressed for a night of questionable morality and purred, “Vic, sweetie, are you ready? Jimmy and Petey are about to go on.”
Vic got to his feet and let Ginger slip under his arm. “Sorry, pallie,” he said to Quark, “gotta run. Durante and Lawford are at the Sands. Can’t miss that.”
“I thought you said a bartender’s life was a lonely one,” Quark challenged.
“It is—but I’m not a bartender.”
So much for a friendly ear. Quark watched as the hologuy and gal slithered away into their own world.
“Go fish,” he grumbled.
This must be the computer’s way of telling him he had to live a real life, deal with the lack of personnel on the station, and accept where they had gone. Strange how lifelike the holoprograms could be, how feeling and understanding, even to the point of forcing him to think about reality in the midst of fantasy. He’d tried to escape his real situation by coming to a fake bar at a fake time, and it hadn’t worked.
Of course it hadn’t. The station knew it was on alert, and it knew perfectly well why. Could a machine programmed to connect reactions and responses to appropriate information—could it comprehend fear? Anticipation? Could it sense that things were not normal today? Would a station on yellow alert warn a hologuy and a hologal not to get too involved?
“Yes, it could,” Quark muttered. “Why not? It’s the age of miracles, isn’t it? The time of the Prophets? The eon of starships and like wonders? All right, then, you win. Hear me? I’ve had my hand slapped. Back to reality. Program off.”
* * *
The Fire Caves were well-named: hot and moist, walls dripping with condensate, shots of steam spurting from cracks in the rocky floor. The climb up to them was no easy jog either, yet somehow Dukat felt more invigorated than exhausted.
Behind him, however, he knew Kai Winn was suffering from the excessive heat—which did not bother him much, as he was Cardassian under the skin. His heavy backpack, filled with artifacts and ceremonial relics, was a good burden. Because he would not touch the Kosst Amojan, though, Kai Winn was charged with carrying the heavy book all the way by herself. She sank against another stone outcropping, looking as if she were about to melt.
Dukat paused. “Is it really necessary to rest every few minutes?”
She heaved a series of breaths, obviously troubled by the altitude as well as the heat. “I don’t need … you … to wait for me…. Go on ahead … wander around aimlessly in these caves for … the rest of your miserable life.”
Ah—pushed the wrong buttons that time.
He settled back on a rock that almost provided a seat. “I’m in no hurry.”
Around them, the caves se
ethed and dripped, creating for themselves a mystical voice that had over the ages gained a reputation. The caves sang, some said. They cried, said others. They cursed, wept, or whispered. The caves were sorrow, some villagers thought, or threat, thought others. There were mystical injunctions against trespassing, or compelling charges to come here—perhaps to die as a sacrifice to the Pah-wraiths, spirits who claimed to be the true Prophets of Bajor. Some thought that the caves were the throat of hell.
Amazing.
“You know, during the Occupation my people found the Bajorans’ fear of these caves amusing. Yet somehow none of us ever found the time to visit them. And now, here I am. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“I don’t care,” Winn heaved.
Dukat looked at her. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sure you have many interesting anecdotes about the Occupation,” she dismissed, “but I have no desire to hear them.”
“I meant no disrespect, Adami—”
“And stop calling me ‘Adami.’ That privilege is no longer yours.”
Temper boiled in Dukat’s chest. Though he might appear Bajoran, he was Cardassian to the core and this was a severe lowering of himself, to coddle a Bajoran woman, to be forced to show her respect he was disinclined to give, to bend to her wishes, and now to be denied the right to call her by her primary name.
He held his rage.
“I see,” he allowed. “Then how should I—?”
Though he had some ideas about what to call her instead, Kai Winn said, “From now on, you will address me as ‘Eminence.’ Is that clear?”
Some day … some day….
Dukat gritted his teeth. “Perfectly,” he said. “Your Eminence.”
How far must they go? How deeply into these caves, how far into the belly of the planet would they have to trek before they could find the prison of the Pah-wraiths and use the power of the book to free them?
Nothing ever came easy, it seemed. Once he had been stripped of all past glories, he had been given another chance to defeat the Federation and the Prophets and everything that had worked to humiliate him in his life. Now he would make yet another pact with power in order to rise up again, yet it seemed he would have to travel into the pit before he could free that power.
Very well. He would no longer be driven down. The time of reckoning was here. If he had to walk through the molten core of Bajor in his bare feet, he would succeed.
* * *
“I see your point, general, but for two millennia the Jem’Hadar have always been the Dominion’s first line of defense. It would damage their morale to take a back seat to the Breen.”
The Founder shuddered against her illness, hoping the Breen general would not see her weakness. She was, in fact, not sure exactly what the Breen were able to see through their life-sustaining helmets. Perhaps his frosted face-shield blurred the crackling scabs of her face and hands. Perhaps he saw her only as a blur of humanoid form, but did not realize she was stuck holding that form, without the strength to revert to her natural shape. The sickness had made her a solid.
His static-voice erupted in a tone she had come to recognize as anger, impatience. She listened to his argument—that the Jem’Hadar had served for two millennia without managing to carry the Dominion to preeminence. Only since the Breen forces had become aligned with the Dominion had victory been within grasp.
True enough; it was certainly possible that the Jem’Hadar had outlived their collective purpose. Still, how would it appear to give in totally so soon?
A compromise might serve, and she would not have to give all her advantages away at once.
“Very well,” she told him. “In the spirit of our new alliance, I will inform the Jem’Hadar that the Breen forces will be positioned alongside them on the front lines.”
He chittered again, not entirely satisfied, but at least put off for now.
The Founder pressed painfully out of her chair. Her skin cracked and withered as she moved. She could barely hold the human form and had to pause to gather strength—or more accurately, to fend off weakness—before leading the general to one of the access monitors.
“I’m glad that pleases you,” she told him, even though that hadn’t been exactly what he’d said.
They turned their attention to the strategic layout, where Weyoun was studying the distribution of ships. “I fear,” he said, “our lines are spread too thin, especially here at the center.”
The Founder painfully rose from her chair and struggled to the monitor. “Do you agree?” she asked the Breen general.
He scrambled that he did agree, and thus the Founder told Weyoun, “Notify the Jem’Hadar. Order them to reinforce the center of our lines. The Federation fleet usually begins their assault by sending the smaller attack fighters to create distractions and weaken the—”
As she touched the controls, the picture on the screen suddenly flickered and went black. In the room, the lights dimmed, wobbled, dimmed still more and did not come back to brightness. The computer screen flashed once, then died.
“Now what?” she complained.
Seconds crawled by. What was happening? She hated lack of control. Surprises were almost always bad.
As she was about to call for Weyoun, the lights burped back to life. The monitor also regained a picture, but it was only a screen pattern. Connection with the strategic mainframe had been disrupted.
Before the Founder could curse the darkness, the door opened and the newly appointed liaison from the Cardassian force, Legate Broca, rushed in.
“Founder! I’m relieved to see you’re all right.”
She turned on him, bothered that he should use the term “all right” when she was so obviously ill and could no longer disguise the dessicating malady that was slowly debilitating her.
“What caused the power outage?” she demanded.
“Sabotage,” Broca dutifully told her, without frilling up the bad news. “Almost every Dominion installation on Cardassia Prime has suffered some form of damage!”
“Damar!” the Founder gritted. “I thought you said you had eliminated his rebel forces.”
“We captured some of the terrorists, but—”
“But what?”
“These acts of terrorism,” Weyoun attempted, “they weren’t carried out by a small group of disgruntled Cardassian soldiers. The culprits were ordinary citizens.”
The announcement embarrassed Broca, she could clearly see—in fact, he was completely ashamed.
And rightly so. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? She had charged him with keeping order on the planet.
She raised her hand, much faster than she expected herself capable of, and clasped him by the throat. “Are you telling me the Cardassian people are rising up against us?”
Broca choked, but did not fight her. “I’m sure … it’s only … a small number of malcontents….”
“We have no way of knowing that, do we?”
It was an enraging revelation. People who had been controlled, finding a way to rise up? Average citizens with no military support? Rise against the greatness of the Dominion? The Cardassians? The Jem’Hadar? Even the Breen?
The Founder cast a glance at the Breen general, and briefly entertained the idea of blaming him for not seeing this coming and assigning troopers to stop it. She could use that to deny him superiority over the Jem’Hadar and force him to struggle harder on the Dominion’s behalf…. Ultimately, though, she decided to keep using Weyoun, for he was the one with a stake in control on Bajor. She would wait for another time, when upsetting the balance would serve even better.
“Founder,” Weyoun began, “may I make a suggestion?”
Still strangling the Legate, the Founder said, “I’m sure Broca is most interested in what you have to say.”
The Vorta attache nodded elegantly and let an extra second or two pass before saying, “If the Cardassian people are responsible for these acts of terrorism … if they’ve allowed Damar and his fanatics to turn them against us, then i
t’s the people who should be punished.”
“What do you say to that?” she asked Broca.
Only his lips moved. “Severely punished….”
Nearly exhausted herself, she dropped him abruptly. “I’m glad we’re all in agreement.”
* * *
All the lights had been cut off. Any buildings without emergency backup generators were still shut down and even some of those generators had been damaged. The whole capital city was in blackout, as well as almost every industrial center planetwide. Wonderful….
Unfortunately, that also meant there was no power in the resistance’s cellar headquarters.
Damar reviewed with satisfaction the success of a very long night’s coordinated efforts. He had to give Kira and her rebels credit. They had done everything he had told them to, and with great deliberation and purpose. He had laid out every industrial and tactical center on the planet, and through clever coded messages they had organized themselves and carried out the night’s assault. If the invasion fleet failed, it would not be because the planet was in too good order and provided too solid a support for the Cardassian fleet. A planet in turmoil could do no fleet any favors, and that was all he meant for Cardassia to offer. No longer after this week would Cardassia be minion to the arrogant Founders. Lower than the Jem’Hadar, lower than the Breen—finally Cardassia would be driven as low as any civilization could go, and would have nowhere to travel but up again, up to greatness and power and dominance in an Alpha Quadrant free of the interloping shapeshifters.
If only they could see….
He peered through the darkness to the circuit box, where Garak was fussing at the junction, trying to trim off enough power to give them a monitor, even just one. The only source of light was a single struggling lightstick near Garak, not enough to prevent Garak from making some sort of mistake and getting his fingers zapped by a rogue arc.
Frustrated, Garak muttered, “I could use some more light over here….”
Hardly more than a silhouette as she stood guard near the doorway, Kira accommodated, “Mila’s looking for some upstairs—here she comes.”
