Star Trek: Deep Space Nine®: These Haunted Seas, page 61
Bowers pivoted into the room after Vaughn, holding his phaser out in front of him. Three security officers and Dr. Bashir came racing in after Bowers. Perhaps overwhelmed by the superior numbers, the intruder threatening Permenter dropped the phaser, released her, and dove for cover behind the warp core.
Dropping to his knees beside the wounded alien near Nog, Julian Bashir opened his tricorder and performed a scan. “Our environmental conditions are suited to his physiology,” he reported, easing off the alien’s helmet. “Their biology is…” Bashir frowned and trailed off, looking as if he’d just seen something on the tricorder that puzzled him. The doctor abruptly removed a hypospray from the medkit, applying it to the alien’s neck.
“Will he be all right?” Nog asked, crouching beside Bashir.
“Should be. I’ll know in a minute,” Bashir replied.
Okay, so who or what did I just shoot? Nog wondered. From what little he could discern in the half-light, their alien guest had leathery, hairless brown skin, a mouth as wide as his eyes were apart, and filmy membranes over his eyes. He looked amphibious, down to the ridges of cartilage where humanoid ears would be. Weird. Earless humanoids always looked odd to Nog.
“The stun hit him pretty hard,” Julian announced to his shipmates, all of whom watched him intently. “It was close range, but fortunately his environmental suit diffused most of the blast.”
Hidden in the shadows behind the warp core, the alien who had assaulted Permenter had found a ripped-out section of damaged EPS conduit and hefted it over his shoulder, obviously screwing up his courage to attack anyone who approached him. He jabbered away incoherently.
“Why are you here?” Vaughn asked, cautiously approaching the agitated alien. “What do you want with us?”
The alien responded by swinging the conduit out in front of him and shouting something long but totally incomprehensible. Vaughn backed off, maintaining a respectable distance between them.
Bashir’s patient inhaled sharply, sputtering and coughing; the membranes over his black-brown eyes lifted. He lurched up, bent over and retched on the floor. Soothingly, Julian patted his back.
“I’ll give you something for the nausea.” He scanned his patient once more with the tricorder, frowning again before applying another hypospray. The intruder’s head swayed and tipped backward. Julian braced his fall, easing him back onto the floor. Searching the medkit, he found an emergency blanket to cover the alien. “You’re going to be fine. When your temperature stabilizes, you’ll feel better.”
“Nijigon boko nongolik attack us?” the alien gasped, wiping its mouth with the back of its gloved hand. “We were trying to help.”
“Finally,” Bowers muttered, relieved that the universal translator had succeeded in decoding the aliens’ speech.
“We haven’t understood your language until now,” Vaughn explained to the pipe-wielding alien. “Our ship has recently come under attack. For our own protection, we had to assume that you set the weapon that damaged our vessel, and that you and your companion had hostile intentions. I’m glad to find out we were wrong. We have no desire to hurt anyone.” Vaughn holstered his phaser and spread his hands, stepping forward. “I’m Commander Elias Vaughn of the Starship Defiant, representing the United Federation of Planets. We’re on a peaceful mission to this part of the galaxy.”
The armed alien dropped the conduit and detached his helmet from his environmental suit. No, Nog saw, her spacesuit. Save her greenish-gray skin, she closely resembled her colleague. She ran long, knobby fingers through a profusion of violet colored braids attached to a headpiece. Skin pockets hanging off her jaw alternately inflated and deflated with each breath.
“We saw what happened to your ship,” she said, her voice low and percussive. “When the snare activated, it registered on our sensors. We’re quite familiar with what these weapons can do, so we came to assist you. We brought with us an energy source and were about to integrate it into your power systems when that one—” she pointed at Nog “—attacked my partner.”
“Lieutenant Nog, chief engineer,” he said. “And I’m very sorry. After what we’d just been through, I had no way to know you were trying to help us.”
A long silence elapsed. The alien riveted her attention on Nog. She took a cautious step toward him. “If you couldn’t translate our message, it was an understandable error.” Her lashless lids moved up and down over her eyes several times. “I, also, am my vessel’s technologist. My name is Tlaral.”
Nog grinned. Her statement told him all he needed to know. Suddenly he was at her side, examining her equipment. “As engineers, we already speak the same language. Show me how this device works,” he said, tipping his head back to look up at Tlaral. “Is this a duranium casing?”
“Looks like we’re done here.” Bowers shrugged.
Folding his arms, Vaughn chuckled and shook his head as he watched Nog and Tlaral commiserate. “Witness here, first contact—engineer style.”
Within the hour, the alien technology poured energy into Defiant’s auxiliary systems. As Vaughn learned from Tlaral, the temporary fix would power environmental and computer systems until they could reach a safe port. What would come after? Vaughn called an impromptu strategy session in his ready room to make that determination. He invited Tlaral to join them while her companion, a “technologist” named Shavoh, recovered in sickbay under Julian’s watchful eye.
As the meeting progressed, Vaughn realized their options were slim.
“Other than your world—” Vaughn began.
“Vanìmel. Where there are repair facilities, supplies—whatever resources you might need,” Tlaral interrupted. “I’ve been authorized by my chieftain to offer your ship and its crew our world’s hospitality. He awaits your decision.”
“You’ve stated my crew has few alternatives beyond Vanìmel,” Vaughn said, repeating Tlaral’s assertion. The technologist had been adamant that the Defiant come to her homeworld. From Dax’s review of the sensor logs, Vaughn had learned of multiple M-class worlds with warp-capable civilizations located within a few days of their current locale. Why Vanìmel and not one of the others was a question Tlaral had yet to answer.
“Of course there are other worlds—most are some distance from here—that might be willing to offer aid to strangers. Assuming they didn’t first shoot you down for trespassing.” Tlaral left her chair to point out several planetary systems on the starchart displayed on Vaughn’s viewscreen. “Here, and toward the Wiiru system. And that’s hoping you make it that far without encountering another one of the weapons that caught you today.”
From a padd, Bowers examined the preliminary data Tlaral had provided on the web weapons. “What are the odds of us being hit again?”
Tlaral explained patiently, “This whole sector is webbed. Vanìmel and my people, the Yrythny, are under siege. That’s how we know these weapons so well. They are meant to ensnare us, but they do not distinguish between our ships and others. You might not see any ship-to-ship combat, but make no mistake, this is a war zone.”
Vaughn folded his hands together, rolling the day’s cumulative knowledge around in his head. The stopgap power bridge Tlaral had installed in engineering had already proved the effectiveness of Yrythny technology. Even Nog had been impressed. Pragmatically, the Defiant was days away from the closest advanced civilizations, assuming they could restore warp drive without further assistance. Vaughn disliked having limited options to choose from, but from appearances, Vanìmel was a solid one. He made his decision. “We gratefully accept your chieftain’s generous invitation, Tlaral. From there, we’ll determine how to go about repairs.”
“Our government will be very accommodating,” she said earnestly. “The present struggle has isolated us from our neighbors. I know our leaders will be grateful to have an ally.”
Ally, Vaughn thought, musing on Tlaral’s word choice. Perhaps these Yrythny have motives beyond offering aid and comfort to weary travelers. Which begs the question…what will they expect in return?
2
Before Colonel Kira Nerys opened her eyes, she resisted the impulse to thump the walls or kick the panels of her quarters, though part of her suspected that if she uttered the phrase “Computer, end program,” the world as she sensed it would dissolve in an instant. Or that she would awaken from an exhausted sleep on the frozen Dahkur ground to be told it was her turn on watch. Or, even better, that she had dozed off, midconversation with Odo, and when she finally emerged to consciousness, she’d feel the warm flow of his embrace.
Sprawled diagonally across her bed, mussed covers tangled around her legs and pillow smothering her nose, Kira rightly guessed that whatever reality she was in, she slept solo. Her own smells and the definitive silence testified to her aloneness. But maybe, just maybe she wasn’t actually on the station any longer, maybe she was…
“Ops to Colonel Kira.”
So maybe she was still at home.
Deep Space 9, home? That was a place her mind couldn’t go this morning.
Throwing aside the pillow, Kira sighed, rolled over, twisted her shoulders to loosen the stiffness and spoke to the ceiling. “Kira. Go ahead.” She could hear a hint of a tremor in Ensign Beyer’s breathy voice. The coolest heads had gone with Vaughn to the Gamma Quadrant, leaving the jumpy ones behind; Kira was learning patience.
“Um, we’ve just received a subspace transmission from the Cardassian ship Trager, sir. Its captain has requested to speak with you.”
“Put it through to my quarters, Ensign. Audio only.” She suddenly felt remarkably alert for having not yet partaken of her morning raktajino. She addressed her unseen visitor, steeling herself for her stomach’s inevitable lurching. “Colonel Kira, here. Go ahead, Trager.”
“Colonel.” The rich baritone voice poured into the room, and despite being braced for it, Kira found she still had to rein in her emotions.
“Gul Macet,” she said evenly. “What can I do for you?” Kira reached for her robe and cinched the waist tie extra tight. Ruffling the hair on the back of her neck with her fingers kept her hands occupied. Intellectually, she knew Macet wasn’t Gul Dukat, the hated former prefect of Cardassian-occupied Bajor. Cardassia’s provisional government had vouched for him, even sent her his DNA scan in an effort to reassure her and any others who might question his identity; unfortunately, scientific technobabble failed to overwrite years of conditioning. She tried repressing her gut reaction to Macet, but instinct was not easily assuaged by intellect.
“And how is life on Deep Space 9 this morning? All’s well, I presume?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Why?” Kira took a seat in front of her companel, hastily skimming the last shift report. The tone in Macet’s voice made her wonder what he knew. Like something awful might be hurtling toward the station at warp speed and he thought he’d give her a friendly heads-up.
“With all that’s gone on lately—resettling the Europani, Fleet Admiral Akaar and his group coming to Bajor, your first officer leaving for the Gamma Quadrant—I know you’ve had your hands full.”
“Goes with the territory, Gul Macet. We’re a busy outpost.”
“Busy supplying aid to my people among your many tasks, Colonel. We certainly appreciate all that Bajor has done for us. The last shipment of medical supplies could not have had better timing.”
“I’ll convey your gratitude to First Minister Shakaar the next time I speak with him.” No point in telling Macet that after the Europani had been resettled on their planet, Kira had worked to bring the Cardassian relief efforts back up to their previous levels. There must be a point to his contacting me, Kira thought. I hope he gets to it soon. Chitchat wasn’t typically Macet’s style. On the other hand, she didn’t really know what Macet’s style was.
“Perhaps I can offer my thanks in person.”
Abruptly, Kira straightened up. “You’re on your way to Bajor?” So much for today being uneventful.
“To the station, actually. We should be arriving this afternoon.”
“We?” Alone, Macet would be tricky; if he brought a battalion of soldiers with him, Kira might be facing a logistical nightmare. Such as how to prevent a station full of Dukat-loathing Bajorans from killing Macet on sight.
“Myself, my men, Ambassador Lang, her staff—”
“Ambassador Lang,” Kira repeated. “Natima Lang?”
“Ah, you remember her.”
“You could say that.” Once a resident of the station, Lang had been a correspondent for the Cardassian Information Service during the Occupation. After the withdrawal, Lang’s advocacy of controversial reforms on Cardassia had forced her and her students to seek political asylum back on the station. Familiarity with Lang’s virulent anti-Occupation stance had always lent her a modicum of respect in Kira’s mind. And then there was the Quark factor: Lang had exhibited a knack for bringing out the latent nobility lurking beneath Quark’s profit-oriented paradigm. Now she was returning as an ambassador from Cardassia’s fledgling democratic government.
“Ambassador Lang is on an errand from Alon Ghemor. She requests a meeting with First Minister Shakaar at his earliest convenience. You can arrange that, can’t you, Colonel?”
“I’m not his secretary, Macet,” Kira said tersely. “And I should probably tell you, he isn’t on the station. He’s in Ashalla working out the details of Bajor’s admission into the Federation.”
“I think if you conveyed the news of our visit to Admiral Akaar, he would be pleased that Minister Shakaar has accommodated us. It’s possible the Admiral might appreciate the opportunity to discuss the status of the Federation’s protectorates in Cardassian territory.”
Kira’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be happy to pass word along to the first minister and the admiral, though I believe they might be better able to accommodate you if they knew what Ambassador Lang’s business was.”
“It’s not my place to explain Ambassador Lang’s mission. I’m merely serving as her transport and protection at the behest of our government. She will make her purpose known to the appropriate parties in due time. Meanwhile, if you could present our request to Minister Shakaar, we would be in your debt.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Though how willing Shakaar will be to reorganize his life around a surprise Cardassian visit is yet to be seen, Kira thought, grudgingly giving Macet credit for excellent timing. Shakaar risked appearing to be unwilling to forgive old grudges if he failed to give the Cardassian diplomats proper attention, something the Federation delegation would certainly frown upon. “Meanwhile, why don’t you transmit the specifics as to when you anticipate arriving, what kind of accommodations you’ll require, supply needs and so forth.”
“You’re most gracious, Colonel. Transmitting requested specifications now. And I look forward to seeing you again.”
“Good day to you, Gul Macet. Kira out.” Kira waited for the light on her communications panel to indicate the termination of the subspace link before she contacted ops. “Ensign Beyer, how is the station’s workload looking around 1400?” Kira tapped an inquiry into the computer requesting the arrival and departure schedule even as she waited for Beyer to provide the big picture. “Pull together stats on docking crew support staff, available security officers—whatever it takes to host a vessel the size of the Trager. And check the habitat ring for vacant guest quarters. I know a lot of our meeting spaces have been appropriated by the Federation delegations, so long-term conference room availability might be a concern.”
“The Chamberlain—”
“The Cardassian relief vessel?” Kira read aloud from her desk screen.
“Yes, sir. The Chamberlain is set to leave at 1245 off upper pylon one. Starfleet’s Kilimanjaro is off at 1315 from lower pylon three,” Beyer prattled on. “Regularly scheduled Bajoran shuttles leaving for—”
“Ensign.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I can read the schedule. What I need you to tell me is whether or not the station has the resources to accommodate the Trager based on the specs just transmitted to ops.”
“I think we’re good to go, sir.”
“Transmit the appropriate docking specs to the Trager and notify Lieutenant Ro about its arrival. Wait. Belay that last one. Have Ro meet me at my quarters in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kira out.”
Kira leaned back in her chair, steepled her fingers together and brought them to her lips. The Trager comes to pay a social call…whatever the Ghemor government has in mind must be explosive, otherwise Macet wouldn’t have been so cagey about Lang’s mission…and what if Macet has his own ulterior motives? Time to plunge in and hope I’m not drowning in palace intrigue by day’s end. She sighed and headed for the shower, for the moment satisfied by the reality thrust into her brain by coursing adrenaline.
Accustomed to briskly exiting her quarters, Kira avoided spilling her double raktajino by instantaneously thrusting the mug away when her boot nearly connected with Lieutenant Ro’s skull.
“You mind telling me what the hell you’re doing down there, Lieutenant?” Kira asked.
Ro looked up at her. “I’m sorry, Colonel. You obviously haven’t been out yet.”
Kira crouched to see what held Ro’s fascination: a small, opalescent ceramic urn with a torn piece of parchment sticking out of it; two spent sticks of incense and what looked like a cheap, bronze religious icon—something one might find in the marketplace stalls around the temples. She removed the parchment from the urn and immediately recognized the ancient Bajoran calligraphy. Scanning the words for something identifiable, she felt puzzled until her eyes locked onto the characters for the word “Ohalu.” She looked over at Ro whose tight-lipped expression indicated she, too, had recognized the text.
“I take it these things don’t belong to you,” Ro observed.
“No,” Kira confirmed. “But it might be a good idea to know who they do belong to.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Ro said. Removing a tricorder from her belt, she scanned the items for DNA and stored the readings in the tricorder’s memory. Then she touched her combadge. “Ro to Shul.”
