0

CHAPTER
        1

"BEN, COME IN. What've you got on the Argolis
problem?"
    The admiral's office was a mirror likeness of
Sisko's, with the exception of personal items that
implied a certain permanence. Sisko had deliber-
ately not put any such things in his office, not
wanting to give anybody the idea that maybe he
liked it here and wanted to stay.
    Despite his inclination to rush in early, he had
waited until 0800 before coming to Ross with a
battle plan he'd had ready for much longer, but that
would've given too much away. And he had to be
careful how he worded his plans to Ross.
    Admiral Ross already had a star chart of Argolis
Cluster raised on a wall monitor. After a polite
greeting, Sisko went straight to the monitor--he
didn't mind showing that he was proud of his work.
    The star chart was loaded with the positions of the
sensor array embedded into its program, which
proved to Sisko that Martok had funneled the infor-
mation through already and he could speak freely--
more or less. There was even a set of faint blinking
lights that indicated the fighter group of guard ships
planted there by the Jem'Hadar. Destroying the
array was one problem--those ships were another,
much bigger, problem.
    "All right, Ben, what's your plan?" the admiral
asked. "How do we get an assault squadron in close
enough to blast an array that can see them
coming?"
    Though Admiral Harold Ross was not a great
tactician, he was in fact known for keen self-
appraisal and surrounded himself with advisors
smarter than he was, whom he drove relentlessly. He
wasn't a very sharp or inspiring fellow, except that
he never beat around the bush and was scrupulously
forthright.
    "We'll have to draw the guard ships away from the
cluster, Admiral," Sisko began immediately. "My
suggestion is to use General Martok and a small task
force of ships, no more than five, to create a diver-
sion big enough to draw off at least half of the picket
ships. Then, while the Jem'Hadar think the activ-
ity's going on somewhere else, we send in a single
ship to exact the assault."
    "One ship to take down the whole sensor array?
Are you kidding?"
    "Not at all. The array can be neutralized with one
powerful and cleverly arranged assault--"
    "Gosh, I wonder which ship you have in mind,
Ben."
    Sisko turned to him and smiled. "You mean
there's more than one ship around?"
    "Okay, but you still haven't told me how you can
sneak up on a thing like that, even with just one
ship."
    "I'11 get to that right now, sir. According to
Intelligence, the array is capable of detaching
cloaked ships as far away as two thousand light-
years. By the time the Defiant got around the Argolis
Cluster, the Dominion would already know we were
coming."
    Ross nodded grimly. "You'd have more than a
dozen Jem'Hadar ships on you before you even got
close."
     Sisko returned the nod. "We need to have the
element of surprise on our side. It's the only way."
  "What are you suggesting?"
 "That I take the ship through the Argolis."
    "You can't take a ship through there! You'd be cut
to pieces."
    "That's exactly what the Dominion thinks," Sisko
told him proudly. "But if we came at them from the
Argolis, they wouldn't know what hit them."
    "What makes you think you can get through?" the
admiral asked again.
    "Dax says she can navigate around the gravimet-
ric distortions. She's studied protostar clusters and
she knows what to look for."
    Ross glowered at the star chart, then at Sisko, then
the chart again. He wanted to believe it could be
done. Even more, he wanted that array shut down.
    "It's a gamble," Sisko agreed to the silent protest.
"But it's one I'm willing to take."
    Troubled, Ross dealt with the fact that part of his
job as flag admiral in a war was to take just this kind
of risk, and also to trust the people he'd asked to give
him ideas. If he didn't take suggestions, no matter
how dangerous, eventually people would stop giving
him their best ideas. They'd start assuming he
wouldn't accept this or that, and they'd quit trying.
  A recipe for disaster.
    Stopping himself from pushing too hard, Sisko
held his breath and waited. The admiral had the
facts.
    "All right," Ross said, "let's give it a shot. When
can you leave?"
    Sisko cut short an anxious step forward. "As soon
as we've finished repairs on the Defiant."
    Ross shrugged with just his eyebrows. "Keep me
posted."
  "I will, sir."
    With a crisp about-face that really wasn't neces-
sary, Sisko bolted for the door and mastered himself
only enough to keep from running down the corri-
dor. In the turbolift, he tapped his combadge.
  "Sisko to Dax."
  "Dax here, Benjamin."
  "How are those repairs coming?"
    "O'Brien says we shouM be spaceworthy in twenty-
four hours or less. We're also being re-armed and
having our stabilizers--"
      "Tell him to cut any corners he can. I want to be
ready in twelve hours."  "Why?"
      "Because we have a--never mind. I'll give you the
details in person. We have aboutre"  "Ross to Sisko."
  "One minute, Dax. Sisko here, Admiral."
    "Come back to my office for a moment, would you?
Something else has come up."
    "Right away, sir. Sisko out. Dax, are you still
there?"
  'Tm standing by, Benjamin."
    "I've just been ordered back to the admiral's
office. Keep up the repair process and muster all
hands for a crew meeting at ten hundred. Sisko out."
    The turbolift almost got a hemorrhage when he
made it reverse course all the way back through the
interior of the station on express setting, but in less
than three minutes he was back in the admiral's
office--and he didn't like that. The longer he spent
around Ross, the higher were his chances of blowing
the delicate balance he'd set up.
    The admiral had no secretary at the moment, so
Sisko strode through the outer office and chimed the
door, and was immediately admitted back into
Ross's presence.
  "You wanted to see me, Admiral?"
 He avoided adding again?
    Ross turned from his personal monitor. "I just got
word. Captain Bennet's promotion came through.
At my recommendation, Starfleet's putting her in
charge of the Seventh Tactical Wing. She's one of the
best adjutants I've ever had... strong grasp of
strategy, and an ability to see the big picture."
  Uh-oh . . .
    Sisko knew he was sinking fast, but there was only
one response for this--
    "It doesn't sound like it's going to be easy to find
someone to take her place."
 Don't say it, please don't say it--
 "I already have," Ross told him. "You."
    Unable to keep his expression in check, Sisko tried
to appear astonished. "Sir?"
    Ross smiled--Damn, he thinks he's doing me a
kindness/
    'Tve been very impressed with you these last few
weeks. I think we're going to make a good team."
  Sisko struggled not to groan. "Thank you, sir..."
  "Your assignment is effective immediately."
    Just before he managed a resigned nod, Sisko felt
his spine go stiff with interior assessment of what
Ross had just said. Starfleet lingo was like legal
lingo--now meant now.
    "Immediately, sir... what about the Argolis mis-
sion?"
  "Commander Dax will captain the Defiant."
    A cold pit opened in Sisko's stomach. A risky
mission was one thing when he was in charge--but
now, with the idea of sending his crew out without
him, things clicked into place and the full measure
of danger bloomed before him.
  "She is up to it, isn't she?" Ross asked.
    With an internal flinch, Sisko realized that Ross
might be misinterpreting his hesitation as some kind
of doubt in Dax's abilities. That's all they needed!
To have a whole new command team assigned!
    "Absolutely, sir," he pushed in quickly. "I'd
just... gotten used to the idea of commanding the
mission myself."
    But Ross wasn't moved. How many assignments
had he himself been forced to give up because he was
needed somewhere else? Sisko knew that was the
burden of an admiral, and a captain's attachment to
his crew and ship just couldn't play too deeply into
overreaching plans and needs. He also knew that
Ross understood the value of that attachment and
probably hadn't made this damned decision lightly.
    He'd blown it. He'd done his job just a little too
well. Impressed Ross with the plans for covert
assaults, and now his plan for the Argolis mission
had broken the fine structure he'd set up. The
balance had cracked, and now he was going to fall
into the fissure.
    With a sympathetic glance, Ross motioned to
several padds stacked on his desk. "Look over these
tactical reports. I want your thoughts on the Bolian
operation. We'll meet here at 0600 tomorrow
morning."
    With numb hands, Sisko picked up one of the
padds and gazed at it.
    Ross sat down at the desk behind which he himself
was trapped. "Ben? Congratulations."
     Forcing a plaintive grin, Sisko nodded. Then he
turned and left. What else could he do? Argue?
  Locked in at Starfleet Command.
    What would he tell the crew? Go out and risk your
lives in the most dangerous mission so far in this
war... but go without me?
 And what would he tell Martok?
 How would he ever get back to DS9?

0

CHAPTER
        2

WORF HURRIED PAST braised panels with equipment
that sparked and snapped in his face and burned his
hands as he passed. Several Klingons, injured or
dead, lay crumpled on the deck. He ignored them
all. On the deck five corridor, he found himself and a
damage-control team stopped short at a locked
conduit hatch. Ch'Targh and the damage-control
team were clustered at the hatch panel, trying to
get in.
 "Report," Worf snapped to get their attention.
    Ch'Targh turned. "We sealed the impulse injector,
Commander."
 "Where is my son?"
    "Trapped in that corridor, sir. After we secured
the injector, I sent him in there to put away the tools,
and somehow he tripped the emergency lockdown.
We are trying to override it now."
    An uncharitable round of laughter rumbled
through the working Klingons. They had their backs
to him, so Worf's scolding glare had no effect.
    They were mocking him, yes, but not in private. In
its way, that was progress. He had never taken
chiding well. Other Klingons learned early to field
such social irritations, but Worfhad missed that. His
foster parents had protected him from it.
    A sudden stab of realization cut through his chest.
The Rozhenkos would have also protected Alexan-
der, without really meaning to debilitate him. Worf
had been attuned to his own floundering, without
considering that the boy might be floundering too,
not quite as sure of himself and his actions as he
tried so hard to appear.
    Was that possible? Had the boy locked himself
away by accident or by design? Was he merely a
confused youth, strangled for attention? Trying any
trick to get it?
    Would he try such a trick if he had been tranferred
to another ship? Where his father was not present as
an audience?
    No, Martok was right. Worf was the target of
Alexander's actions. Clumsy actions, perhaps, but
Worf knew he was as guilty of faltering, floundering,
taking comfort in inaction.
    Ch'Targh let out a victorious grunt, and the hatch
slid open, spewing a gout of smoke, some cinders,
and a small-boned Klingon teenager. Well, one-
quarter Klingon.
    Worf suddenly wanted to pay attention to the
other three-quarters of his son.
    Alexander faced him bravely and ignored the
chuckles from the other Klingons, so effectively in
fact that soon the chuckling died off and the others
waited silently to see what Worf would do and
whether Alexander would care.
  "You locked yourself in?" Worf asked.
 "Yes, sir."
    With some kind of understanding, Worf nodded
even though he didn't really understand, and put his
hand on his son's shoulder. "Come."
    Together they walked out of the company of
others, whose opinions no longer mattered.
    The others were silent this time. Something had
changed.

  "General. Thank you for coming."
    "I come because two of my crew require my help.
As far as friends are concerned, what a waste of
time."
    Martok chuckled out the last few words, and
Alexander smiled with some embarrassment. Sitting
opposite his son here in his own quarters, Worf
seemed to relax a little too.
    So, Martok sensed, the hard part was over. The
two had reached some kind of understanding that
they could not change each other and perhaps that
 wasn't the key after all. They had stopped trying and
 now would make headway.
    "Please sit down, General," Worf invited. Since
he didn't stand to greet his superior, Martok took
that as a signal that Worf didn't want the advice of a
superior after all, but an elder. Yes, a friend. But
more--a family friend.
  That was well. And about time.
    Martok sat down and wished for war nog. Or
something hot. Later.
    "What can I do for you?" he asked, deliberately
looking at Worf instead of the boy.
      "My son is a man," Worf said. "I have been seeing
him as a child. What other mistakes have I made?"
  "You really want to know?"
  "I would like your opinion."
    "I would love to give it," Martok grunted. Now he
looked at Alexander. "You want to hear also?"
    The boy--the young man--nodded. "I'm consid-
ering becoming a member of your house. My father
says it's my choice now. I'd like your opinion."
    This was the moment Martok had hoped for. He
had steered events and manipulated personalities in
order to be asked to speak. Therefore he was ready.
    "Then I will give you my thoughts by speaking
some truths and by asking questions of you and
requiring honest answers. Fair enough?"
    "Fair," Alexander said. Strange that the surly
youth had graduated to a young adult who wanted
the air cleared. This was a good thing.
  Worf only nodded once.
    Martok hitched to the edge of his chair and
positioned himself nearly between them, so neither
would imagine he was on the other one's side.
"Worf, you sent your son away many years ago."
  "To live with my parents, yes."
  "Humans."
  "Yes..."
    "Alexander, you lived with them and were con-
tent?"
    The boy's eyes flickered, uneasy about this line of
talk. "Yes, but..."
    "But you wondered where your father was and
why he failed to contact you."
    "I wondered very much. I heard stories, but never
from him."
    "So you concluded because he was silent that he
did not love you or care for you. Why did you think
that?"
    Alexander's expression turned harder. "Because
he didn't send me away until I told him I didn't want
to be a warrior." Now he looked at his father. "You
were ashamed of me."
 "I was never ashamed!"
    "Worf--" Martok held out his hand for peace.
"Alexander, did you prefer to be with your grand-
parents?"
    "Yes, I preferred them! My father wouldn't speak
to me once I decided not to be a warrior."
 Martok let a moment of quiet come between
them, and let Alexander's revelation ring a little, and
also waited for something more important--for
Alexander to make contact with his father. And he
did. Their eyes met. The shields dropped another
ten percent.
    Watching Worf, Martok digested the complete
shock in his first officer's face and the corresponding
realization there.
    "Alexander," Martok said, "the word 'father'
does not mean 'all-knowing.' Your father struggled
long to be a warrior. It came more naturally to him,
but it was still a struggle. He struggled so hard that
there is little left in him that is not warrior. He is not
always a Klingon warrior--sometimes he is a Star-
fleet warrior, and that is very different but he has the
courage to be different. Still, he is all warrior. When
you said you had no wish to be a warrior, I think
your father had no idea what to say to you. When
Worf does not know what to say..."
    The boy looked at Worf. "He says nothing? Was
that it? Because you didn't know what to say to me,
you became silent?"
    Worf stared at him, but in many ways was staring
back at himself. "I had no idea how to cope with
your choice... the choice, not you..."
    "What your father is saying, in his lavalike man-
ner, Alexander, is that he does not communicate
well." Martok leaned back in his chair and forced
himself to appear relaxed, signaling that progress
was being made. In fact, it was. "When one is a
child, everything your parents do seems intentional,
doesn't it?"
    Alexander twitched and blinked, hearing the un-
spoken answer.
    "Even when they do something hurtful," Martok
said, "or clumsy or stupid, you figure there must be a
reason and this must be something they're doing on
purpose. Not just because they fouled up!"
  "Fouled up," the boy murmured.
    "Of course!" Martok slapped his own knees. "You
never thought about this. Perhaps your father is just
terrible at being a father. Did you ever think of that?
No, never. You thought he was being a terrible father
on purpose! Because he enjoyed it! Parents can't be
doing something that seems bad simply because they
are incompetent, but on purpose!"
    Alexander both slumped and gawked. "You
mean... he..."
    "I mean he is as clumsy as a fish when it comes to
knowing how a father should behave. This has
nothing to do with his love for you or his devotion or
how he thinks of you, boy. When you told him you
didn't want to be a warrior, he simply had no idea
what to talk to you about. Not because of you, but
because of himselfl"
    With the insight of a young adult instead of a boy,
Alexander gazed at his father as if looking at artwork
for the thousandth time and only now seeing the
brushstrokes. Acrimony suddenly, visibly melted
and sheeted to the deck.
    "And you," Martok said, shielding his happiness
as he turned to Worf, "are guilty of clumsy silence, as
are many parents, but you also respond too much
as a warrior. Life is not war, my friend, even when
there is a war going on. Honor is not just fighting
with your hands, but with your heart and your mind.
Your son wants to be something other than a war-
rior, yet he is here. Why do you think he's here?"
    Obviously struggling, Worf showed great promise
by leaning forward and rubbing his hands as if to
clean them. "If he has other interests... why would
he come?"
 "Why, Alexander?" Martok relayed.
 The boy instantly said, "To do my part."
 "Why now?"
  "Because now... there's a war."
    "Simple answer! Like millions before him," Mar-
tok said flatly, "he wants to do his part." He stood
up suddenly and clapped his hands to his thighs.
"Now you will speak as father and son, not as
warrior and not-a-warrior."
 Worf looked up in a panic. "You're leaving?"
    "That's right. Sink or swim, my friends. I think
you will swim."

    When Martok left, Worf expected to feel empty,
desperate, even frightened. But his son's gaze, like
that of an equal, like that of an adult, gave him quick
respite.
 Somehow, the lifeline thrown by Martok was still
here even after the general's sudden exit. Worf at
first hated Martok, then greatly respected him for
leaving just at this moment.
    He squirmed, then faced his son and settled down
to speak as equals.
    "I have been a poor father," he admitted. "You
were right to be angry with me, but you must believe
I always loved you. I always wanted security and
attention for you. I sent you to my parents because
they could give those to you. I never required you to
be a warrior, Alexanderw"
     "But Martok's right, isn't he?" Alexander asked.
"You don't know how to talk about anything else."
  "I am not a very... demonstrative man."
  "You're demonstrative enough to be getting mar-
  fled," the boy keenly noted, with a rumble in his
  throat that hinted at impending manhood.
    Worf felt his face flush. "With women, things are
different."
    Alexander rolled his eyes and sighed. "I sure hope
so. Father, I don't know if I will want to stay a
warrior after this is all over, if we win... but I want
to be a warrior now, so I can say to my own son that
I did my part when it was important. Do you
understand the difference?"
    Gazing in fresh respect, Worf murmured, "You
communicate very well. You speak freely... I
should learn to respect that."
 Alexander nodded. "I am demonstrative."
 Sagging a little more, Worf pressed his elbows to
his knees and gazed at the deck. "I don't require you
to be a perfect warrior, Alexander... but if you're
going to be a warrior, you must be able to survive.
For good or worse," he said, looking up now, "you
joined the service and you must do a good job for
yourself and your shipmates. I will help you. In
return, I ask you to help me be a better father. Tell
me when I am lacking, and I will work on it. There
will be times when I respond as a warrior when I
should be responding as a father. To you I grant the
honor of... telling me."
    Alexander actually smiled. "And to you I grant the
honor of telling me when I'm a bad warrior."
    "I have to," Worf told him. "I'm also your first
officer."
    "My first officer, my father, and a member of the
same house," Alexander told him boldly. "General
Martok thinks I've judged you unfairly. If I've been
wrong about you, then I should correct the wrong. I
have a wedding gift for you, Father... to show my
respect and admit my mistake, I'll join the House of
Martok."
    Staring until his eyes burned, Worf absorbed the
phenomenal depth of this gesture, this commitment,
and quickly sifted the past few days to make sure he
had not made any pressures or hints--no, this was
all Alexander's idea, his own choice.
    Worflowered his head and shook it. "This will not
be easy..."
    "I don't care about easy," his son freely accepted.
"'Easy' isn't worth having."
    Greatly cheered, Worf suddenly straightened.
"That is a strong sentiment!"
    "I can be strong when I have to be," his son said
with a lilt that sustained them both.
    "Yes... you can. Alexander, I cannot change the
mistakes I have made, but I promise you from this
day forward I will stand with you."
    Unintimidated, Alexander said, "We'll see if you
mean that."
    As a bristle of resistance rose in his chest, Worf
realized his son was probably joking, but that he also
had a point. "Yes, we shall. What you are about to
do entails a grave obligation. Do not accept it
lightly."
 "I understand. And I accept."
    "Good. I will teach you what you need to be a
warrior... and you will teach me what I need to be
a father. Come."

    A wooden case, covered with gold stencils in the
ancient Klingon language, unchanged for nearly four
thousand years.
    Martok opened the box slowly, with ceremonial
deliberation. The ready room lights were severely
dimmed, making the candles on the table the pri-
mary source of illumination.
 Reverently Martok removed the gray-and-black
crest of the House of Martok, first carved for the
family of his grandfather, whose name he bore and
had honored with his own service record. A rush of
personal pride briefly overwhelmed the general, then
he contained himself and concentrated upon the two
men for whom the crest now made its forty-third
appearance.
    He held the crest above a shallow golden bowl
which reflected the glow of the candles in its pol-
ished surface.
    "Badge of Martok..." he began. "Badge of cour-
age... badge of honor... badge of loyalty."
    Ah, the old words. Shallow in their sound, they
were deep in old meaning. He placed the emblem in
the bowl.
    Together with Worf, he chanted, "Badge of
Martok."
    Worf turned to his son. "Alexander, give him your
dagger."
    The boy flinched as if coming out of a trance, then
handed Martok his weapon solemnly.
    Martok waited through the hesitation, then took
the dagger and sliced his own palm. Closing his fist,
he squeezed blood onto the emblem. Forty-three...
How full of pride he was! Even though he had no
more children coming, his house was growing.
  "One blood," he murmured, "one house."
    He handed the blade to Worf, who cut himself in
the same manner. "One blood... one house."
 And now Alexander, who was not afraid. In fact,
he seemed eager to cut himself and shed his blood
onto the shield. "One blood, one house!"
    Satisfied, Martok picked up the jeweled decanter
beside the ceremonial bowl and poured blood wine
all over the insignia, until the blood from their three
hands blended to a single shade. This was eminently
enjoyable, this ceremony, this wallowing in tradi-
tion, despite his preaching to Worf that tradition
was only a shading of their identity. Martok did like
the ambience and the ties which this harkened from
his memory. He thought of his father and his
grandfather, and those were good thoughts for an old
man to enjoy. He felt young again.
    Taking one of the candles, he touched the flame to
the liquid. The alcohol ignited instantly and flame
rolled to the edges of the bowl, reflecting in the eyes
of Alexander and Worf as Martok looked at them
both.
    For a moment Alexander seemed to have forgot-
ten what to do, but when Martok turned to face him,
he remembered.
    "I will be faithful even beyond death!" the boy
vowed.
    The fire burned out--he had gotten the words out
in time, luckily, or they would have to begin again.
"Now!" Martok barked.
    Alexander's hand plunged into the bowl and he
winced at the hot liquid, but pulled the insignia out
and affixed it to his shoulder.
 Beaming at the young man as if he were his own
son, Martok was pleased that Worf moved to stand
beside Alexander as an equal, not before him as an
elder.
    The general drew a firm breath and felt young as
he made the announcement that tomorrow all would
know. The ship would know. The Empire would
know. He would tell them all.
    "Welcome to the House of Martok... Alexander,
Son of Worfi"

0

CHAPTER
        3

QUARK'S BAR. The 'upper level. An illusion of
sanctum.
    Kira Nerys leaned on the metal railing and looked
down over the milling crowd on the first level.
Behind her, Rom v, dped a table, keeping true to his
role as first brother and busboy to the irascible
Quark, which allowed him to nurse his role as
Federation spy.
    He had the best qualification to pull it off--he
seemed slow, dopey, and greedy, but wasn't any of
those. Thus, the perfect disguise. Any minute.
    Below, several Bajorans were uneasily reac-
quainting themselves with the station, their mood
subdued by the presence of so many Cardassians
and Jem'Hadar soldiers. The Cardassians were hav-
ing a good enough time at the bar and the dabo
tables; the Jem'Hadar were inexplicably standing
around watching, but never joining in. Kira saw
Quark and several Ferengi waiters ducking about,
serving customers.
  Any minute now...
    "There he is," Kira murmured. She stiflened
slightly, then got control over it. "Damar's a crea-
ture of habit, all right."
    Almost directly below her, Glinn Damar strode in
the main bar entrance from the Promenade. He had
a particularly annoyed expression on his excuse for a
face today--good. That meant he was getting more
and more frustrated with Dukat's methods of run-
ning the station.
    Kira turned her face slightly, so that she could
only move her eyes to pretend to be looking in
another direction.
    "After a hard day's work," she narrated, "he
deserves his glass of kanar..."
    Damar barked an unintelligible order to Quark,
who moved behind the bar and got the oldest bottle
of kanar. While taking a seat at the bar, Damar
glared at the Jem'Hadar soldiers with unbridled
contempt.
    "Why are the Jem'Hadar always in here, he asks
himself," Kira mumbled on, as Rom listened from
behind her. "They don't eat, they don't drink, they
don't gamble... all they do is take up space. Ah--
Damar asks his bartender if he found a padd he was
working on the other day. He misplaced it, and he
wants it back..."
    "My brother tells the truth," Rom murmured
back, watching Quark pour the drink for Damar.
"He hasn't seen it."
    Appreciative of the scowl Quark got for his hon-
esty, Kira felt a little grin creep across her lips.
    "Damar doesn't like that," she uttered quietly.
"The padd contained a draft copy of a secret memo-
randum he was working on concerning the shortage
of white. Without the drug, the Jem'Hadar will run
amok, killing everyone and everything in their
paths... If the Cardassians can't bring down the
minefield and reopen the supply line from the Gam-
ma Quadrant, they're planning to poison the last
ration of white and eliminate the Jem'Hadar before
it's too late. Rom... how did you get hold of
Damar's padd, anyway?"
    "I'm good with my hands. Here we go... they've
seen him."
    "And the Jem'Hadar Third motions for the others
to follow him to the bar... they pause a few feet
behind Damar... Damar turns, realizing there's
going to be trouble. The Third barks again--and,
1o--he's got the missing padd. And Damar, true to
his nature, accuses them of stealing it."
    "The Jem'Hadar didn't like that," Rom said,
tense.
 "Why's he pointing at the table?"
    "Because that's where he found it. Right where I
left it."
    "Ah--the other Cardassians move to Damar's
side... I knew this was going to work. The Cardas-
sians and the Jem'Hadar may pretend to be allies,
but they hate each other--Quark, don't get in
between--oh!"
  "Ow!... I didn't know my brother could fly..."
    "There they go, Rom. Damar and that Jem'Hadar
tearing into each other--I see a knife!"
    "That Cardassian's pulling a disruptor rifle! He's
firing!"
 "One Jem'Hadar down!"
 "The others are returning fire! Oooh--"
 "This is bigger than I expected. They're rioting!"
 "Me too, Major! Duck!"

    Constable Odo and a handful of Bajoran deputies
had apparently needed nearly twenty minutes to
reestablish some sort of order in the bar, finally
separating the Cardassians and the Jem'Hadar phys-
ically-which was no little trick.
    Gul Dukat had listened in amazement at the
report that there was trouble in the bar, yet some-
how he wasn't really surprised.
    Dukat stormed into the bar in time to see Weyoun
dressing down the Jem'Hadar Third in the most
aggravated tone the Vorta had used to date. Dukat
had come to believe the Dominion's representative
couldn't actually raise his voice, but evidently he
could.
    The brawlers were bloodied and bruised. Several
Bajorans had been injured in the corona of hostility
and were being tended by Bajoran medics and a
nurse. Broken chairs, smashed tables--and scars of
phaser fire. Weapons discharged. Unforgivable.
    As he came in, Dukat almost tripped over an
unconscious Jem'soldier who at second glance
seemed to be dead. And over there was another. At
first he was satisfied, almost amused, but then the
crowd parted and Dukat saw two... three dead
Cardassians.
 Dead Cardassians! And no battle!
    This fired a switch he had never felt click inside
his head before. Allies... now they had killed each
other. There was no treaty for this.
"Who started this! Damar! Give me a report!"
Still furious and yet somehow sheepish, Damar
stepped to him and straightened to attention. "They
stole my padd! There was critical information and
they have no right under our agreement with the
Jem'Hadar that they can look at classified Cardas-
sianm"
    "I don't care what they did!" Dukat exploded.
"You shouldn't have let the situation get out of
hand!"
    Damar parted his lips and his mouth hung open,
but there was nothing he could say to defend himself
against a "you shouldn't have."
    Just to avoid giving him the chance to think of
anything, Dukat whirled just as Weyoun gave his
final glare to the Jem'Hadar Third and said, "You're
reduced six ranks."
    Weyoun was upset--Dukat could see that. Of
course he was. The Cardassian/Dominion alliance
was jagged enough without incidental trouble. The
Vorta turned to Dukat and very carefully controlled
his tone as he came to stand near Dukat and made
sure no one else could hear them speaking.
    "How could Damar have been so stupid as to
leave such an inflammatory document lying around
for anyone to find?"
    Dukat gritted his teeth. "Your men stole it from
him."
  "The Jem'Hadar are not thieves."
  "And Damar is not a liar."
    "Keep your voice down," Weyoun warned. "Our
men need to see that we're still allies. Smile.
Dukat --"
  "I'm smiling."
    "Gentlemen." Constable Odo stepped toward
them, and suddenly Weyoun mellowed in a rather
horrible way at the nearness of a Founder. Dukat almost threw up.
    "I suggest," Odo began, "that we get everyone out
of here as soon as possible."
    "Odo's right," Weyoun--of course--said. "Tell
your men they're confined to quarters pending disci-
plinary hearings." When he saw Dukat bristle, he
threw in, "We'll do the same. And... keep...
smiling."
    Smiling. How noxious. What sense did that make?
Smile after an event like this. Mightn't it seem more
reasonable to be displeased? What good was there in
pretending?
    The war had been going well enough, but not as
well as Dukat had hoped. He was a haunted man,
unable to gain release from the ever-present face in
his mind. That face flickered in the beveling of his
morning mirror. It blew by in the glossy black
facings on the station's storefronts. A shadowy set of
eyes and a firm chin showed in the orb of the
baseball on his desk when he happened to turn just
right. He was being watched, eternally watched.
    And there was a voice, too. It came in every report
about activity on the Federation and Klingon fronts.
Significant wins were always dogged by hurtful
losses. Scissorlike raids dotted the star charts and
were impossible to predict or track... and in most
of those, there was a report of a familiar ship making
daring cuts into Cardassian and Dominion holdings.
    Always that face... laughing at him. Murmuring
predictions. Threats.
    Why was Odo looking at the upper deck? There's
nothing up there... oh, Rom, nervously finishing
cleaning tables. That retarded Ferengi stump, why
would Odo pay attention to him? Just checking the
vicinity, most likely. Certainly there was nothing
Rom had to offer. Was there someone else up there?
    Irritated, Dukat dispensed with concerns about
Odo and the upper deck, which couldn't possibly
mean anything on a day when his own men and the
Jem'Hadar had caused far more trouble than anyone
else on a station of hostiles. That was not the corner
from which he expected trouble to come.
    In fact, the Bajorans had been annoyingly steady,
as had everyone else on the station, give or take that
little temper tantrum by Vedek Kassim which had
ultimately come to nothing but her own crushed
skull. A charming display of sacrifice, but ultimately
fruitless. What the Vedek had hoped to accomplish
was beyond Dukat's reasoning.
    Well, the latest tally... one dead Vedek, two
dead Jem'Hadar, three dead Cardassians. One em-
barrassed Weyoun. Acceptable.
    He turned and left the bar, followed by the phan-
tom face in the curved rim of a table that had been
sheared in half.

 "Odo, you wanted to see me?"
    Kira Nerys strolled into Odo's office, a little more
pleased with herself now that she had talked herself
into the idea that this was a real war and if the
enemy died, well... then they died.
    Odo was pacing behind his desk, and if his mask-
like face had given her any hints over the years she
had learned to recognize irritation when she saw it.
    "Well?" he asked. "Don't you have anything to say
to me?"
    Tilting her head a little, Kira fished about with,
"You mean what happened in Quark's?" When he
nodded, she decided to take credit. "It worked better
than I expected."
  "I knew you were behind it!"
      "Of course you did," she told him. "We discussed
it at the last Resistance meeting."  "And I said it was a bad idea!"
    "Yes, you did." Annoyed at the memory of his
resisting the Resistance, Kira let her indignation
show. "And then you walked out of the room as if
there was nothing more to say. But Rom and Jake
stayed and we discussed it. And y'know what? I
decided it was a good idea!"
 "So you went ahead and did it behind my back?"
 "Why are you taking it so personally?"
    "How do you expect me to take it? I spend my
days sitting on the Council with Dukat and Weyoun,
doing what I can to make sure Bajor survives this
war intact. The last thing I need is to have you
running around causing mayhem. Do you have any
idea what would happen if Dukat found out you
were behind it? It would give him all the excuse he
needs to throw every Bajoran off this station."
    "The Federation is losing this war!" Kira chal-
lenged, seeing in him the same complacency she had
kicked aside in herself. "We can't just sit by and do
nothing!"
Odo drew a long breath and tried to calm down.
"There are limits to what we can do."
    Kira could see he was trying to sympathize, and
knew, unfortunately, that part of his motivation was
keeping her safe--not all of Bajor or all Bajorans or
the station, but just her. How could she be angry at
someone whom she knew had those unrequited
feelings?
    "I'm beginning," she let herself say, "to think you
shouldn't have agreed to sit on that council. It's as if
you've gotten so invested in making sure the station
runs smoothly, you've forgotten there's a war going
on."
    He appeared stung, and deeply insulted. "Are you
questioning my loyalties, Major?"
    Kira hesitated. She hadn't meant that, but as she
spoke she knew that was indeed how those words
sounded. "I need you, Odo," she said, rather than
waste time stating the obvious. "The Resistance
needs you."
    "Answer me," he snapped. "Are you questioning
my loyalties?"
"Of course not! That's not what this is about."
She drew a breath to say more, but the door
opened suddenly and she and Odo both turned,
surprised. There had been no chime, no request to
enter. As she turned, a lump of worry settled into
Kira's stomach--at least they had managed to keep
up the basic courtesies on the station so far. Had
something changed?

    Outside the door, flanking the entrance to Odo's
office, several Jem'Hadar soldiers formed two lines,
but did not come inside. Had Dukat gotten fancy?
Wanted an honor guard now? Or was this Weyoun,
staging an entrance?
    But the individual making an entrance scarcely
needed fanfare--or guards, for that matter.
    The masklike face and plain tan shift implied
simplicity, but this individual, clearly a female, yet
in no way a woman.
    "Hello, Odo," the creature said. "It's good to see
you again."

    Kira's skin crawled at the sight, at the sound, of
the female shapeshifter. These beings--all but
Odo--gave her the creeps. They were just too
strange, too illusionary. What she was seeing, she
knew, was not at all the truth. A shapeshifter, a
Founder. Weyoun's idea of a god. Kira's idea of
trouble.
    Had the mine field fallen? Why was this Founder
on this side of the barrier? Was she trapped?
    Odo... he was quite obviously rattled. In fact he
was shaken to the bones. Except that he didn't have
bones, but that was...
    So much history here, such agony and joy, then
more agony. This person could convince Odo, and
once had, that a shapeshifter was somehow damaged
by time spent among "solids." Were these the only
two Founders on this side of the wormhole?
    Kira almost spoke up, but the female shapeshifter
barely acknowledged that there was anyone but Odo
in the room. The female didn't look at Kira, but kept
her eyes focused on Odo's, as if they were in a
mutually supportive trance.
    "Leave us," the female said. "I wish to speak to
Odo."
    Elbowing herself forward a step, and quite unim-
pressed, Kira sneered. "Do you?"
    With her manner she communicated that she had
no intention of abandoning Odo here with someone
who could influence him so fundamentally.
    For the first time, the female turned toward her,
like a mannequin turning on a spit. The female
gazed with those icy eyes, framed by the bony orbits
of that expressionless, creaseless, featureless face.
And in the eyes, there was expression.
    "It's all right, Nerys," Odo said before anything
came of the cool glare. "I may as well hear what she
has to say."
    Kira quite dismissively turned to him as if to
make the female shapeshifter insignificant. "Are you
sure?"
    Hesitant yet somehow secure, Odo paused, then
nodded.
    A crawling awareness moved across Kira's shoul-
ders. She was no longer an equal--she was the
"solid" in the room.
    What could she do? Odo could make his own
choices.

    But could he, her key ally, her friend, her secret
admirer, her link to the Ruling Council... how
much influence, how much remembering, how much
sensation, how much intimacy... how much could
he resist?
    Pulled in two different directions, how much
could one person take?
    As Kira turned and stalked out of the quarters,
leaving Odo to the mysterious influence of the non-
woman, she knew that he was trapped as much as
she, and she was trapped as much as the female
shapeshifter. They were all trapped behind the lines.
 "You called her 'Nerys.'"
    Odo nodded at the female shapeshifter's loaded
statement and reflected that the Founders were not
so distant that they failed to note the difference
between a first name and a family name in a culture
so different from theirs.
    "What of it?" he asked her. Admittedly her pres-
ence here both annoyed and somehow insulted him.
    "You used to call her 'Major.' Using a solid's
name denotes intimacy."
    Oh--that was it. Odo had turned away from her,
but now he turned again to look at the face so like his
own, the plastic and formless humanoid echo, and
suddenly understood why he avoided mirrors.
"You're a long way from horne. Here to keep an eye
on the war effort?"
     "I'm content to leave the details of the war to the
 Vorta," she told him.
"Then what brings you to Deep Space Nine?"
"You." She fixed her sunken eyes upon him. "I
was trapped here in the Alpha Quadrant when
Captain Sisko mined the entrance to the wormhole.
I've spent too much time among solids. I came
because I felt the need to be with one of my own."
    Tender, but all lies. Odo returned her gaze with a
cold glare. "That's ironic, considering what hap-
pened the last time we crossed paths."
    "You caused the death of a fellow Changeling,
Odo. Turning you into a solid was the only punish-
ment severe enough for your crime--"
      "And now that I'm a Changeling again, you come
here as if nothing ever happened?"  "We've forgiven you."
    A lump of resentment filled Odo's inner being.
"Well, I haven't forgiven you."
    She apparently thought she was losing control
over the conversation, because she closed the dis-
tance Odo had managed to put between them. "It's
time to put the past behind us?"
    "What about the present?" Odo countered.
"You're waging a war against my home."
    "This isn't your home, Odo... you belong with
your own kind, as part of the Great Link."
    Her proximity was nerve-rending. He stepped
back a pace. After the Founders passed judgment on
him and cursed him to solid status for so long, he
had learned who he really was--an individual. Now
they held that alluring drug out to him again, now
that they needed his influence here in this quadrant.
    "I'm quite content here, thank you," he told her
bluntly, and meant it.
    "You say that," she insisted, "becaue you don't
know what you're capable of becoming. Perhaps if
we spend a little time together... you'll begin to
understand."
    Tempting, tempting--he gazed into the past, into
the moments of fulfillment his form of life could
have, a spreading, drunken euphoria with the merg-
ing of a million minds and the comfort that came
from forgetting individuality.
    Individuality was a responsibility, a moral charge.
Who wouldn't take the chance to suspend such a
burden? To forget there was tomorrow and Tuesday
and Wednesday and things to be done? Challenges to
overcome? Being in a group assuaged those burdens
and suspended the pressures of being an individual.
He had come to think of that suspension as lazy and
lowering.
    But as the female stood here, holding the drug
before him...
  "'To become a thing is to know a thing'..."
    His own voice startled him. Was she making him
feel this way somehow?
    "'To assume its form,'" she continued, "'is to
begin to understand its existence.'"
      Odo offered her a less malevolent gaze. "You tried
to teach me that when I visited our homeworld."
  "I remember."
    "I didn't understand what you meant by it at
first," he went on, caught up in reverie, "so when I
came back to the station I got rid of the furniture I
used to have in my quarters and replaced it with
other objects. I've assumed every shape in the
room... I suppose if it weren't for you, I would
never have known the simple pleasure one can take
in spending time existing as a stone or a branch..."
    He flinched slightly, knowing how silly that would
sound to any of his other friends.
    Then he flinched again--he had just accepted her
as some kind of friend. What was happening to him?
Why were his limbs tingling?
    She bowed her head slightly, accepting his words
as gratitude. Perhaps they were.
    "I'm glad you learned something from your visit."
She moved closer in their minds, without actually
taking a step. "Your arrival was a time of great joy
for the link... and your departure a time of great
sadness. If only you'd stayed with us, Odo--" "I couldn't."
 "You chose the solids."
 "And I haven't regretted it."
 "Not even a little?"
    Why couldn't he lie to her? His chest was cold now
too.
 "I do think about the link from time to time..."
 "It's there for you."
 "I can't..."
    "Why? Because of Kira? You still have feelings for
her, don't you?" Through his silence, she seemed to
deduce the rest. "She doesn't share them. I'm
sorry."
    Odo snapped a surprised glare toward her. He
hadn't thought she knew how he felt about anything
but the link. "Aren't you going to tell me that I
shouldn't waste my time with a solid?" "You love her."
    "I wish t didn't." He gripped his hands and tried
to feel humanoid, tried to sense the separation of his
fingers and the pressure of imitation muscles. "I'm
so vulnerable to her... all she has to do is smile
and I'm happy beyond reason. A minor disagree-
ment between us and I'm devastated. It's absurd!
Sometimes I wish I could reach inside myself and
tear out my feelings for her, but I can't."
The female managed a small smile. "Poor Odo."
"I don't want your pity," he quickly said, embar-
rassed at the adolescent nature of his feelings and his
inability to mature them.
    "I'm not offering pity," she said. "I have answers
for your many questions. Why don't you ask me
something? Ask me one of the many things you need
to know for your inner sanctity. Ask me while I have
a form and voice. Ask while we are separate."
    That implied there would be another time, with-
out separateness. Odo almost challenged her, almost
denied her the prediction, but something stopped
him.
Answers--to all the questions. Just a few answers.
He forced his voice up. "Have... have our peo-
ple always been shapeshifters? Or was there a time
when we were like the solids?"
    "Eons ago we were like them," she said. "Limited
to one form, but we evolved."
 Her tone said not just "evolved," but "superior."
 He didn't like that.
    "On the Homeworld," he pressed, "are you always
in the link or do you sometimes take solid form?"
    "We prefer the link. But occasionally it can be
interesting to exist as something else. A tree perhaps
or a cloud in the sky."
    That didn't make sense. How could a shapeshifter
become a cloud? Clouds were not a single object, but
millions of single droplets. Could they do that? How
would it be physically possible to divide to such a
microscopic level? How could he ever pull himself
into a unit again? Could such division occur and still
be one being? Curiosity drove Odo to try imagining
such a frightening change. A cloud--he thought that
might be a shapeshifter's idea of death.
    "So many questions, Odo," she murmured,
amused.
    "I'm sorry," he said. "There's so much that isn't
clear to me."
  Was there death for them? Should he ask?
    "If you link with me," she offered, "everything
will be made clear."
    Promises pounded on Odo's mind at her offer. He
had promised Kira that he wouldn't. How could he
tell the shapeshifter that a verbal bond to a solid was
holding him back?
    "You have to understand," he attempted, "the
link is very overwhelming for me. Right now, it's
easier to talk."
  "But words are so clumsy, so imprecise--"
  "Even so."
  "As you wish."
    She paused then, waiting for him to continue his
line of questioning, to search himself for things he
wanted to know and ways to cram the bigness of his
thoughts into the littleness of words, the widely
inarticulate into the confines of linear sentences.
    So he decided to start more simply this time. A
place where solids had learned ages ago to begin any
relationship.
 "You've never told me your name."
    She looked at him with a peculiar whimsy. "What
use would I have for a name?"
 "To differentiate yourself from others."
 She managed a perfectly human shrug. "I don't."
 "But... aren't you a separate being?"
 "In a sense."
    "When you return to the link, what'11 happen to
the entity I'm talking to right now?"
    Her flat lips elongated into a soft grin. "The drop
becomes the ocean."
    A glimmer of that vague answer occurred to Odo,
then almost instantly fled. For a moment he thought
he understood, but like grasping at that cloud, he
lost it.
  "And if you choose to take a solid form again?"
  "The ocean becomes the drop."
    She apparently knew what that meant, but for
Odo, clinging to the image was troubling.
    "Yes," he murmured, trying to convince himself.
"I think I'm beginning to understand."
    Without pursuing the bizarre idea that he was
talking to an ocean, he took a few moments to really
try to understand the elusive concepts.
    "Then can you answer your own question?" she
wondered. "How many of us are there?"
    With the force of a revelation, Odo said, "One and
many. It depends on how you look at it."
      "Very good. You are beginning to understand. But
there's so much more you don't know."  "Tell me," he begged.
    "Words would be insufficient. Link with me
again... it's the only way I can give you the under-
standing that you seek."
  "I can't..."
  "Why not?"
  "I promised Kira..."
     "She's a solid. This has nothing to do with her.
 This is about you, Odo... what do you want?"
    Exasperated, torn, his mind blurring to confusion
and need, he intoned, "What I want is some peace."
    Her hand took his hand--he didn't stop her,
didn't draw back or flinch away.
    "What you need is clarity." Her voice was harp
music against the quiet of deep space. "I can give
you that..."
    As the spreading euphoria clouded Odo's mind,
the female closed her eyes and that was the last he
saw of her before his own eyes drifted closed. There
was not the usual darkness of decomposition, but
this time a warm glowing silver light.
 "Do you want me to stop?" she asked.
    She knew the answer and he hated her for it.
Hated her, loved her, wanted the melting glory she
held out before him, that he so deeply craved and
was so tired of resisting day after day, minute after
minute.
    And there were no more minutes, and no more
days. They were energy, flowing like lava, peace,
clarity. Rolling--
 Nerys . . .

    "What are you doing in here, Damar? Did Dukat
demote you to security detail?"
    This was Odo's office. So why wasn't Odo here?
Like he was every other morning? Behind his desk,
mulling over the situation and redistributing securi-
ty around the station?
    Instead, there was no Odo and Damar was here,
talking to some Cardassian nondescript.
    Damar turned to her. "What can I do for you,
Major?"
 "I'm looking for Odo."
 "He's not here."
 "Do you know where he is?"
 "Yes."
 Rrrrrrr.
    "That's good," she popped back. "It's always good
to know where your boss is."
    Just the slightest inflection on the word "boss"
and Damar bristled at the reminder of his position.
Satisfied, Kira turned away to leave.
    "He's in his quarters," Damar said. This time the
inflection was his to wield. "With the other shape-
shifter... jealous, Major?"
    Annoyed that she had let him see her reaction to
this, Kira fixed him with a glare. "Try to stay out of
trouble, Damar. You don't want to end up on
sanitation duty."
    She left him before he could construct a winning
quip and walked straight to Odo's quarters and
chimed the door. Her arms and legs twitched with
instinct. None of this was good. None of it.  No answer. She chimed again.
  From inside, a muttered response. Good enough.
    She walked in, knowing that Odo might as easily
have said get away as come in. "Odo?"
  He stood near the window, gazing out, as if not
registering her presence. He seemed serene, but
somehow that was artificial. Was he drugged? Hyp-
notized?
  Influenced--
  "Nerys," he acknowledged, finally turning.
    "I dropped by your office. Damar told me you
were here. With her."
 "She was here. But she's gone now."
 "Are you all right? What did she want?"
 "She didn't want anything..."
 "Then what was she doing here?"
    It was almost as if only one voice were actually
speaking. Kira heard her own voice, but Odo's was
like a whispering wind.
    "I know how you feel about her, Major, but
there's no reason to be concerned."
    She stepped closer. "You don't know how much I
wish I could believe that. You didn't link with her,
did you?"
    A frustrated breath came on the wind. "Actu-
ally... I did."
 "You did? What were you thinking!"
    A change came over Odo. He seemed to leave the
dream behind long enough to be annoyed. "She
didn't find out about the Resistance, if that's why
you're worried."
    "It's not," Kira lied. She dared not get into that
one--just how could he possibly know the female
shapeshifter hadn't sifted his mind while they were
enmeshed in that liquid union they did?
    Odo apparently didn't believe her. "The link isn't
about exchanging information... it's about merg-
ing thought and form... idea and sensation."
    "Sounds like a perfect way to manipulate
someone."
 "She's not manipulating me."
    "Ever since the day you crossed paths, she's been
lying to you," Kira pressed, "tricked you, sat in
judgment of you--I don't trust her. And I don't
understand how you can trust her."
    "I linked with her. If she had some hidden motive,
I would've sensed it. She's... just trying to teach
me about myself... about what I'm capable of
becoming."
    "An intergalactic warlord, maybe?" Kira blasted
before this turned into a therapy session. "Because
that's what she is!"
    Odo didn't even seem inclined to deny that or, at
least, that Kira was justified to think that. "Who
knows? By linking with her, I might be able to make
her understand that the Federation doesn't pose a
threat to her people."
    Amazing! Could he really believe that the Domin-
ion was waging a war against a power they thought
might come and hurt them someday? Kira shud-
dered with frustration. How could she explain the
nature of overbearance, tyranny, control, imperi-
alism... he wasn't grasping those right now. He
was lost in something else.

    Kira lowered her voice, trying to find his plateau
of common sense. "Do you really believe you can
convince her to call off the war?"
    Troubled, Odo paused. "If you could experience
the link, you'd understand the effect it has on my
people. You'd realize that anything is possible...
I'm only beginning to understand it myself. Now
that she's here, I finally have a chance to get some
answers."
    "Odo, this isn't the time for you to go off on some
personal quest! There's too much at stake. After the
war's over, do whatever you need to do. If you want
to leave and join the Great Link, I won't try to stop
you. But right now, I need you here. Focused."
Encouraged by a glimmer of guilt, of responsibility,
in Odo's eyes, she surged on. "Promise me you
won't link with her again, Odo... not until this is
over."
    He turned away from her, thinking carefully, torn
between his great need and his great commitment.
    "All right," he said, very hesitantly. "I won't. Now
if you'll excuse me, I have to get to work. I'll see you
at the Resistance meeting."
    He left her then, moving in a controlled but
hurried manner. He wanted to get away from her.
She knew the signals.
    Kira didn't turn to watch him leave. He was in
trouble and she knew it, and she also knew she
couldn't do anything about it. What did she have to
offer him that would stand up against physical and
mental merging with the ultimate of wondrous ful-
fillment?
 Nothing. He would have to find his own way.
 "See you at the next meeting."
    "Maybe," she murmured to the empty room. "But
things are different now... and I'll have to be
careful around you."

Up Guards and at them again!

       The Duke of Wellington

0

CHAPTER
       4

"ARE YOU TWO ever going to finish?"
"Just a few more minutes, Commander."
"That's 'Captain.' It's an old naval tradition.
Whoever's in command of a ship, regardless of rank,
is referred to as 'Captain.'"
    "You mean if I had to take command, I'd be called
'Captain' too?"
    "Cadet, by the time you took command, there
wouldn't be anyone left to call you anything."
    The banter between Dax, Nog, and O'Brien was
usually a nerve-settler, but today as Ben Sisko stepped
onto the bridge of the Defiant, he was reminded by
the sound of the crew's voices that he would not be
here anymore to hear them or enjoy them, to share
their troubles or agonize in their losses or revel
in their victories. He had been relieved of command,
so that he could take more pressing responsibilities
at Starfleet Command without distraction.
    This was his last few minutes on the ship, and they
were about to embark on the mission that had been
his whole reason for wheedling an inside position at
Command. This was his mission, and he would not
be going. The mission was phenomenally dangerous,
chance of success thin, and he wouldn't be there to
share the razor-edged event. Did they understand?
    It would be unseemly, unofficerlike, to explain too
much to them or to stand before them and wish
them well while also trying to explain that he really
wanted to go, that he didn't feel right that they were
going without him, and that he was worried.
    Negative thoughts wouldn't serve anything but his
own guilts and fears, neither of which had any
constructive bearing on what they were about to do.
A former captain's duty was as important, at mo-
ments like this, as a captain's duty--to be sure the
crew had ultimate confidence in the ship's unit as it
existed, not as it had previously existed. To imply
they needed him would have been an unconsciona-
ble breach.
    "Come to take a last look around?" Dax sidled up
next to him, offering that quirky grin which re-
minded him so much of his old friend Curzon Dax,
back in the days when Jadzia... oh, never mind.
Too many lingering thoughts, too much reverie. It
could only hurt.
    "Not a last look, I hope," Sisko responded, then
counted on her to understand that he was hoping
they would survive the mission, not hoping he would
be backmeven though he was. "How are the repairs
coming?"
    Dax shot a glare at O'Brien and Nog. "Almost
done."
O'Brien smirked and plunged back into his work.
"I wouldn't get too used to that command chair,
old man," Sisko muttered. "When this war's over,
I'm going to want my ship back."
    "Fine," she said. "When this war's over, I'm going
on a honeymoon."
    "All done here, Captain," O'Brien called as he
stood up from the auxiliary trunks.
    "Very good," Sisko said, unfortunately at the
same moment as Dax responded, "All right."
    The moment was instantly gone, but all had
heard. None would forget. The embarrassment was
all Sisko's, though Dax, through her smile and shrug,
tried to share it. He nodded to Dax and therewith
gave her the tacit approval to give her own com-
mands.
    "Plot a course to the Argolis Cluster," she told her
crew, "and prepare to depart."
    Every bell in Sisko's head went off--get out of the
command arena. Hand over the torch. Give her the
ship she commanded. Give the crew their captain.

    "Good luck," he simply said, trying to keep from
giving a farewell speech that could just as easily be
taken for a pre-eulogy.
He tried to go to the exit, but Dax followed him.
"I wish you were coming with us, Benjamin."
Generous, because they both knew that and she
didn't have to say it outright.
    Sisko broke his stride, but his throat was closing
up. He choked out a quick, "You'll do fine," and
continued into the turbolift, leaving Dax behind
with her gaze drilling into his spine.
    He tapped his combadge. "Sisko, zero bravo, K
one."
 There was no response.
    He closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the
turbolift, carrying him first off the Defiant, then back
through the docking area and into the officer-only
access.
    When the lift doors opened, General Martok
stood there, waiting for him.
    "Zero bravo," Martok quipped. "I am sum-
moned, and I am here."
    Not particularly comforted, Sisko stepped out of
the lift. "Unfortunately, so am I."
    "Yes... I heard your ship is going without you.
Most disturbing. What do you want me to do?"
    "We're going to follow through on the tactical
plan--distract those guard ships with as much trou-
ble and mayhem as you can. Get as many of them as
possible to abandon the Argolis sensor array."
    "I will," the general said. "But they will not all
come away."
    "I know that. That's why I'm taking another ship
and going in there to help you pull them off."
    Martok sat back and blinked. "The admiral's new
adjutant is leaving his desk? With or against or-
ders?"
    "Well... a little of both. The admiral already
took me off command of Defiant and he can't undo
that arbitrarily, but I can get leaves of absence at key
points, and this is a key point."
    "How did you convince Admiral Ross of such an
arrangement?"
    "Oh, somehow he got the idea that somebody
would be ringing his emergency alarm every hour on
the hour until he let me go."
    "I... would never blame him for such circum-
spection."
 "So I'm going."
 "On what ship?"
 "Centaur."
 "Captain Reynolds."
 "Yes."
    "And does the captain understand the level of our
involvement?"
    "Not a bit. What I need from you is the identifica-
tion numbers off those guard ships at the array. We
have to be absolutely certain that any ships we draw
to the area of distraction are in fact the very ships
that would be shooting at Defiant if we weren't
causing trouble nearby. As long as Dax has the
element of surprise, she'll handle the sensor array."
    Sisko drew a deep breath after all those hopeful
sentences and steadied his cold nerves. Somehow all
this seemed too simple, too easy, and none of it
would be either of those. The bedamned complica-
tion of being Ross's full adjutant required him to
juggle too many glass balls. Despite his attraction to
Dax's mission, other things couldn't be ignored. The
last few days had been a scramble to reassign or
retire problems and duties so he could be ready to go
out with Charlie Reynolds on the Centaur and do
what he had to do.
    Martok had been silent for the past few seconds,
but Sisko constantly felt the canny gaze of the
Klingon general, who missed very little on the subtle
plane. Unlike most Klingons, Martok was aware of
underlying worries, motives, desires, and he had
patience to see how those faculties evolved.
    So he was looking at Sisko, and waiting. Sisko
knew the questions Martok wanted to ask, would
have to ask in order to pursue the mission effec-
tively.
    "You'll need a target for your distraction maneu-
ver," Sisko offered without having to be asked. "We
destroyed the main ketracel-white facility the Do-
minion had on this side of the wormhole, and that
crippled them badly. They're staying crippled as
long as the wormhole stays mined. That makes any
repository of ketracel white very valuable to them."
"You have found another facility?" Martok asked.
"Not a manufacturing plant, but a storage barge.
It's close enough to the Argolis Cluster that the ships
guarding the sensor array might be drawn off if we
stage an attack on the barge."
    Suddenly eager, Martok leaned forward and
glared at him. "This is remarkable news! How have
they hidden this barge?"
    "It's not a Dominion or Jem'Hadar barge. It's an
old Federation barge they confiscated." A little em-
barrassed, Sisko shrugged. "We just didn't bother
checking out our own ship configuration. They've
never done that before."
 Agreeing with a nod, Martok remained silent.
    "I can't give you any more information," Sisko
went on, "until we're closer to the source. The barge
is heavily guarded by planetary salvos from the
planet it's orbiting."
  "Can we destroy the barge?"
    "We can certainly try, but I doubt we'll succeed.
That's not going to be my goal. I want the ID
numbers off any ships that come in. Then we'll have
to line them up and fight until we attract at least half
of the guard ships from the array."
"Very well, my friend. This is a strange day."
"Yes, it is." Unwilling to talk about this anymore
until the mission was under way, Sisko shifted gears
and asked, "How are things on Rotarran, General? I
understand you got a whole rank of new recruits."
"Fine young Klingons," Martok said. "Including
one you may know. Alexander Roshenko."
    Sisko snapped him a look. "Worfs son? He signed
up?"
    "He did. There were jagged moments, but we may
have a warrior someday. He has shed too little blood
in his life."
    Those simple sentences, Sisko knew, implied
much more stress than Martok would ever say.
There was some poetry in the phrase "too little
blood," commenting about the fact that Alexander
had been protected through much of his life from the
harshness of life as a Klingon in Klingon society. He
was a part human, part Klingon boy who now,
apparently, wanted to live in the Klingon sphere, but
like his father had been raised somewhere else and
now had a great struggle ahead.
    Worf had embraced Klingon ways too much, then
had to pull back and find the place in his mind and
soul where he was no particular cultural possession,
but an individual. He was still fighting with that,
Sisko knew, and also knew that Dax enjoyed teasing
him about it with regard to their impending mar-
riage ceremony. Worf wanted all the trappings of
Klingon tradition, as if he were desperate to show
his willingness to do the surface things if only he
could reserve individuality for the times that really
counted.
 Sisko inwardly flinched. He was involving himself
again in the lives of the crew who were no longer his
to command. Worf was on Martok's ship now.
O'Brien and Nog and Bashir and the others--they
were on Dax's ship now. If they died on this mission,
he wouldn't know it until long after.
    If they even turned up missing in space, he'd have
to send somebody else on the search mission. He
couldn't justify abandoning his responsibilities as
Ross's adjutant to run the search himself--and the
reason would be that the Defiant had gone out on a
high-risk mission in hostile space and was probably
destroyed. They weren't just going on a picnic and
getting lost in the woods. He would be forced by
convention to assign the search to a border cutter.
He couldn't justify going himself. Some strings were
just too taut to pull.
    "If we're not killed at the barge," Sisko said,
turning to his friend and comrade in silence, 'Tll
have to come back here immediately. I won't be able
to stay out there and keep an eye on the Defiant.
We're going to lose contact with them when they ram
through the cluster. I won't be able to stay and
search for them. I'm asking you to monitor all the
signals as long as you can, General. Do everything
you can for them. They're more than just my friends
and my crew. They're the alliance's best hope. So far
we've been holding on, but we can't win a war that
way. Holding on costs too much and we're slipping.
We've got to start making real progress. We've got to
start hurting the enemy. We've got to start reclaim-
ing what's ours. We've got to go out there, General.
We've got to find that barge and fight a losing battle
as long as it takes. We've got to distract as we have
never distracted before."

    Glancing up from the crate of new glassware he
was unpacking, Quark surveyed his realm. A quiet
day at the bar. The place wasn't completely put back
together, but at least all the new tables were finally
being delivered and most of the blood had been
scrubbed off the floor. Most of it.
    A few patrons muddled about among the waiters
who were rearranging the tables. So far, so good,
except that he was beginning to prefer the place
empty than crowded with the people who had been
around here lately. Now, there was a dumb thought.
Prefer the place empty. He was slipping, no doubt
about it.
 Uch--here came Damar.
    What did he want? Why was he in here so much
lately? Start another fight?
    "Pardon our appearance," Quark said with un-
shielded sarcasm. "We're renovating."
    Damar slung his leg over a barstool. "Kanar--not
that one. The twenty-seven."
    "The twenty-seven?" Quark waited for a confirm-
ing nod, then fished to the back of the shelf for the
gilded decanter with the fluted neck. "Expensive."
 "I can afford it," Damar said, "on a gul's salary."
 Quark halted in the middle of dusting the decant-
er. "Wait a minute! You start a fight in my bar and
you're getting promoted? What kind of way is that to
run an army{"
    "Dukat isn't happy about what happened. I had to
find some way to make it up to him."
  "Mmmmlet's hope it was something big."
    With a prideful smirk, Damar hedged, "Let's just
say, it's going to change the course of history."
    Quark uncorked the decanter, but was actually
involved in Damar's expression and the glitter of
self-satisfaction he saw there. The Cardassian was
obviously up to something that could only be bad for
the Federation.
  So? What difference did it make?
    The internal question very abruptly answered
itself.
    Giving the decanter a swish, he pressed up to the
bar to pour Damar's glass of expensive twenty-
seven. "As a businessman, I'm very interested in the
course of history... this one's on me."
    Damar smiled, leering at Quark in a way that
suggested he knew Quark was trying to snitch infor-
mation. "That's very kind of you, Quark," he said,
"but I can't talk about it."
    Quark shrugged. "Of course. I understand. Enjoy
your drink."
    Leaving well enough alone, he topped off the drink
after Damar's first sip, then turned to rearrange the
bottles on the bar.

    "Let me share that with you." Quark poured
himself a glass from the decanter. "It's not every day
somebody comes in here who can appreciate a bottle
of twenty-seven kanar."
    "I thought bartenders didn't drink," the Cardas-
sian claimed.
    "Oh, that's just a legend. Us bartenders, we're the
ones who really know how to discriminate. We're
experts in our field. How else could we become
experts if we didn't sample our wares? Does the
scientist never experiment? Does the clergy never
pray? Here, let me fill yours up again. Ah... mine
tOO . . ."
    The potent brew instantly sent fumes racing
through his sinuses, directly into his cranial struc-
ture. Good, good stuff. It worked a little faster on
Ferengi than Cardassian, but soon it would soak
into Damar's thick hide and he'd start to feel the
ett~cts.
    He smiled and nodded companionably at Damar,
who was savoring the kanar. Damar's kanar. That
was funny. Damar's twenty-seven kanars. Pretty
soon, with a little luck, Quark would see twenty-
seven Damars drinking twenty-seven kanars. That
was funny too.
 Another drink to wash down that picture.

    Oh, too late. The Damars were replicating. Anoth-
er drink to blur his eyes.
 "I'm leaving now," he said to the three Damars
who were already sitting there. "You fellas enjoy
your kanars. You just keep on drinking. And just tell
me later what you owe me."
  "You trust me for that?" Damar asked.
    "Of course I trust you! We're at war, we're not
uncivilized! You're a Cardassian officer! I mean, I
wouldn't want my daughter to... but trust? Sure!
You Damars keep enjoying your kanars and I'll be
back in a while. Damars and kanars... y'know, it
really is funny."
    "You know what, Quark?" Damar rolled his unfo-
cused eyes. "I think... I trust you too."
    "Well, that's no surprise," Quark snipped. "It's
amazing what a little encouragement can do. I'm a
very trustable guy."
    "You are..." Damar gazed at him in pure won-
derment. "I never noticed before... you're like a
doctor or a... a father."
    "That's right. I'm your father. You can tell me
anything. Anything at all. In fact, you know what?
You have to tell me your innermost secrets. You
must tell me... or trust is nothing between us and
I'll have to just... never speak to you again."
    "No? Almost coming off his stool, Damar
grasped Quark's arm. "No... stay, please stay. Stay
and I'll tell you how history will change."
    "Okay." Pour two more glasses full, blink, clear
the throat, tilt the best ear forward. "Have a little
more. That's right. Savor it... swallow it... good
boy. Now... tell me... how are you going to get
that promotion we both know you so richly de-
serve?"
    Damar glanced around, pretending he could see
through his blue-rimmed drunken eyes, clutched his
glass, and turned to the new savior of his universe,
the holy high Quark.
    "I... have figured out a way... to bring down
the moan feld."
Quark stood back. "The moan feld?"
"That's right. The mean fold."
"Mean fold... oh... are you sure?"
"Absolutely. I had to do something, so this is what
I did. I went around and gathered up all the deflector
energy ratios on those moans, and I... thought of
something. It can work. Dukat's ordered the engi-
neers to start field tests."
    Quark shook his head and filled Damar's glass.
"Defecting. That's a serious business. I mean, run-
ning out on people who've been counting on
you...
    "That's right, and we can use the station's array to
do it, too."
    "Now, this impresses me. I always had faith in
you. Now, and only now, I understand why Gul
Dukat relies on you so much, Damar. If you weren't
a malleable sot right now, why, I'd get down on six
of my knees and worship the slime you crawled out
of. But, listen, I gotta go."
    Disappointment creased Damar's scales. "So
soon?"
    "Oh, I'll be back. And this decanter of twenty-
seven... I'm going to put it right over there, on a
special shelf. Nobody but me ever touches that shelf.
That'll be the Damar bottle. The Damar kanar.
After you're finished with your drink, you go have a
nice nap and forget you ever talked to me."
  "That's what I'm going to do."
      "Oh, I know you will. Have a nice afternoon,
Damar, you dirty gray snake."  "You too, Cork."
    Ah, the Promenade. What a wonderful place. The
walk around the ring cleared Quark's head a little,
but by the time he found Kira's quarters--when had
this door been moved?--he felt as if somebody were
behind him, pushing. Ding ding.  "Come in."
    Quark melted through the door, thinking he was
very upright indeed for a person with a slug of the
good stuff smarming around his sinuses.
    Oh, good. The whole team. Kira, Odo, Jake, and
Rom. What an adorable ugly bunch of life-forms.
    "Brother!" Rom looked surprised. "Are you all
right?"
     "No," Quark admitted. "I'm not all right. I just
shared a bottle of kanar with Damar. That rhymes."
  "You're drunk." Who was that? Three Jake Siskos.
  "Of course I'm drunk," Quark told them. "I
wouldn't risk coming here and associating myself
with your little 'Resistance cell' if I wasn't drunk!"
    The two Kiras over there gave him a scolding
glare. "Maybe you should leave before someone sees
you."
 Right. Leave. Good. He sat down.
    "I've tried," he sighed, and shook his swimming
head. "I've tried my best to run my establishment
under this occupation. But y'know what? It's no
fun!"
    They stared at him, the whole roomful of them,
and he lowered his voice so none of the Cardassians
flapping around the ceiling would be able to hear. "I
don't like Cardassians... they're mean and they're
arrogant... and I can't stand the Jem'Hadar!
They're creepy! They just stand there like statues,
staring at you." The memory brought a shiver, and
he blinked. "I've had it. I don't want to spend the
rest of my life doing business with these people. I
want the Federation back." Raising his hands to the
gods of barkeeping, he wailed, "I want to sell root
beer again!"
    "All right," one of the Kiras said. "You've made
your point."
    "How can I relax when thousands of Jem'Hadar
ships are sitting on the other side of the wormhole,
waiting to come through?"
    "Don't worry about it," Jake number two said.
"They're stuck there."
  "Not if what Damar told me is true."
    Ah, they were amazed! They wondered how he got
Damar to talk to him, to trust him. He couldn't tell
them, of course, about the vial of red powder, but
that didn't matter anyway.
  "What are you talking about?" Kira demanded.
    Quark turned to her. Where was she, anyway? Oh,
right there.
    "He said he came up with a way to deactivate the
mines. Dukat wants him to start field tests right
away."
    They thought he was brilliant. He could tell be-
cause the whole crowd was just gawking at him with
their eyes big and their mouths open and they were
too stunned to applaud.
    "Well?" he prodded. "Are you just going to sit
there? Or are you going to do something about it?"
    The crowd went wild. Cheering and whooping and
patting him on the back. Then somebody shoved a
hot mug into his hand. What was this stuff?.
  Coffee?
  "Drink it!"
 "Okay, don't push..."
    "Come on, Quark, think!" Kira hovered a couple
of inches from his face. "It's important! Did Damar
say anything about how he was planning to deacti-
vate the mines?"
    "Yes. He said something about the station's de-
fector."
    Kira looked at Odo, who leaned forward and
repeated, "A defector?"
    "That's impossible," Kira said. "The only person
on the station who knows anything about how the
mines work is..."
    "Me," Rom confirmed. Then he paused, as every-
body suddenly looked at him.
    But something was moving around inside the
fumes in Quark's head and he held up a hand.
"Defector... that doesn't sound right. Maybe he
said deflector. Yeah, that's it! He's going to use the
station's deflector array."
 Kira turned. "What do you think, Rom?"
    Quark's brother looked troubled. "I'm glad it
wasn't me--"
    "About the deflector array! Is there any way to use
it to deactivate the mines!"
    "No." Rom sounded confident. "I designed the
mines to be self-replicating. The only way to keep
them from replacing themselves is to isolate them in
an antigraviton beam. The deflector array can't do
that."
    Good. Problem solved. Quark took another suck
on the coffeemdisgusting stuff, but something about
it made him keep drinking. Kind of like the kanar
with the red stuff in itm "Unless..."
 He looked up. Had Rom said something else?
 Rom was staring at the chair Quark was sitting in.
"Unless you reconfigured the field generators...
and refocused the emitters... which would turn
the deflector array into one big antigraviton
beam..."
    Quark reacted to a surge of clear-headed frustra-
tion. "Why didn't you think of that when you set up
the mine field!"
  "I don't know..."
  "He doesn't know/"
    "Quark." Kira cut him off, still looking at Rom.
"How can we disable the deflector array?"
    With a flicker of hope, Rom said, "All you have to
do is access the EPS feed and overload the wave-
guide."
  "Let's do it!"
    "But there's no way to get to the EPS feed. It's in a
secured conduit rigged with alarms."
    "Odo." Kira turned quickly. "Can you disable
those alarms?"
    "I can take them off-line for about five minutes ifI
run a security diagnostic."
  "Rom, will that give you enough time?"
  "I think sore"
    "All right, you and I will meet here. Odo, at
exactly 0800, you'll begin the diagnostic. Any ques-
tions?"
    Sensitive to the urgency in her voice, Quark put
down his coffee cup. "Yes. When will Rom be back
at work? I have ten crates ofyamok sauce that need
to be unpacked. I have to keep that bar open, you
know! It's critical to the future of the alliance! Well?
What are you looking at me like that for?"
    "Odo should be on his way to his office by now.
Remember, he's going to interrupt the sensor alarms
at exactly eight hundred hours." 'TII be ready."
 "I'11 contact you if there's a problem."
    Kira pulled the hatch cover off the access conduit
in the second habitat ring corridor. This was as close
as she and Rom could get to the deflector array
controls without anyone's becoming suspicious or
going into an obviously restricted area. Bad enough
they were carrying a basket of fruit to disguise
Rom's tools, but that was apparently the best Rom
could think off An engineer, yes. A master of
deception... not really.
    Rom climbed into the conduit, taking the fruit
basket with him.
    "Good luck with your delivery," Kira told him,
and shoved the hatch cover back into place.
    She tapped her cornbadge. "Computer, give me
the time."
  "Seven hundred hours, fifty-eight minutes."
    That gave Rom two minutes to get to the deflec-
tors. Hurrying back down the corridor, Kira made
her way quicklywbut not too quickly--toward the
security office. She tried to keep any emotion out of
her face that might imply she was happy--yes, she
was. Happy that her little Resistance could do some-
thing to slow down the Dominion's takeover of this
quadrant. Happy that Odo seemed to be still with
them, despite his involvement with the female
shapeshifter, whom Kira trusted no farther than she
could spit.
Seven hundred fifty-nine... so far, so good.
Without bothering to chime the security office
door and interrupt Odo from doing what they had
agreed he would do, she strode straight in and parted
her lips to tell him that everything was going as
planned.
    Except there was no one to tell. The room was
quiet, as usual, but held a lonely chill. Odo wasn't
here.
    "Odo?" Quickly she slapped her combadge. "Kira
to Odo."
    She waited--only a few seconds to go. Rom would
be getting close to...
 The combadge was silent.
 "Kira to Odo! Please respond!"
 Silence. Deadly silence.
 "Odo!"

Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon in front of them,
  Volley'd and thunder'd...

CHAPTER
        5

"COMPUTER, TIME!"
 "Seven hundred hours, fifty-nine minutes."
 "Kira to Rom--"
 "Hello, Major."
    She swung around, cutting off her own call to
Rom, and it was a good thing, for here was Damar,
glaring down at her.
 "Just the person I was looking for," he said.
    Now what? Less than thirty seconds to go--Rom
had to be warned.
    "Congratulations on your promotion," Kira shot
out, "but we'll have to discuss the personnel report
some other time."
    She tried to slip past him, but he stopped her.
"We'll discuss it now," he insisted.
 Did he know already?
    Fiercely, she shook off his grip and snarled, "I
don't think so!"
    Perhaps he would take it as a signal, as a clue, but
she didn't care. She didn't have time for caution and
Damar already knew she couldn't stand him.
    She rushed out into the corridor and barely pos-
sessed the self-control to wait the extra second for
the office door to close behind her.
 "Kira to Rom! Don't open that hatch!"
 '7 already did "
 "Get out of there!"
    She almost shouted again, but Damar shot out of
the office, stepped past her, and signaled to two
passing Cardassian guards.
 "Intruder alert! Come with me!"

    "When we destroyed the processing station, the
Dominion suddenly had something to protect--
their last storage of ketracel white. We attacked that
processing station for two reasons--one, to deprive
them of the white, and two, to get them to protect
the barge. The Dominion counts on the Jem'Hadar,
and therefore they must have white."
    "Yes," General Martok agreed, rather uselessly, as
he and Sisko stood in the privacy of Martok's
quarters on Rotarran. "They have made a grave
mistake, placing the barge in orbit so near the
Argolis Cluster, where they have their precious sen-
sor array."
    "I don't think they realized any problem," Sisko
said, "luckily for us. They just used the barge
because it was already there. I suppose they might've
thought Starfleet would notice it if they moved it. A
good bet, but not good enough. We've got an edge."
"What kind of edge are you meaning, Captain?"
"A psychological one. The Dominion has suffered
a great loss in that processing facility. Now they have
to put most of their stock in their storage bank
of white. They need the white as much as the
Jem'Hadar need it, because the Dominion needs the
Jem'Hadar. You know, General, there's a constant
threat hanging over the Dominion. The shapeshift-
ers themselves aren't fighters. Neither are the Vorta.
They all need the Jem'Hadar to do their heavy lifting
for them. The Jem'Hadar haven't really figured that
out yet because they're at the mercy of the Vorta and
the shapeshifters, who control the ketracel-white
supply."
    Sisko drew a long breath, tried to relax--more
and more rare these days--and to think clearly.
    "If the day ever comes," he went on, "when the
Jem'Hadar control a major portion of ketracel
white, there's the looming chance that they'll turn on
the Dominion and negotiate for more power, or even
for independence. The Dominion must know that's
a possibility."
    "Even more possible in this time of war," Martok
added, "would be the Federation's control of a
portion of white, and therefore Federation control of
Jem'Hadar. That, surely, must frighten the Domin-
ion, and even more the Vorta."
    With a musing smile, Sisko agreed. "It'd scare me
if I were them. It's very hard to design a creature
intelligent enough to fight battles, make choices,
repair ships, and plan strategy without also giving it
enough independent thought that it might not be
completely subservient. The Jem'Hadar are in thrall
to the Dominion, but they're independent enough to
be turned if somebody else controls the white or if
they get control of it themselves. That's our trump
card, General... I want to make the Dominion
think we're trying to capture that storage facility, not
just destroy it. If they believe the Federation actually
might get a grip on the Jem'Hadar, that'll frighten
them more than just a shortage of white. We have to
go in and stage some kind of capturing maneuver on
that barge, without appearing that we're trying to
destroy it. That's the illusion."
    Martok frowned. "An illusion that will leave us
without the barge."
    "No, we won't have the barge. We'll come out of
that assault looking like losers. But if the Dominion
thinks we're grabbing their last repository of lever-
age, they're going to pull guard ships off that sensor
array. The storage barge loaded with ketracel white
will suddenly be a lot more valuable at the immedi-
ate moment. I want control over that immediate
moment, General."
 Still seeming unconvinced, Martok tilted his mas-
sive head. "They will not leave the array unpro-
tected, Captain, you know that. We may draw off
some of the ships, but hardly all. Perhaps not enough
to help Dax."
    "I know it's a chance. But if you create a big
enough stir, we can keep Dax from having to face an
overwhelming force. You said you have the ID
information for those ships?"
    "Gained at great cost." Martok opened a safe near
his bunk and pulled out a spy's gadget--a coded pill
about the size of a fingernail infused with informa-
tion on a chip that could be fed into almost any
computer. He immediately handed the pill to Sisko.
"The prize of the day. We had to fight them for
nearly an hour, then escape with our lives. Two
Klingon fighters did not escape at all. For my crew, it
was very hard to run away."
    Turning the precious pill in his hands, Sisko
assured, "You ran for good reason, Martok. Keep
the bigger picture in mind."
    "I can, but a Klingon crew is an impatient animal
with too much pride. How will Dax kill an array of a
hundred sensor dishes with one ship?"
    Until that question came up, Ben Sisko had been
pleased enough with explaining his plan to General
Martok in the privacy of the general's own quarters
on the Klingon bird of prey he had continued to fly
for years despite promotions and senior status. That
choice made Sisko admire Martok, and miss the
Defiant. Guess that was no mystery.

 Now for the hard part.
    "We came up with a rough plan. It was O'Brien's
idea." Sisko dropped into Martok's desk chair. The
general was sitting on his bunk, as if he knew that
Sisko would not sit there and he wanted him to sit
down. Fine, sit. "I'll admit, I don't like it much,
but... this is war. The sensor array is made up of
over a hundred antenna dishes situated on asteroids
and planets all over the Argolis system, flanking the
cluster itself. To take each one out--"
    "Would take a year of ground assault missions,"
Martok said with a nod.
    Sisko shrugged. "Or a hell of a lot of lucky hits
from space. We could never get even half of them
from space. Our tidy little alternative is to hit the
main broadcast station on a planet near the middle
of the array. That station controls the hundred
individual dishes."
    Cranking around to the replicator, Martok keyed
up a couple of hot drinks. "How will you do it?"
    "We'll pretend to do the insane and impractical
obvious thing--attack a bunch of these dishes, take
all the potshots we want, while surreptitiously drop-
ping one commando--"
  Martok's brows shot up. "One man?"
    "Yes, one man, right into the area of the main
broadcast station. This man, then, with stealth and
brilliance and, I hope, good luck, exacts a singular
destructive assault on the station."
  "Blows it up."
    "Yes, blows it up. Meanwhile, the Defiant contin-
ues hit-and-running the individual dishes, distract-
ing any ships left defending them and hopefully
keeping them from knowing that there's a man
infiltrating the source."
  "And for us, you and I..."
    "You and I stage our attack on the ketracel-white
barge. We'll try not to take withering losses, General.
I'm afraid your crew is going to have to swallow
another retreat. The mission isn't to destroy the
station--"
    "It is rather to attract and distract the Jem'Hadar
guarding the Argolis array for as long as possible."
    "Yes. We won't even attempt to sneak in. We'll
make a lot of noise. Circle and posture long enough
to confirm the identity of any ships that show up and
hope the numbers match up with the ones on this
list. That way, Dax'11 only have to deal with the
picket ships left behind."
    Martok sipped his drink and slowly nodded, de-
signing the whole scheme in his mind. "One ques-
tion."
    Somehow this was a relief for Sisko. He'd tried to
think of everything, tried to make this mission
something he liked, but no matter what he did or
how he twisted mentally, he couldn't enjoy sending
the Defiant into enemy space by itself, then subdi-
viding one person away from the ship to exact an
assault on a planet that probably had enemy troops
on the surface. What hadn't he thought of?.
 "Please," he invited, "ask your question."
    "Why can you not just attack the broadcast base
from space? Why drop someone in on a suicide
mission when you can hit from space?"
    This was the thing that hurt most, that made
Sisko's stomach kick against the hot drink he
clutched. Suicide mission.
    "Intelligence sent in cloaked probes and have
brought back some detailed analyses of how the
array works. It must've taken the Dominion months
to set up the sensor dishes. Starfleet has figured out
that the broadcast base can't be destroyed from
outside without triggering independent dishes to run
themselves. If the main base shuts down from an
outside attack, the dishes take over their own pro-
gramming. We have to prevent that signal from
being sent."
    "Waitwthis confuses me. If the broadcast base is
destroyed, the sensor dishes take over for them-
selves?"
    "Yes, for a certain amount of time, until the main
broadcast can be rebuilt, they can run themselves.
They'll do that if they're cut off from the broadcast
base by an outside strike."
    "An outside strike. So you mean that your com-
mando can somehow obliterate the base from inside,
without triggering the dishes to go off and run
themselves independently. You need an internal
strike. You need this suicide mission."
 "That's... that's right. The last thing the Domin-
ion wants is for those dishes to fall into enemy
hands. We could just as easily use the array against
them. If the base is destroyed from outside, the dishes
assume the Dominion hasn't yet lost the planet and
can take control again. However, if the base is de-
stroyed from inside, the dishes assume the planet is
lost, the base is about to fall into enemy hands, and is
being controlled from inside. It sends a signal to the
dishes that fries them instead of turning them on
independently. They'll all self-destruct. But we have
to send the right kind of signal to get them to do
that."
    "So there must be technical wizardry from your
commando."
    "As Chief O'Brien explains it, the infiltrator has to
go inside and adjust the signals to trick the array into
thinking it's in enemy hands or that the Jem'Hadar
have destroyed the base themselves. Then, all the
dishes will self-immolate instead of taking over
programming."
    "Your commando must land upon this planet and
go inside the building, which is likely guarded by
many Jem'Hadar soldiers and probably a forcefield
and probably mines. He must trigger this destruct
signal to a hundred dishes on a hundred asteroids
and planets and somehow get out alive by being
picked up by the Defiant, which will be under attack
in space. This is your plan."
 An unbidden groan rose in Sisko's throat. His
hands fell into his lap. "That's just about... the
whole picture."
    Martok gazed at him for several seconds. Then he
raised his mug.
    "Everyone must die sometime," he said, "and the
fortunate die in battle. Congratulate your comman-
do for me, Captain. He is on the way to an excellent
death."

    Miles O'Brien made his way from his cramped
quarters aboard Defiant to Dax's quarters. They
were both off duty, which was almost a silly concept
under these conditions, but they had to sleep some-
time. And the voyage was long. And sticking to a
watch schedule did the crew good. Felt right. Felt
ready. One more day to the edge of Argolis, where
they would then be awake for days longer. There,
they would have to punch through the stormy core of
the Argolis Cluster's heart.
    The shields were reinforced, but the cluster would
take its toll and there might not be enough deflector
power to defend against the picket ships which came
to fight them. He had held back on the reinforce-
ment. That balance between what they needed now,
what they would need for something they could only
half measure, and what they would need for a fight
they couldn't judge at all--he'd played through all
the equations and done his best, but it came down to
guessing.
    Now he carried a duffel of gear down to Dax's
quarters, things that would be necessary for the one-
man raid on the broadcast base. He chimed the
door, and she instantly called for him to enter,
proving that she wasn't asleep.
    "Good--you're still up." O'Brien slipped inside
with the duffel.
    "Can't sleep," Dax told him as she joined him at
the small desk. "Are you finished?"
  He grimaced. "Oh, bad, bad choice of words."
    "Sorry." She smiled at him. "Are you all done
mounting our little surprise for the Jem'Hadar?"
    With a shrug, he sighed. "We removed six bulk-
heads and packed sections five, nine, and ten with
torpedo caskets, all fully armed, rigged in rapid-fire
racks. The racks were the hardest part. Wait'11 you
see 'em! We're fairly bristling with torpedoes. It's a
good thing we reduced the crew complement, or
we'd never have gotten all the photons on board. We
had to pull out a whole deck of crew quarters!"
    "No sense taking anything more than a skeleton
crew on a mission like this anyway," Dax com-
mented. She seemed tired, but O'Brien knew it was
something else.
    "Now I know," he went on, "why it's against
regulations to load this many photons onto a ship.
One hull breach in those sections, and foooom. But
they'll fire like crazy when you punch in the se-
quence. They can't even be aimed, so no sense
trying. It's a punching technique, no more and no
less."
    "One ship against many. We need the edge, regula-
tions or not." Dax opened the duffel he'd put on her
desk and looked inside. "Is this the gear for the
raid?"
    "Right. Specially adjusted tricorder... phaser
with two power packs... five grenades... survival
kit, hydrator, desalinator, lights... and the fire-
crackers that'll do the job. Ten quantum explosives,
and twelve detonators. That's about all one person
can carry and move fast."
    Dax pawed lightly through the gear, nodding in
satisfaction. "It's just right."
    "Well, we hope it is," O'Brien said. "That planet
is shielded against sensor penetration by some
Jem'Hadar satellites, probably to keep us from
counting how many Jem'Hadar soldiers are guard-
ing the place on the surface. So, we haven't been able
to learn much about the planet or the base's sur-
rounding area, give or take schematics of the me-
chanical interior of the base itself. The planet, we
can't even tell climate very well. We know there are
rocks and trees, but otherwise we've got no idea
what we're beaming down into." "What's this blue pack?"
 "Compact field jacket. Might get cold at night."
    She looked at him. "You anticipating a camp-
out?"
    "Have to," he told her. "Can't assume the Defiant
will be able to double back. We don't know how
many picket ships we'll be forced to face down.
Might have to stay on the planet for days or weeks.
Who knows? Years, maybe, if the war lasts that
long."
    "Or a lifetime if the Dominion wins," she con-
firmed and picked up the airtight pack which had
the thermal jacket inside. "I take a long torso. This
isn't my size."
 "Why should it be? I'm the one it's got to fit."
 That was it. They locked glares.
 "What do you mean, 'you'?" she challenged.
    He shrugged and put a possessive hand on the
duffel. "Well, who else could possibly go? Sure, most
of our engineers could handle the mission if it were a
textbook case, but we can't count on that. There's
going to be a lot of improvising. If there's a problem,
it'll take a senior engineer with some jury-rigging
experience. There's nobody better on board than
little me."
    Dax's black eyes flashed. "Oh, yes, there is.
There's little me."
    Though he wasn't entirely surprised, O'Brien de-
liberately stepped back, cocked his hip, tipped his
head, and let his jaw drop as if in shock. "You! Now,
look--"
    Instantly Dax interrupted, "You're not going to
argue with your captain, are you, Miles?"
    His saucy Irish temper flared. Usually he kept it
leashed up, but this was time for a bite.
    "Oh, damned right I am! You can't do everything
yourself. You're not just Captain Sisko's majordomo
anymore, Jadzia. You're not a unit leader. You're a
ship's commander on a wide-ranging mission.
You're in charge of more than the ground assault,
y'know."
    "Miles, I'm not sending anybody down into a pit
like that on a suicide mission--no, we both know it
is. There's no sense coloring the truth, at least not
between us."
    Her openness moved him so much that his in-
nards clutched. She was trusting him with thoughts
she usually kept to herself or reserved for Captain
Sisko. He doubted she had ever voiced such reserva-
tions even to Worf, whom she would, hopefully,
soon marry. And he knew what she meantmdying
in space together was one thing, but to just drop a
shipmate on a planet, behind enemy lines, where
there's almost no chance of a successful pickup...
pretty distasteful.
    She was the captain. What could he do if she
insisted on going herself?. Orders were still orders,
even behind the lines and even going into a mission
they might never get out of. In fact orders were more
orders than ever, now. He couldn't just flex a muscle
and insist. He had to make a good case.
 Fortunately, he thought he had one.

    Seeing a reflection of himself and her in the little
vanity mirror beside the bunk, he straightened his
posture a little and wished he'd had time for a
haircut. Right now his buff curls looked a bit too
boyish. And Jadzia Dax was her flawless, postured
self, elegant and queenly in her simple shipboard
jumpsuit. Oh, well, he couldn't out-regal her. He'd
have to do something else.
    "What do you think Captain Sisko felt like, send-
ing us out on this mission without him?"
    Apparently surprised by the abrupt change of
subject, Dax seemed troubled. "As if his heart had
been cut out, I imagine."
    "I imagine that too," O'Brien said, "but he did it.
He wanted to come, you can bet, but when he was
needed to do bigger things, he stayed to do them."
    Suddenly Dax turned away from him. Her shoul-
ders flexed and her long black hair, tied at the nape
of her neck, rolled between her shoulderblades. "All
right, Miles, I know where you're going with that."
    She didn't look at him. Somehow that was harder
than speaking to her face-to-face.
    "I can't run the ship as well as you can," he said,
"and you're not an engineering specialist. No matter
what kind of image we Starfleeters try to put across,
we're not interchangeable. We can't do each other's
jobs as well as we pretend. You're in command of
this mission--the whole mission, not just one part
of it. You've got a hard job and I'm glad it's not
mine. You've got to choose which people are best to
do which tasks. The broadcast base... that's mine
and you know it."
    She still didn't turn to face him. He did empathize
with her. In fact he was bothered--her composure
didn't crack very often. Usually Dax didn't need
anybody's empathy. She always had her ducks in a
row, always floated behind somebody else who had
bigger problems, providing support and answers and
steadiness. But now she was in command. The
problems had been shifted onto her narrow shoul-
ders and for the first time since O'Brien could
remember, she seemed unsure of herself and deeply
troubled.
 The sight shook him to his bones.
    Jadzia Dax wasn't what she appeared to be on any
level. She appeared to be a young woman, subdued
and intelligent, accepting of whatever came along.
But that was a false image. Really, she was a blend of
alien manners of survival, a merging of two life-
forms--a young woman and a very old alien. In
body, she was young. In mind, she had lived hun-
dreds of years, loved and lost, seen and learned. It
was hard most of the time to remember she wasn't
human, but she wasn't. To Dax, a human being lived
such a short life and was snuffed out so early... she
had lived hundreds of years among creatures who
only lived a few decades. What must they seem like
to her? O'Brien knew that, for Dax, sending him to
that planet was almost like sending a child to die.
 But O'Brien, too, was defending his wife and
children. He knew the Federation was losing. If the
Dominion won, humanity would bear the brunt of
reprisal as the race that had led the charge. They'd
be lucky if the Dominion let them live at all, never
mind live well. Chattel slaves had a better idea of the
future than he did for his family right now.
    "If I get in trouble," he began again, tentatively,
"who's best to get me out of there?"
  Several seconds went by. She still didn't turn.
  "I am..."
"If I fail, who's best to launch a second attempt?"
As ridiculous as they both knew that was--there
were no second chances in this kind of game--but
there was no harm in hope.
  She didn't answer. They both knew.
    "We're not that sure of what's inside that base,
technically speaking."
    O'Brien paused. This was all wrong. They were
pretending. He had to do better.
    "I'm the best to go down there and deal with it,
and you're the best to dodge about and pretend to
target those dishes. Look, I know what I'm getting
into. You needn't... you don't have to make any
promises you can't keep. Once you drop me, just
distract those ships until I can send the destruct
signal. You'll know I've done it when the dishes in
the array start blowing up. If I don't make it, they
just won't blow. Either way, wait as long as you
think is right, then use the torpedoes to plow your
way out of Argolis." He lowered his voice now, and
added, "I understand if you don't come back for me.
It's a habitable planet... I'll find a way to live."
    Live, he knew, contingent upon the big "if' of
whether or not he could possibly survive the assault
on the broadcast base at all. He knew also, and
so did she, that even if he succeeded, the enraged
Jem'Hadar certainly would find him. He knew. They both knew.
    "The array has to come down, Dax," he finished.
"I've done all I can here. Your job's just starting. So
let's each do what we're best at. Go on, now... be a
captain. Give the right order."

Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror,
victory however long and hard the road may
be; for without victory there is no survival.

Lord Winston Churchill

0

CHAPTER
        6

"THAT'S A suicide maneuver!"
  "Only if we get killed."
  "Ben!"
 "Mind your helm, Charlie. I'm sorry."
    Well, that was a lousy answer. Captain Charlie
Reynolds easily stayed on his feet despite the pitch-
ing and yawing of Centaur, which made Ben Sisko
tip and grab for balance against the helm where the
other captain--now the commodore of this assault
team--was standing. Centaur was smaller than Defi-
ant and the maneuvers were like suction in a wind
tunnel as the snarling little ship wheeled tightly
before five Jem'Hadar ships in attack formation.
Now Sisko had asked Reynolds to turn about--a
sanity-straining maneuver while being pursued--
and roll back into that formation and strafe those
ships and make them follow off in another direction.
Why?
    "Rotarran, veer toward the barge," Sisko called
clearly over the bridge noises, "Traynor, break to-
ward the cluster and open fire... K'lashm ~z, follow
them halfway and break right."
    Reynolds watched the action as it was being
directed, and knew he was right. This was a good
way to get killed while gaining nothing at all. A
patchwork task force of five Starfleet and Klingon
ships, racing in about as subtle as bulls, staging this
assault but not really concentrating on the target. So
what were they doing?
    "Full burn on all weapons," Sisko went on, as his
orders were instantly funneled from Centaur to the
other task force ships. "Don't save anything...
Lyric, angle ten degrees! Good... good... broad
formation, everyone, stay away from each other...
good..."
    Reynolds listened to what Sisko was saying with
great curiosity and annoyance as he also fed orders
to his own crew, more specific than Sisko's, so the
Centaur could make its moves at its own most
efficient manner. There were subtle differences be-
tween styles of ship, different methods of getting
each individual vessel to do its personal best.
    As Sisko gave orders to the task force ships and
Charlie Reynolds gave order after order to his own
crew, Reynolds kept glancing and leering and an-
gling at Sisko until he finally started to get reactions
out of his old acquaintance. A twinge--was it
guilt?--crimped Sisko's eyes as Reynolds divided
his attention between Sisko and the action on the
screen. Sisko had asked a lot of the Centaur's crew
today. A lot of silence, a lot of vagueness, a lot of
loaded glares that explained nothing. Go over the
border into the Argolis area, stage a losing attack on
an orbiting barge with Federation configuration,
probably get killed here, but don't ask any questions
and don't try to destroy the barge or its store of
ketracel? Who could figure that?
    Even in times of war, such quirkish behavior was
a lump to swallow. When men and women went out
to fight and die, they needed an idea of what they
were fighting and dying for. But the maneuvers Sisko
had ordered for Centaur and for Rotarran--
out there somewhere, firing on the barge--were
silly actions geared to confuse the linear-minded
Jem'Hadar and stall the duration of this battle as
long as possible.
    "You're just mad at me because I didn't recognize
you last time I saw you," Reynolds complained as
they dodged between two crossing enemy fighters.
    Sisko glanced at him. "My fault. I wasn't wearing
my usual ship."
    By now, after half an hour of fighting, damage,
and casualties, Charlie knew the assault on the barge
was half-assed and staged. He knew the other ships'
attacks and Centaur's ridiculous maneuvers were
going to get them nowhere when it came to captur-
ing that barge. And it was aggravating--Reynolds
and his entire crew would happily do something
ridiculous if only they had some clue why they were
doing it.
    "Keep shields moving on all vessels," Sisko or-
dered to the communications network. "Flash
through any anticipated movements to all our ships.
Tell Martok to change superior assault position with
the Traynor, then to Lyric after three minutes. Keep
the Jem'Hadar from knowing which ship is in
charge. I don't want them focusing attention."
    "Helm, use your lateral stabilizers more," Reyn-
olds said, pretty much speaking at the same time.
"Come on, Randy, you know better than that!"
  "Sorry, Charlie."
    "Weapons on pinpoint. Aryl, shut down any non-
critical systems. Life support on nominal--save
whatever we've got. Double shields now, Fitz. We're
outmatched four to one. Eyes open. Fire, fire, fire,
keep it up, fire as you bear, don't stop--"
    "We're burning ourselves out in two rounds,"
Roger Buick snarled, "and it's a twelve-round
match."
    Gerrie twisted around from her science panel, still
keeping her hands on the board. "They've got anoth-
er half-dozen ships coming in. At least five, sir."
  "From which direction?" Sisko asked.
  "Several different directions, sir."
"Pick the tightest cluster and head right at them,
full shields--Charlie, you do it."
    At the last second, Sisko had remembered he
wasn't the captain here, and while Reynolds appreci-
ated that, he still didn't understand such a goofy
series of actions. Head at them? Why?
    "Track their residual trails," Sisko added, glanc-
ing at Gerrie Ruddy. "See where they came from."
    Irritated now and feeling as if his uniform were
shrinking, Reynolds snapped around to him and
demanded, "Why in blazes is that important?"
    Drenched with perspiration that matted his wispy
blond hair, Reynolds finally felt his teeth grate one
too many times. He shoved his way through his
sweating crew and the cloud of smoke puffing from
damaged boards to come to Sisko's side. Ignoring
the twisting action on the screen and the ram of
incoming shots, he let his crew do the hard stuff, and
fixed his eyes on Sisko.
    "Okay, flag on the play." He faced Sisko, gathered
the shreds of shipboard diplomacy and kept his
voice between them. "Assuming Ben Sisko isn't
insane, which I doubt, assuming he's not stupid,
which I know, then he's got to have a reason for all
this silliness. It's pretty clear now we're not here to
destroy or even capture that barge."
    "But the Jem'Hadar only analyze behavior, not
motivations," Sisko told him, "and that means they
can be fooled by silly actions."
    "Yeah, but there's a shipload of people right here
who are risking their lives to be silly and right now
it's not going over too great. I know how my people
work best--"
    "Too many questions, Charlie," Ben Sisko chided
as he moved his big shoulders in empathic echo of
the dodging ships out there and kept one grip on the
edge of the helm.
    "Too bad," Reynolds persisted. He took a step
closer and folded his arms, flagrantly showing off
that he didn't need to hold on to anything to keep his
feet under him. "If you won't talk to me, then I'll
talk to myself. What could possibly be bigger than
destroying most of the ketracel white in this quad-
rant? Well, it couM be capturing the ketracel white,
but we're not trying to do that very well, are we? I
know, I know... questions. Okay, I'll just talk and
when I'm wrong you tell me. The only thing bigger
than the white is that damned wormhole which I
wish to hell had never opened up its fat mouth in the
first place. The only thing keeping us from taking
back DS9 is the fact that we move our fleet and
nobody can move a whole fleet without everybody
else knowing all about it. Am I getting warm?"
Sisko pressed his lips. "You're giving me a tan."
"We're gonna take on more and more Jem'Hadar
ships and still win?" Reynolds plowed on. "Even if
all five of our ships strafe that barge, it won't be
enough. These aren't assault maneuvers. These are
stalling maneuvers. You're buying time. Are we
throwing ourselves on a grenade here?"
    Sacrificing themselves--that was a noble but dis-
tasteful concept and he just wanted to know. Notic-
ing Sisko's unease, Reynolds refused to back off,
though he whittled the untimely conversation down
to its most simple denominator.
    "Why don't you just tell me what you want?" he
asked.
    Stalling on another plane, Sisko heaved a few
breaths of frustration, but Reynolds tightened his
folded arms and made clear he wasn't moving till he
got an answer. Mentally he vibrated the image of a
rotting skeleton still standing here ten thousand
years from now, waiting for a grunt from a mummi-
fied stationmaster.
      "All right," the commodore ultimately relented.
"I want... you're going to hate this." "I hate it already. Give."
    "I want the ID numbers off all the enemy ships
that show up here."
    "ID numbers," Reynolds repeated, tasting the
words. Yes, a nutty answer, but he was suddenly
curious now. "For reference or comparison?"
    "Both." Sisko reached into his boot and pulled
out a little chip, about so big and not very thick, and
handed it to him. "There's the list. Line up the
numbers, Charlie."
 Turning the chip in his fingers, Reynolds narrowed
his eyes. "Mmm... both... uh-huh... hmmm.
Okay. All hands, listen up]"
    As Sisko smiled at him in spite of the crashing, the
banging, the whining, and billows of sparking
smoke, Reynolds turned to his overworked crew and
waved the smoke away from his eyes.
    "Apparently," he began, with a sly glance back at
Sisko, "our job is to get the ID information off any
Jem'Hadar ship that comes into this area, got it? Use
weapons to defend and divert. Don't pump energy
into destruction unless you've got a shot nobody in
his right mind could refuse. Since none of you losers
are in your right minds, none of this should be--
Randy, veer right]"
    The Centaur's worn deck carpet dropped from
beneath their feet as the ship pressed hard to star-
board and elevatored upward a few degrees to clear a
vicious-looking Jem'Hadar ship that launched from
behind a lingering detonation cloud and now took a
good shot at them.
    The shot missed, but the residual energy wave
kicked Centaur in the left warp nacelle. Reynolds
noticed that Sisko grasped the helm and almost went
down on one knee, but Reynolds himself managed
to keep both feet under him. He was more familiar
with the tugs and pulls of this vessel, and at the
moment proud of that.
    But that one had been an almost fatal mistake--at
the helm Randy Lang had been looking at Reynolds
instead of the screen. Only for an instant, but that
one mistake had almost gotten them killed.
    Randy's face was flushed with shock of that lesson
and now his eyes were fixed on the screen. "Where'd
that bastard come from?" he gasped.
    "Two more new ones coming in from someplace!"
Roger Buick called over the scream of compensators
in the engineering trunks. He was juggling both
navigation and weapons--then again, who needed
to navigate this kind of nonsense?
    "Evasive," Reynolds ordered, "but keep tight.
Roger, get those numbers! Gerrie, feed this into the
computer!" He tossed the little nugget with the list
of ship identification up to the science deck, where
his science officer grabbed it.
    "You've gotta be kidding," Science Officer Geral-
dine Ruddy grumbled, but she shoved the pill into
an all-purpose fitting and worked her sensors, scan-
ning and focusing and pinpointing like crazy.
    "Buick," Sisko interrupted, "if you target their
engine exhaust ports, instead of their drive systems,
and fuse them shut, they'll have to fall back for a few
minutes. All we have to do is disable them. Don't
waste time trying to go for the kill."
    "Understood, sir," Buick responded tightly,
though he actually glanced at Sisko as if to remind
himself he was taking orders from both his captain
and his commodore.
 For a brief instant Reynolds let himself be grateful
to Sisko for bothering to learn the names of the
Centaur's bridge crew.
    More rightly, his words to Buick had been a
suggestion, not an order, that could be counter-
manded by Reynolds if the captain saw some flaw
the brilliant commodore hadn't thought of.
    "What's the Rotarran's position?" Sisko asked,
possibly a means of reminding both this crew and
himself that he wasn't trying to overshadow their
own captain and that he knew his job here. Reynolds
was grateful again, though not inclined to thank
Sisko just yet for a darned thing.
    "They're on the underside of the barge, sir,"
Ensign Aryl reported. "Strafing aft, with three
Jem'Hadar on them!"
    "Maintain surveillance. If they get into trouble,
we'll have to veer back and help."
    "We're all in trouble," Reynolds muttered. "Two
ships against all these--"
    "Try to keep track of which ones were here when
we arrived and which are just showing up," Sisko
said. "Go after the IDs on the new ships and
compare them to the IDs on the list I gave you."
     Reynolds tried to control his expression, but a
 sneer popped out anyway; IDs off Jem'Hadar ships
 rushing by at high impulse, shooting the whole time.
 Yeah. As if it were that easy to read the encoded
 Jem'Hadar markings.
     "I'11 get the numbers for you," he muttered,
 pressing forward with both hands on Roger Buick's
thick shoulders. "After this is over, you're gonna tell
me all about it."
    Ben Sisko narrowed his black eyes and in the
midst of rocking and rolling, stirred up a snakelike
smile.
    "That's a deal, Charlie," he said. "That's the best
deal I've ever made."

0

CHAPTER
        7

RouoH RIDE. Damned rough ride through that clus-
ter. The ship had almost melted in the heavy radia-
tion and storms, but the double shielding brought
them through. If any were left to get back again...
that remained to be seen.
    For now, and possibly for always, it was no longer
Miles O'Brien's problem. He had drilled and re-
drilled the engineers on the Deftant to deal with any
problems he could wildly imagine to keep the ship
from peeling apart, but he couldn't possibly antici-
pate their actions after facing down a bunch of
Jem'Hadar ships and whatever damage they might
also have to deal with. He stopped short of calculat-
ing the ship's chances of ever seeing Federation space
again. That was too much for a man's soul to hold.

    A strange fatalism overtook him as he felt himself
rematerialize and knew he was on the planet where
the broadcast station was nestled. In fact, as his eyes
cleared, he saw that he was inside a vestibule of
some sort, a constructed tunnel.

    "Good shooting, Dax," he muttered. Best aim
with transporters he'd seen in a year, and they'd
dropped him off without even reducing speed. He
was warmed by Dax's insistence to work the trans-
porter herself, even in the midst of onrushing
Jem'Hadar picket ships.
    They'd counted six ships racing in from the outly-
ing regions of the Argolis system. So that fight was
on. And he was down here.
    And after days of silent running, minutes sud-
denly counted. He had to send the destruct signal to
those dishes, so they would blow themselves up and
Dax would see it. Then he had to take out this whole
facility with his little concussion-incendiaries.
  "Or die trying."
    Tricorder clicked in his hands, scanning the
immediate area. Four... seven... at least ten
Jem'Hadar readings close by. But he didn't see
any of them.
    So far, so good--no intruder alert alarms going
off. Nothing was reading his presence, at least not
yet. That gave him a few seconds.
    Slipping his pack off his shoulder, he held it in
front of him at the ready, kept his hand on his phaser
without taking the weapon off his belt yet, because
he would need his hands, and stood up straight.
Here in the shadows, if he didn't crouch, he might
look like just another Jem'Hadar to someone look-
ing this way. Trying to appear confident and in place
to any peripheral glances, he strode into the broad-
cast complex.
    The base comprised three buildings, one main and
two auxiliary. He was at what they guessed was the
back door of the main building. Ahead of him was a
series of cubiclelike openings that actually were
corridors. The walls of each corridor were encrusted
with technology--panels, monitors, access links,
and everything necessary to run the hundred sensor
dishes in the systemwide array.
    With his skin crawling, O'Brien strode into the
dim complex, doing his best Jem'Hadar clunky
stagger. Keeping to the shadows, he held the short
duffel up against his chest to hide the tricorder.
    Emissions... long-range emissions... there! Per-
fect... he knew just what to look for... now
he just had to track the signals... Luckily most
of the Jem'Hadar technology wasn't a mystery. The
Vorta were secretive, but not very technical. The
Jem'Hadar they ordered around were technical, but
not very imaginative. They didn't understand about
tricks and secrets, decoys and false leads. They knew
what worked and why, and they just made things
work.
  That left tiny openings for O'Brien and others
who were learning that cleverness and trickery were
things the Jem'Hadar didn't understand.
    A hard chill ran up his spine as a movement to his
left attracted his attention. Deep in the dim corri-
dor, three Jem'Hadar soldiers crossed his path.
    Not moving too fast, he turned sharply and
stepped into one of the cubicle openings that led to
the computer and mechanical panels running the
complex. If those soldiers came this way, they would
be able to see right in here, and this place had a
worklight shining in it. There was no place to hidew
and the corridor was a dead end.
    Frustration set in. The tricorder provided him
with a neat map to the array signal source. Three
cubicles down to his right, then a hundred meters
northeast. That would lead into the center of this
building, the way it was situated in the landscape.
    Cold in here... the hastily poured concrete floor
was uneven and grainy and sucked the heat out of
his body right through the soles of his boots and into
the ground. In spite of that he was sweating and his
black-on-black infiltration suit was clammy against
his arms and chest. Why hadn't he just brought a
Jem'Hadar Halloween mask? He could've walked
around here all day.
     Funny what they hadn't thought of. Wouldn't have
been so harda Footsteps!
 He pressed his back against the nearest wall.
Would they just walk by? Or would they look in
here? No shadow, no desk, nothing to hide behind.
O'Brien flattened himself as much as possible, held
the duffel bag behind his thigh, and leveled his
phaser at the cubicle opening.
    The mutter of Jem'Hadar voices gnawed at him.
He couldn't hear what they were saying, couldn't
quite make out the words--more shuffling foot-
steps... were they armed?  Probably.
    He was ready... he had a specially programmed
computer cartridge that would send the destruct
signal to the dishes. It was all ready, right here in his
duffel's side pocket. All he had to do was get to the
broadcast point and plug it in, then ignite the signal.
The whole thing would only take seven to ten
seconds.
  If he could just get there.
    The Jem'Hadar shuffling was right here now, just
opposite the entry to this cubicle. Were they passing
by? Please, pass by, pass by...
     His phaser was set to kill. No sense taking
 chances. If only he could've set it on wide-angle--
 but that would be too risky in here. Too much
 mechanics that could shatter and blow back on
 O'Brien himself. There were places where a phaser
 could be wide-ranged and places where it shouldn't
 be.
  They were here--he could hear them muttering,
much closer now--only steps away. If only it weren't
so bright here!
    The footsteps began to fade. Were they leaving?
Going outside, maybe? That would be so--
    Then a face appeared beside him, a horny face like
an open jawbone. One of the Jem'Hadar!
    The soldier strode into the cubicle and reached for
a panel, then caught O'Brien in the corner of his eye
and swung around, gaping at the intrusion. The
soldier opened his mouth to call the others, but
O'Brien clutched the phaser.
    Unfortunately, the phaser did the soldier's
screaming for him. The soldier was blasted back-
ward to crash his heavy body into the panel behind
him, smashing several lighted readouts. By the time
the sparks rose, that soldier was dead and sizzling
against the lower trunk.
    O'Brien didn't wait for the others. He ducked
out of the cubicle with the phaser announcing him
the whole way. Two... three down! Three dead
Jem'Hadar and no more in sight right now. Had they
alerted anybody when his phaser first went off?.
    The hall was cleared now, but he didn't fool
himself into thinking that was the end of it. Clutch-
ing his duffel under one arm and holding the phaser
out before him, he broke into a full-out run in the
direction the tricorder had indicated.
    The place where the signal computer was
housed--would it be defensible? Would he have
seven to ten seconds before they came in and killed
him? Could he hold them off that long?
    That would mean he only got half the job done.
Destroying the dishes would give the Federation a
little time, but wouldn't cripple the Dominion for
long. This base had to come downmand he was
going to die in here before he could make that
happen. If only he could contact Dax, tell her to
blast the complex from space after the dishes blew
up... he should've told her to do that anyway.
    Irritated that they hadn't just accepted that this
was a suicide mission and dealt with it as such, he
plowed his way past crates of equipment and locked
cabinets, blasting the cabinets and crates into shards
as he ran past them. The crates blew to smithereens,
and the padlocked cabinets cracked open like eggs,
spilling precious ketracel white in a hundred little
tubes that crashed to the ground and left a spreading
slick of milky liquid behind him.
    A loud bell-ringing alarm went off all around him,
almost driving him down with sheer loudness. What
had triggered it? Those soldiers must've hit a switch
or an alert before he came out and blew them away.
Couldn't exactly blame them. It was part of the
game.
    He ran like a fool straight down the middle of the
corridor, with such plowboy willfulness that he ran
right past the cubicle opening to the corridor with
the broadcast signal housing. Twenty paces down, he
skidded around, almost slipping in the slick of
ketracel white, then skidded his way back to the
right opening--
    And now he could see at least a dozen troops of

Jem'Hadar surging into the dimness from the wedge
of light from the main tunnel!
    They opened fire as soon as they saw him, but he
ducked and zigzagged out of their sights. Their
distruptor fire tore apart the walls around him and
clawed at the floor beneath his running feet, but
finally he zagged hard to his left and plunged into
the cubicle. Was it the right one this time? If not, it
was all over. There was no going back.
    The wall just ahead of him opened up with
disruptor fire, cracking as if an earthquake had
gouged it, and half the stony wall caved in on him.
He tried to jump over it, but tripped and went down
hard on the point of his left knee. Grimacing in pain,
he forced himself to continue without missing a step.
    Slinging the duffel's strap over his shoulder, still
firing back the way he'd come with one hand, he
used the other hand to dig into the side pocket and
pull out the computer cartridge that meant every-
thing. Well, half of everything.
    He stopped shooting and concentrated on ducking
the shots from the Jem'Hadar who were chasing
him. He was faster, a pretty good sprinter in his day,
and put half the complex behind him while the
Jem'Hadar fell behind. Every pace drove a stab of
pain from his knee up to his pelvis. If he hadn't
fallen he might've been able to run even faster, but
there was no getting that back. Seconds, he needed
seconds...
    There it was! He recognized the alien computer
broadcast-signal access as if he'd designed it him-
self! It was so obvious in its purpose it might as well
have been marked "HERE!"
    Ducking behind a transverse wall, he turned and
opened fire in a blanketing manner that forced the
pursuing Jem'Hadar to stop chasing him and take
cover. Streaks of disruptor energy bit into the thing
he was hiding behind and took off the top half of it.
Another shot like that, and he would be completely
exposed.
    He fired wildly a few more times, then swung
to the computer terminal and searched for the
card insert. There had to be something heretothe
Jem'Hadar had built all their equipment to be
compatible with whatever they might find in the
Alpha Quadrant. That was their idea of being ready
to take over whatever they found.
    Today, their prudence was in O'Brien's favor. The
access was in an abnormal place, but he did find it
and the cartridge fit just right. The computer came
to life and started asking for instructions. He took
the time for two more blanketing shots, then tapped
in an override order. He gave it the answer--You've
fallen into enemy hands. Detonate all dishes.
    The computer distilled his order, took it as an
enemy takeover of the base, and started sending
destruct signals to the dishes far away in space.

    "I hope," he muttered. "I hope that's what you're
doing. No second chances... come on, give me
confirmation..."
    But none came. He had no way to know if the
signal had actually been sent. It had been processed,
but had it been segmented and broadcast to the
dishes? Were they blowing up now? Was Dax seeing
them sparkle in deep space as she fought off the
Jem'Hadar pickets?
    Or was there nothing? Was space still dark and
hopeless? Did she think he was already dead? That
he'd failed?
    Out of time, he swung around on his raging knee
and kept low, hiding behind what was left of the
jagged wall. There was dust in his eyes and mouth as
he tried to see down the dim aisle. There they were!
A dozen Jem'Hadar peeking out at him, their dis-
ruptors raised toward him.
    Well, at least he could take a few of them down
with him.
    No, there was more he could do! He could set a
couple of those incendiary charges and at least blow
up part of this computer rack. If he couldn't take out
the whole building, at least he could mess it up a
little!
    Clutching for the duffel bag, he dragged it to his
side and tried to dig through it, but his fingers were
numb. Why weren't his fingers moving?
    A shuffle down the aisle snapped his attention
back to the Jem'Hadar. They were coming!
    Quickly O'Brien peeked out to get aim, trained his
phaser on the clutch of white-faced soldiers lumber-
ing toward him, and squeezed the trigger.
  Nothing happened.
     He spat an oath and twisted the readjustment on
the phaser. Still nothing! His phaser had shut down!
  And they were coming!
    The power pack still read charged--what was
wrong with it?
    He hooked the duffel bag on his numb arm
and stumbled over the pile of rubble, heading north-
east again, but he didn't make it ten steps before
the low ceiling over his head blew to spatters and
drove him down to the scratchy concrete floor. The
concrete ripped his clothing and chewed at his skin.
His leg was throbbing and weak now, his right arm
still numb. Behind him he heard the shift-shift of
Jem'Hadar boots scratching through the rubble.
    He was done for. Half a job, and he was finished.
The muscles in his back cramped in anticipation of
disruptor fire. What would it feel like to die that
way?
 BOOM. t
     A deafening roar shocked him to a stupor and he
covered his head with his arms. Click--BOOM. t
 What the hell was that?
 "Get up! On your feet!"
 ClickwBOOM. t
 Gathering his splattered wits, O'Brien twisted and
looked up into a cloud of dust and smoke. There,
standing above him, looking back the way he'd
come, was a man. Nobody special, just a man,
except that from this angle the newcomer seemed
like a redwood tree at dawn, rising out of the rocks
and rubble to tower over the insect at its base.
  "Get up!"
  BOOM!
    Some kind of concussion rifle stretched from the
man's grip and spat black fire at the scattering
Jem'Hadar.
    O'Brien twisted over on his back and looked at the
enemy troops. The nearest Jem'Hadar's head was
cracked in two and opened up like a melon hit with a
hammer. Exposed brains were blown free and splat-
tered the wall with blue matter and white liquid. The
body lay less than a meter away from him. That was
close.
    Down the aisle were more slaughtered Jem'Hadar,
each with a hole in him the size of a worklight. Guts
and white spilled down the fronts of their smashed
torsos. And of those left from the original dozen
pursuers, disruptors flew out of their hands and their
ranks opened before O'Brien and the intruder like
petals flying off an old rose in high wind. In puddles
of gore the Jem'Hadar hit the walls, leaving streaks
of guts and shattered bone as they slid to the cold
floor.
    The man called over the noise of his own weapon.
"Can you shoot?"
      O'Brien shook himself and forced his voice out,
"My phaser's jammed or--or seized!"  "Your what is what?"
    Desperately he plucked at the inert weapon's
setting panel. "This place has some kind of energy
damping field! I can't shoot!"
"That's all right," the intruder said. "I can."
And he started walking forward, down the aisle
O'Brien had just marathoned, dealing death faster
than the Jem'Hadar could even take aim. O'Brien
scratched to his feet, slung the duffel's strap back
over his shoulder, and stumbled after him.
    Suddenly the man shoved his heavy weapon into
O'Brien's hand, along with some kind of metal clip,
and shouted, "Reload this!"
    While O'Brien fumbled with the rifle-type weap-
on, the man yanked a handheld weapon out of his
vest and kept shooting, hardly missing a second.
 BAM./ BAM!
    That hand weapon had a different tenor of report
but did a terrible thing to the faces of the oncoming
Jem'Hadar.
    "Come on!" the man called back to O'Brien.
"Follow me!"

0

CHAPTER
        8

"MORE ^t4OLE! Are the torpedo racks on line?"
      "Ready to fire when you are. If just one of those
jams on the slide-out, they'll chain-ignite."  "I know. Nog, fire phasers!"
    "Rigging a ship with something this dangerous is a
court-martial offense, you know, Captain."
    "Let's hope we're all alive to be court-martialed,
Julian. Lieutenant Haj, continue evasive. Don't let
them work our stern. Starboard, faster! Julian, take
over the sensors. Keep focused on those dishes. Let
me know as soon as you see anything."
    Jadzia Dax was out of the command chair, work-
ing the Ops and engineering stations herself. Every-
body on board was doing two jobs, except that she
was also the commanding officer and that meant she
was doing a lot more than two jobs.
    They were in a hot chase with five Jem'Hadar
vessels on their tail. Since dropping off O'Brien they
had raced around the system in a flurry of uncoordi-
nated hits, taking potshots at various sensor dishes
and even managing to take out a handful of them,
but such maneuvers would never make a dent in the
hundred units out there. All they had to do was
make the Jem'Hadar believe they were after the
dishes. O'Brien only needed a few minutes... if he
were still alive.
    "Fire!" Dax called again when the fourth enemy
ship tried to take their beam. "Don't let them get in
front of us!"
 "I'm trying," Nog ground out.
    "Nog, take over the Ops! I'll take tactical and
weapons."
 "Good!"
    They switched positions, and that cut out the
rigmarole of Dax having to handle two consoles and
also watch the enemy ships and also give specific
firing orders. Now she could fire at will and cut
seconds off the process of keeping alive. "Dax!"
    Bashir was calling, but Dax didn't pay attention to
him. There were two ships in range... if she could
only hit their weapons magazines--
    "Dax!" Bashir shouted louder. "Sensors indicate
wide-range full-spectrum meltdown in the dish
units! Miles did it! He did it! The dishes are blowing
up all over the system?
    Through the plasma smoke, she cast him a glow-
ing smile. "Did we ever have a doubt?"
    Sheeted in sweat, Bashir was too frightened to
return the smile. "Well, actually, yes!"
    She turned back to her weapons, wishing she
could take the time to look out into space, see the
sparkle of detonations from here to eternity. "Haj,
lay in a course for the cluster!"
    She continued firing, and though Defiant sus-
tained ghastly damage in most sections, she man-
aged to detonate any critical incomings and thus
protect the sections where the torpedoes were tightly
packed; and at the same time she took out three
more Jem'Hadar ships. Now they were being pur-
sued by two ships.
    "Good shooting!" Bashir gagged, then coughed on
the streaming gases erupting from the shattered
bridge consoles. "A few more minutes and we won't
even be able to breathe in here. Dax? Did you hear
me?"
    "I heard you. Do what you can about it. Get us
masks if you have to."
    "Understood! Did you say we're heading for the
cluster?" Bashir left his post and stumbled across the
shattered deck to her side. "We're not leaving
him... we're not, are we?"
    Her hands cold, she fired the stern phasers again
and again. "Those are our orders."
"You're not serious..." Even his whisper was
like a gong in her ear. "Did he know that?"
    "I was supposed to be the one to go," she told him.
"I was the only one who knew. I was under com-
mand restriction. It's too dangerous to go back for
one person. We owe the Federation the opportunity
to use this ship again. That means leaving right
now."
    "Dax," he protested, but he apparently couldn't
think of any way to make one man's life worth more
than an entire battleship in the middle of a war.
    Dax gave him a sorry glance. "We're supposed to
use those photon torpedoes to plow our way back
into the cluster and clear out of here."
    He gripped her tactical console. "Is it worth one
pass? An emergency beam-out?"
    "We can't slow down enough to pick up just one
person. We won't be able to focus the beam that
well."
    "Listen," Bashir gasped, "I can isolate his com-
badge signal and we can do a wide-scan transporter
beam. It's risky and we might pick up a couple of
Jem'Hadar along with him, but at least we can try.
You're not leaving without at least trying to get
Miles back... you wouldn't do that, would you?"
    She hit the firing button again, and behind them
another Jem'Hadar ship splintered and spun out of
control. "No, I'm not leaving without at least
trying."

     Julian seemed suddenly weak. He pressed his
hands on the edge of her console. "Thank God..."
  "Get back to your post."
  "Thank you--"
"Go on. Haj, evasive subport, ten degrees!"
"Captain!" Ensign Nog peered through the gout of
smoke, before anyone could move at all. "Ten more
Jem'Hadar ships just appeared on our forward
screens! They're blocking our way!"
    Bashir swung around, obviously frightened that
Dax would change her mind. Ten ships, blocking the
way between them and O'Brien--
    Just then a hard hit from aft blew half the helm
console away at the deck level. The flash of electrical
impact drove Lieutenant Haj straight backward to
crash to the deck with his legs virtually on fire.
    "Julian," Dax called, "take over the conn sta-
tion!"
    His complexion dusky with fear, Bashir rushed to
the helm and put his hands on the snapping controls.
Dax was worried--asking him to steer in these
conditions was a risk. He knew the basics, but he
was no combat pilot.
     "Just head directly into those oncoming ships,
Julian," she told him in her steadiest voice.
  "Directly into him? No evasive?"
    "No evasive." Dax twisted around briefly. "All
right, everyone, this is it! Nog, ready all torpedo
racks!"
 "All racks armed and ready!"
    "Wait until they're in range... closer... clos-
er... let's plow our way through! All torpedoes,
rapid-fire!"

    Blast after blast blew Jem'Hadar soldiers out of
their way. O'Brien limped behind the lanky and
dangerous stranger.
"Why aren't you shooting?" the man cast back.
"Oh--don't know. Guess I should..."
Fumbling with the weapon, he did a quicky diag-
nostic and figured out where the clip went, clapped it
into place, turned the wide-mouthed barrel forward
toward one of the Jem'Hadar, and pulled the trigger.
  Click--BOOM!
    And O'Brien was suddenly flat on his backside in
the rubble.
    He stared at the weapon in his aching arms. "Well,
what the hell..."
    "Get up, keep moving! Follow me! Keep shooting,
now."
    He crawled up at the urging of the other man,
whose voice was unremitting and gave him strength
with its confidence.
    The weapon was warm in his hands. What a kick
this monster had!
    With a modicum of experience now, he aimed and
fired again. BOOM/
    He stayed on his feet this time, but the weapon
bucked up in his arms and hit him in the nose. Well,
he killed a Jem'Hadar. Not the one he'd been aiming
at, but a score was a score.
    The other man, though, shattered his way through
the storming troops, pausing every few steps to
stand, brace-legged like some kind of Texas Ranger,
firing again and again in a withering barrage. Togeth-
er they boomed and bammed their way haltingly
forward. O'Brien was astonished at the reaction of
the Jem'Hadar who could still move. They were
running! The enemy soldiers were running away!
Disruptor fire had all but suspended, and the sol-
diers were ducking down the corridors and hobbling
in a Jem'Hadar version of rushing.
    A wedge of golden brightness crossed O'Brien's
eyes and made him squint. Daylight!
    No, not exactly daylight, but a setting sun angling
straight down the entry tunnel.
    "Go out first," the Texas Ranger ordered, and
turned to face the inside of the complex while
O'Brien did as he was told and hustled down the
tunnel.
    "Aren't you coming?" he called back over his
shoulder.
 "In a minute."
    Behind him as he ran, he heard the relentless BAM
BAM BAM of that iron hand weapon. His own arms
trembled from the adrenaline rush and the lingering
kick of the weapon he was still carrying.
    He broke out into the lowering sunlight, hesitated
a moment, then angled toward the nearest stand of
rocks and high ground. There were trees up there,
bushes, places to hide.
    But he'd left that man inside--he could still hear
the bang of that handgun, so his friend was alive, at
least. O'Brien was about to double back and shout
for the other man to get out now, when suddenly his
companion jogged out of the tunnel and ran to meet
him, taking O'Brien's arm and pulling him up the
steep escarpment.
    "They'll be flocking here any minute," the man
said, "but they don't know how to search very well. I
know where we can hide. This way."
    They climbed almost straight up, except that
Texas knew the rocks so well that he led O'Brien up a
craggy natural stairway that twisted and jabbed into
the rock formations, negotiating the almost invisible
path with the skill of someone who had grown up
here. Must be a native of the planet, O'Brien's foggy
mind decided.
    His chest thudded and constricted--atmosphere
must be a little thinner here than he was used to.
"High enough," his companion finally allowed.
O'Brien slid to his knees, shuddering. His eyes
fogged over and he gratefully closed them, then sank
sideways and collapsed against a rock. Were the
Jem'Hadar following? It didn't matter. He couldn't
run or climb anymore... his knee throbbed furi-
ously. His right arm was numb. He had to rest, just
for a minute.
 A careful grip took him by one arm and pulled
him to a sitting position. Dazed, he shook his
head--what a mistake--and blinked his eyes.
    They were wedged into the rocky terrain under a
shading clutch of trees and it was almost dark.
Enough light remained in the gray sky that he
blinked up into the eyes of a pale-skinned man with
fairly ordinary eyes and shoulder-length hair the
color of the dirt under them.
    "You all right?" his new friend asked. He set
O'Brien upright and leaned him against an angled
rock slab.
    O'Brien shook his head--he could barely hear the
man's voice. He spat out a crumb of concrete and
garbled, "Bedamned ... phaser... neutralized on
me!"
    Texas held up his own weapon, a harsh-looking
ironbound antique rifle with a stumpy body and a
wide-mouthed barrel. It looked as if it canhe out of
some amalgamated version of Earth's 1800s.
O'Brien had seen pictures of old-style guns, but this
one he didn't recognize specifically.
    But what a noise it had made! He'd never heard a
concussion weapon go off in real life. On the holo-
deck, sure, but the automatic program muted any
potentially damaging element, and that included
noise. This was... this was loud!
     "Nice shootin', Tex," he drawled as he appreci-
ated the heavy gun and its owner. "Tex?"
 "It's your new nickname."
    "Oh." The man sat down beside him and plucked
at O'Brien's torn sleeve. "Shoulder's bleeding, did
you know that?"
    "Ah... right. Must've been why my fingers went
numb."
  "Who are you?"
    "What's that? Oh, sorry--somebody's beating my
eardrum. I'm Chief Engineer Miles O'Brien, Star-
fleet, United Federation of Planets."
    "Federation," the man repeated. "Been a long
time since I heard that word." Then he tipped his
head back the way they'd come. "So we're at war?"
  "No doubt. What's your name?"
"I'm Cregger Lot Mowlanish Dot Crixa Tel."
"Ah... mind if I just keep calling you 'Tex'?"
"Fine with me. What should I call you?"
"Miles. That's some weapon. It drove those sol-
diers back ten feet each and left a mighty hole.
Where'd you get it?"
  "We use these to defend our ranches and herds."
    O'Brien glanced down into the valley, but saw
neither of those. "You live on this planet?"
    "Yes," Tex told him. "Lived just fine, until the
shellheads came."
    Sympathizing, O'Brien understood. "That's not
much against phasers."
    Tex shook his head, then brushed crumbling dust
out of his hair. "Phasers didn't do you a lot of good
just now."

    With a grunt of empathy, O'Brien said, "You're
right about that. Guess you got a shock, didn't you,
when the Dominion dropped by?"
    "Overnight," Tex confirmed, "they were here,
blasting away."
    O'Brien held up his phaser. "They had some kind
of damping field in there that shut mine down. I
should've expected they'd be ready."
    Tex leaned back and held up his own enormous
boomer. "Can't shut this down."
    "No, I suppose not! Just a simple chemical reac-
tion... expanding gases propelling a heavy little
weight at incredible speed! No way to short that out,
for sure! The only way to absorb the energy is into
the chest of a Jem'Hadar. And, of course, they
wouldn't know how to fight this! They're just pro-
grammed drones, raised in tubes and made to fight
in space with energy weapons. They've got no sense
of history, no idea of chemistry, and they're com-
pletely unprepared for a hot, fast pellet that blows
their heads offi Why didn't I think of that?"
    Realizing he was raving a bit, he paused and
regarded Tex in the fading light.
 "You... have a family here?" he asked.
    Tex peered over a rock, making sure they weren't
being tracked. "So tell me about the war."
    "They're trying to take over the whole quad-
rant."
 "Let 'era try." He patted his boomer.
 "Why did you get me out?" O'Brien asked.
    "Because they were shooting at you. We've been
hiding out, waiting for a chance to fight back, but we
didn't know how to hurt them most. Then I saw
you." He smiled and muttered, "I've been wanting
to do that for months. I should've thought to bring a
couple of my friends. We could've gotten them all."
    Exhausted, O'Brien shook his head. "I've teamed
up with John Wayne... how many people are in
this colony?"
    Tex shrugged. "I don't know, exactly. We never
thought about it much until they showed up. They
haven't even asked us anything. They just came here
and started building that complex."  "They didn't hurt your people?"
    "They shuffled most of the men and children into
camps, then put the women under house arrest and
forced them to do the cooking and cleaning for the
men and kids in the camps."  "Pretty damned effective."
    "Some of us were in the mountains when they
came. Me, some of my friends... we hid out all this
time. They kept looking, but they never found us."
    "They're bred for life in space. Bit awkward
anyplace else."
    "We noticed that. Until today, they didn't know
we'd been missed."
 "Oh... sorry... I blew your cover."
    "It's all right," Tex said. "We've been planning to
move against them. We just weren't sure where to
start or what to do. We didn't know how we could
hurt them most. Can you tell me what those build-
ings do?"
    "That's a broadcast complex. It maintains a whole
range of scanning posts in space that tell them where
our ships are and what strengths we've got. Except,
i'm hoping I just spat out a signal that blew up the
dishes before it could flash-transmit a... oh, never
mind that part. The second half of my job was to
blow up the base. Unfortunately, I wasn't sneaky
enough. I didn't even get confirmation that the
dishes went to self-destruct mode. Didn't have
time... guess I'll just have to hope they did... if I
blow up that base without the dishes going first, the
whole mission's worthless."
 "You have no way to know?"
 "None at all."
    "Then do your best with what's here. What're you
got in that bag?"
    "Enough explosives to wipe that complex off your
planet. Problem is, they're chain-reaction incendiar-
ies. They have to be planted inside, and now I'm
outside. I've got to get back in there!"
 "Why? If you blew up the dishes--"
    "If I don't demolish the base," O'Brien explained
again patiently, "all they have to do is replace the
dishes. This complex is the important part."
     Pressing a dry cloth to the wound in O'Brien's
shoulder, Tex nodded slowly. "Bad wound."
  "I can't feel it much."
  "You will."
  "Oh ... yes."
  "You want to get back inside?"
    O'Brien snapped a glare at him. "Can you get me
in? How?"
  "Know what mines are.*"
  "I certainly do!"
    "Those shellheads, they don't realize they built
their complex right on top of a network of our
mines. They never even looked."
    A shock of relief and hope drenched O'Brien
beneath his sweat-damp suit. "Would you think
it was odd if I shook your hand till it fell off,
man!"
    His sudden companion smiled, then spat out a bit
of the wreckage they'd just caused. "How soon do
you want to go, Miles?"
    Reinvigorated, O'Brien swung around onto his
knees and peered over the crest and down at the
complex, at flocks of Jem'Hadar who were combing
the grounds. "Right now! While they're all out
patrolling around and looking for us here. My ship's
dodging around space, giving us time. Let's not
waste it."
    Grinning broadly, Tex brushed back a lock of his
dust-brown hair. "Your weapons or mine?"
    Enheartened such as he never imagined he would
be by today's story, Miles O'Brien clapped his
new friend on the shoulder, ignored the puff of dust
the gesture raised, and shouldered the wonderful,
dependable concussive weapon that had saved his
life.
 "Tex," he said, "let's go turn that place to taffy!"

    In one of the most dangerous maneuvers Dax had
ever seen aboard a ship, the Defiant began freely
spewing photon torpedoes, plowing the way before her
with machine-gun deadly force. The ten Jem'Hadar
ships before them were fiddled with explosions in such
rapid succession that they never even had time to
angle away from the head-on collision.
    The torpedoes spilled off their racks and into the
firing chambers and self-launched furiously, faster
than anyone could've manually fired them. Dax
squinted with tensions--if even one jammed, the
explosion would be right here, right now, and it
would light up the solar system.
    "Approaching the planet," Bashir tensely re-
ported.
 "Just graze past it, Julian, don't reduce speed."
    "Are you working the sensors yourself?. Are you
scanning for him?"
    "Yes, just steer the ship. Transporter chamber,
this is the captain. Ensign Morrison, are you stand-
ing by?"
  "Yes, Captain, I'm ready when you are."
    "This is it, kiddo, you get to prove why you
graduated top of your class in transporter tech-
nology."
  "I'm ready."
  "Stand by..."
    Closer, closer, the Defiant blasted right through
the spinning remains and splinters of the Jem'Hadar
ships they'd blown out of the way.
    "Nog, take over what's left of the phasers and
maintain fire on the two ships chasing us."
    "Captain, they're veering offl. They saw what we
did to their pals!"
    "Good riddance. Pilot us two degrees closer,
Julian."
  "Two degrees... aye."
    "Come on, Chief, where are you?" Dax leered at
her scanners, searching for the one tiny blip on a
whole planet. Dax hoped she sounded more in
control to the crew than she sounded to herself. But
there was only one chance at this. They'd come
swooping in like an albatross with hawks on its tail,
trying to isolate the single Starfleet combadge blip in
that whole planetary region.
  "I've got him! He's there!"
  Her own voice surprised her.
"Morrison, energize! Right now, right now!"
Now she had to wait. A deck below, the transport-
er specialist was beaming up the life-form attached
to that cornbadge, and any other life-forms within
five meters of him.
    She couldn't shake the feeling that they might be
beaming up a corpse.
    "I'11 take over the helm, Julian," she said on a
whim. "You go down there and check."
    Bashir's eyes flashed with hope and worry.
"Thank you," he gasped, and he rushed off the
bridge. Dax took over the helm and punched the
comm. "Ensign Richardson to the bridge. I need you
for the helm. And find somebody with experience
and bring them with you for tactical and scanners."
  "Richardson, aye. On my way, Captain."
    Had O'Brien detonated the broadcast base? Yes,
all the dishes had chain-detonated. If the base
weren't destroyed too, the Jem'Hadar could reestab-
lish the sensor array in a couple of weeks.
    And the ship and crew weren't exactly out of hot
water yet. Shredding her orders, she had doubled
back for O'Brien on the thin chance that he had
survived a one-man assault on an enemy-packed
installation. Oh, well, why not?
  Had the transport process finished?
    No time to wait. If they didn't have him by now, it
was all over. Ensign Richardson and a new lieuten-
ant whose name she couldn't remember right now
appeared on the bridge and Dax was able to leave
the helm. She wanted to keep steering, but she knew
that if she was doing that job, she wasn't doing her
job--command.
    "Full impulse," she ordered. "Prepare for warp
speed. Head directly back into the core of the
cluster."
    "Understood," Richardson said, without bother-
ing to repeat the details.
 On the screens all around the command area,
various visions played--the planet falling away
astern of them, the churning Argolis Cluster which
they would have to survive a second time when once
had been enough.
    "Phaser banks are nearly exhausted," Nog re-
ported.
    "Knew that was coming," Dax muttered, but she
was distracted by the hiss of the door panel and
turned to look. "With any luck, we won't need them.
How many of the torpedoes did we fire?"  
"Every last one of them."
"That's how it was supposed to work."
Nog sighed roughly. "It worked, all right."
Suddenly Julian Bashir piled out of the lift, his
greasy, dirty, sweaty face bright with a smile. "We
got him!"
    On closer look, Dax saw O'Brien limping out of
the lift, with Bashir's attentive support.
    "Chief--" she gasped. "You'll be ashamed of me
when you find out how much I had bet against you!"
    "S'all right," O'Brien drawled as Bashir led him to
her. "I can send the kids to college with the winnings
I get from betting against myselfi" "Well? Give me a report!"
    "Oh, mission accomplished. It took two assaults,
but we set all the grenades and they behaved like
champs. The whole base is shattered. Did the dishes
go up?"
 "Just like fireworks."
 O'Brien paled with relief and pressed a supportive
hand on the command chair. Apparently he really
hadn't known until now whether he completely
succeeded.
    "Are you all right, Miles?" Bashir asked. "Look at
your shoulderre"
    "It's all yours now, Julian," the chief told him.
"Oh, Dax, there's one thing. Tex! Come here. Right
over here. Don't trip on that wreckage."
    Firing the last shots allowed by the exhausted
phaser banks, Dax glanced over her shoulder and
saw a lanky stranger picking his way toward them.
Longish brown hair, dirty, humanoid. "From the planet?" she asked.
    "Couldn't have done it without him. You should
see these weapons he's got?'
    "Chief," Dax said quietly, "the Prime Direc-
tire..."
    O'Brien cocked his hip, winced, and drawled,
"Not a problem. Lost Earth colony. I'll explain
later."
    As the ship streaked away from the planet, still
pursued, still in trouble, Dax reached to clasp Tex's
hand. "Welcome to Starfleet. Doctor, show this man
to a post in the security team."
    Bashir beamed with relief and even delight. "Yes,
Captain!"

0

CHAPTER
       9

"THERE WERE several casualties, Captain. General
Martok lost his second officer and two senior engi-
neers. Eight of our lower-deck crew were killed in
the ship's outer areas. Thank you for asking about
Alexander."
    "How many Jem'Hadar ships did you manage to
draw away, Worf?"
    Sisko leaned forward and peered at the communi-
cations screen, at Worfs dogged face with its con-
stant scowl.
    On the screen, the cross between the Empire and
Starfleet looked as drawn as Sisko had seen him in
weeks.
  "We engaged at least five Jem 'Hadar," Worf told
him, "but we have no way of knowing how many
guard ships were left for Dax to face in the cluster."
    Sisko started to mention that they didn't even
know yet whether or not the Defiant had survived
the dangerous travel through the erupting core of the
cluster to engage any Jem'Hadar ships that might be
left behind. He would've voiced his concern, except
that the captain of that ship was engaged to the man
he was speaking to and Sisko was sensitive to
reminding Worf that his fiancee might now be dead.
    Besides, they both knew all the hard truths as well
as their own names. There was no comfort either
would take, or would attempt to give.
    Worf waited through their mutual discomfort,
then found a nonemotional question to ask. "Has
there been any news, sir?"
 Sisko almost winced. It was emotional anyway.
 "None."
  "The Defiant has been gone over sixteen hours."
    Finally Sisko had to offer something, anything. "I
know this is difficult for you, Worf."
    "Yes, sir," Worf accepted, "but I sense it is more
difficult for you. The Defiant is your ship."
    Of course, he wasn't just talking about the ship,
Sisko knew. Worf was offering some kind of sympa-
thy for Sisko's having to stay here, in this office,
unable to share the pains or problems of his crew,
and a simple order or change of position couldn't
stop those people out there from being his crew.
    "Dax'11 bring her home," he said, mustering a hint
of confidence. "There's no way she's going to miss
her own wedding."
  "No," Worf said. "I suppose not."
    For a moment longer they regarded each other,
neither willing to forfeit the stronger position in a
relationship that now, though rarely, needed some-
body to be the comforting one.
    "As soon as I hear something," Sisko offered, 'Tll
let you know."
    "Thank you, sir. Captain, you shouM get some
rest."
    Sisko almost straightened in the chair, but trying
to pretend he wasn't exhausted would look just as
silly as pretending he wasn't worried.  "Not tonight."
    Without further amenities, Worf simply clicked
off the communication. Neither of them wanted to
hear any good-byes or over-and-outs.
    "I've got to get out of here somehow," he mur-
mured. "I've got to get back in command..."
    Only the whispering hum of the hardworking
tactical computer and the bubble of the replicator
making him another cup of coffee provided any
answer for his horrible mumble.
     Get out. Get back command. Big talk from a
 selfish man. How many other Starfleet officers were
 hungering right now, as he was, for command? To
 get back their chance, their dignity, their grip on the
 twisting and turning of this war?

    Strange--so often the image of people in a war
was one of disgust, turning their backs, resisting the
terrible occurrences, wishing to blind themselves
from the sights and deafen the noises, but that
wasn't the reality. War, yes--a thousand ugly im-
ages, but the great halo was enthusiasm and devo-
tion, the fire with which so many quiet people stood
up and asked to fight. There were many, many
individuals out there right now who wanted a chance
to strike, as did Ben Sisko. Why should he, instead of
anyone else, get that chance? Unlike many, he hadn't
lost crewmates or a ship yet. He had only lost a
command. Even the station was not gone, not de-
stroyed. It was still out there, intact, functioning
somehow under the tricky pact he had forged be-
tween the Dominion and Bajor in order to keep the
planet and station from being decimated.
    He'd had an evacuation. Some embarrassment.
Other than that, why was he feeling sorry for him-
self?.
    Ah--this jumble of mental blades! War could
strip down a man's sense of solidity. He didn't know
anymore what he used to know for sure. Where he
belonged, who was his to worry about, where his son
was, and the focus of his existence. Now everything
was out of focus. Worf with Martok, Dax and the
ship and crew off on a deadly mission without him,
the station shrouded in silence, Jake unaccounted
for, and Ben Sisko himself here giving advice to an
admiral about tactical situations he had no experi-
ence with, in places he'd never even passed through.
    He wanted focus. He wanted a victory, so he could
shrug off this promotion.
 How often could an officer say that?
    Whatever happened, from now on he would be
searching for a plan, a route, a plot, a chance to
make a great stride and somehow keep Admiral Ross
from making him a permanent fixture here at the
nest, while eagles soared elsewhere.

    "What the hell happened? Why didn't you disable
the alarm!"
    Kira Nerys was barely inside Odo's quarters when
the question bolted from her lips.
    He was here--in a cloudy sense of the wordm
regarding her with a glazed expression, a cold
Founder-like serenity.
    Would he have a reason for this? Could a shape-
shifter get drunk? Hypnotized?
    She didn't even have to ask what stopped him
from tripping the alarm. She already knew that. The
female shapeshifter had been in here again and
they'd done that melting thing. The mystery was
what had happened to Odo's sense of responsibility
and loyalty to people who were risking their lives
and depending on him to do his part in a plan he
agreed with.
  "It's difficult to explain," he murmured.
    "Rom is sitting in a holding cell, being interro-
gated!" she charged without waiting for any explana-
tion.
  "I know..."
      "You know? Do you realize you handed the Alpha
Quadrant to the Dominion?"  "I was in the link..."
  "Are you telling me you forgot?"
    Seeming to glaze more deeply with every passing
second, Odo blinked slowly. "I didn't forget... it
just... didn't seem to matter..."
"A lot of people are going to die! Don't you care?"
Never in a decade would Kira have expected the
answer that burbled from her old friend in the next
seconds. He paused, searched for a way to say what
he was thinking, or dreaming.
  "It has nothing to do with me."
    Stunned and willing to show it, Kira gaped at him.
Was it really Odo sitting here or was this some kind
of cruel game by the female shapeshifter? Was this a
Founder's idea of a joke?
    Suddenly cold all over, she gasped, "How can you
say that?"
    "If you could experience the link," he attempted
weakly, "you'd know why nothing else matters..."
    The room turned colder, darker somehow. Kira
felt as if her feet were anchored to the deck, her arms
transforming to iron blocks. She waited, but he
made no change, no punch line, no excuses.
    Destroying the antigraviton beam and preventing
the Dominion from pulling down the minefield was
a simple gesture upon which the lives of uncounted
billions of people rested, and Odo was casting off its
importance as a general nothing. The fate of the
Alpha Quadrant had been his to implement, and he
had let it slough away like runoff after rain.
    On top of that, he had also cast off all the personal
investments they had made in each other, and their
friends had made in them. And the captain and the
station--everything.
    "The last five years," she rasped, "your life
here... our friendship... none of that matters?"
    He hesitated. He seemed almost to be having
trouble even remembering. "It did... once..."
    Kira tried to come up with something to say. But
what was left? Had everything she thought had
bonded them to each other over these years now
become simply a forgettable lie?
    "I wish I could make you understand," Odo said
sadly, almost pityingly. "But you can't... you're
not a changeling."
    So now they were on different sides. The line was
drawn. With the full measure of what she believed
was happening here, Kira took a defining step back-
ward.
  "That's right," she said. "I'm a 'solid.'"
     As the dividing line between them dropped to the
 floor and took a set in the mud of disappointment,
 Kira gave one last second's pitiful hope a moment to
dissolve, then turned and left him behind, where he
chose to be.

  "I'm going to die."
    Strange how much Rom ~ voice can sound like
mine when he's whining.
    Quark shook away the realization of familiar
suffering techniques and flinched uneasily as, beside
him, Leeta fought back tears at the sight of Rom
inside the holding cell. The soft buzz of the force-
field was a constant reminder that there would be no
reaching out, no hugs, no hopes for mercy, especially
not from the Jem'Hadar guard standing right over
there.
    "Stop saying that," Leeta gasped at her precious
other.
 "I didn't say it," Rom snapped. "He did."
 And he pointed at Quark.
    Stung, Quark irritably countered, "What I said is
that they're planning to execute you. It's not the
same as an execution order. Not yet, anyway."
  "It is to me."
    "Rom," Leeta interrupted, "we're not going to let
them hurt you. Kira has gone to the Bajoran Council
of Ministers. She's asking them to lodge an official
protest."
"That's sweet. But I doubt it'll do any good."
Quark waved a hand. "And I've talked to Grand
Nagus Zek himself and he's offered to buy your
freedom from the Dominion."
    Rom's thin lips peeled back from his filed teeth. "I
don't think Weyoun cares much for latinurn. I'm a
dead man."
 Without a beat, Leeta broke into sobs.
    Quark felt his expression twist. "Would you please
stop upsetting LeetaT'
    "Sorry." Rom shifted uneasily, but given the
circumstances he was taking all this better than
Quark had anticipated. He figured he'd have two
sobbing lumps on his hands instead of just one.
      "Besides," Quark went on, "you think your big
brother is going to let anything happen to you?"
  "What can you do?" Rom asked reasonably.
  "I'm not sure. But I'll think of something. No
  matter what it takes. No matter what I have to do,
  I'm going to get you out of here."
    Leeta turned soggy eyes of gratitude upon him.
"Oh, Quark--you do that and I'll work your dabo
tables for free!"
  "For how long?"
  "An entire year!"
  "Make it two."
"Brother!" Rom barked, cutting off the bargain.
Oh, well, couldn't blame a Ferengi for trying.
"Isn't your life worth three years?" Quark spat
through the forcefield. "Now sit tight and trust your
older brother."
  "But I don't want you to try to save me."
    What? Had he said that? Leeta seemed surprised
too. What kind of talk was that?
Quark squinted. "What kind of talk is that?"
"What are you talking about!" Leeta demanded at
the same time. "They must've done something to his
mind!"
  Quark smirked. "What mind?"
    "I'm serious," Rom insisted. "Brother, you have
more important things to worry about."
    "The bar's doing fine," Quark assured. "But
thanks for caring."
  "I'm not talking about the bar."
    "Rom," Leeta broke in, "what could be more
important than your life?"
    Instantly he said, "Destroying the antigraviton
beam to prevent the Dominion from taking down
the minefield." He looked at Quark and stepped as
close to the forcefield as he could get without burn-
ing his considerable nose. "You've got to finish what
I started! The fate of the entire Alpha Quadrant rests
in your hands. Billions and billions of people are
counting on you!"
    Quark drifted back a step and clutched his head.
"Boy, are they gonna be disappointed!"
    "Brother, you can do this! You have to do this.
You will do this!"
 "What happens if I get caught!"
    "Then we'll die together. Side by side, heads held
high, knowing we did our best."
    Caught up in his own vision of noble self-sacrifice,
Rom gazed at the far wall as if watching a tape of his
own heroism.
    Leeta warmed to the forcefield until it started to
crackle. "Oh, Rom..."
"But I don't want to die," Quark complained.
"If that's what's written," Rom girded up, "then
that's what's written. Now get going, brother. You
have a lot of work to do."

 "Father, I need to talk to you."
    As his daughter's voice lightened Dukat's office,
he looked up and smiled, accepting her kiss on his
cheek.
 "Is something wrong, my dear?" he asked.
 "Nothing that you can't fix."
    His daughter was a joy indeed. If only he'd known
earlier in her life what it meant to have a decent
young person to claim as his own--what others were
missing who didn't anchor themselves in the future
with children! If only he'd known.  "Name it," he offered.
    Ziyal smiled, and Dukat was warmed by her
reaction to his power, his control over the station,
his status as imperial overlord of the quadrant. For
this moment, all his power and influence meant
nothing more to him than whatever it could do to
make Ziyal smile again.
    She virtually bounced before him. "I want you to
free Rom."
  His own smile dropped away. "You're joking..."
    Ziyal's smile also dissolved, and she seemed sur-
prised. "Not at all."
    "I can't free Rom," Dukat told her. "He's been
sentenced to death by the Dominion. Ziyal... this
isn't a game or a piece of art. He committed an act of
terrorism against the Dominion. He tried to inter-
fere with our efforts to bring down the minefield.
The self-replicating mines were his idea in the first
place. He's not just Quark's sluggish brother any-
more--he must be made an example so others don't
make the same mistake."
    "He's married to a Bajoran citizen," Ziyal at-
tempted. "Doesn't that mean something?"
    Dukat stood up. "As far as Weyoun is concerned,
all that matters is that Rom's wife isn't also a
conspirator or the Dominion would happily execute
her too. Her Bajoran heritage buys only her life, not
Rom's. Weyoun is completely unaffected by the
formal protest from the Bajoran Council of Minis-
ters. The planet simply doesn't mean as much to
them as you might hope. Things will not likely go
well for Bajor when the minefield comes down and
the Dominion fleet comes through--"
    "You can pardon Rom," Ziyal encouraged, a lilt of
hope in her voice. "Don't you see, Father? This is
your chance to show the Bajoran peopleinto show
Major Kiramwho you really are! A forgiving, com-
passionate man... a great man!"
    In the midst of her enthusiasm for his reputation,
Dukat sensed something else and it worried him. He
took her hands in his and fixed his gaze upon her.
"Tell me, Ziyal... were you involved in any way
with the plan to sabotage the station?"
    She yanked her hands away. "No, I wasn't in-
volved!"
    "You're sure of that? I can't help you unless you
tell me the truth."
      "I am telling you the truth!" she insisted. "The
question is, have you been telling me the truth!"
  Dukat tipped his head. "About what?"
    "That the Bajorans are wrong about you! That you
regret the horrible things you had to do during the
occupation."
"I do regret them," he told her. "Deeply."
"Then this is your chance to prove it to everyone,
including me!" Her eyes lit with possibility. "Show
us that you're capable of mercy!"
    But even for his daughter, Dukat knew he couldn't
forfeit the control upon which the future turned so
tenuously.
    He shook his head. "Rom is an enemy of the state.
And enemies of the state don't deserve mercy."
    Ziyal grew cold before him. "Spoken like a true
Cardassian."
  "I am a Cardassian. And so are you."
    "No." She pressed back, avoiding his attempt to
take her hands again. "I'm not. I could never be like
you."
    She turned with a brief scorching glare, and when
she had gone he felt burned.
  The pressure from many quarters had been grow-
ing lately. He didn't like it. Cardassians pressuring
him to subordinate the Jem'Hadar soldiers to them,
Jem'Hadar Firsts insisting they should be treated
like superiors because they were the fighting arm of
the Dominion, Weyoun pressuring him to bring
down the minefield, and all the time Dukat pressur-
ing himself to stall that process while he built
authority here and gave Cardassia a chance to re-
build.
    Now these pressures were beginning to crack his
shields. He couldn't give Ziyal what she wanted just
because she wanted it. Yes, she was half Bajoran,
struggling to be accepted on the planet, but large
stakes to her became small when placed upon the
desk of Gul Dukat.
    Weyoun--the �orta was a problem much harder
to ignore. Pressure to bring down the minefield had
finally become inexorable, and this coincided, luck-
ily or unluckily, with Damar's idea to use the
station's deflectors as an antigraviton weapon
against the mines. Well, nothing lasted forever.
Cardassia had been given a breathing spell, Dukat
was firmly ensconced in authority here, and the
Jem'Hadar were no longer sure whether they or the
Cardassians were the supreme military force here.
There might be a period of unbalance when the
Dominion's first surge of reinforcements came
through the wormhole, but Dukat believed he could
hold out and continue the processes that he had been
able to put into play over the past months.
     He would have no choice. The minefield was
coming down. Slowly, but it would come down now.
  "Damar to Dukat."
  "Dukat here."
    "We're about to start firing the antigraviton beam,
sir."
    "Inform Weyoun. He won't want to miss it, I
imagine."
  "Must I?"
    "Yes, Damar, you must. Don't worry, I'll make
sure you get credit for the antigraviton idea."
"Should I tell Weyoun to come to your office?"
"We wouldn't be able to see the wormhole from
here. Besides, I don't like having him in my office.
Tell him to meet me in the wardroom."  "Yes, sir."
    A relatively short trip a quarter of the way around
the station's ring, roughly between his office and
Ops, was the officers' wardroom, with its large
viewport overlooking the area where the wormhole
existed, now shrouded in its dark repose. When the
minefield came down, the surge of Dominion ships
from inside would trigger the vortex. The great
swirling maw would open and offer them entry to
the Alpha Quadrant.
  Couldn't be put off forever, apparently.
     Still haunted by his encounter with Ziyal, his
 daughter's disappointment in him churning in his
 gut, Dukat entered the wardroom to find that
 Weyoun was already there.

    "Ah... just in time for the show," Dukat offered.
"I have succeeded, as I assured you I would, in
conquering the ingenious minefield."
    "After so many months," the Vorta's milky voice
returned, "I'm glad you finally succeeded. It has
been pitiful to have such a meager thing as a string of
mines preventing the Dominion from opening the
wormhole."
  "Meager?" Dukat huffed. "Hardly."
  "As long as it is coming down."
    "As I said it would. Damar is about to begin. If
you'll join me at the viewport--"
    Weyoun moved to the port, standing no nearer
than absolutely necessary to Dukat, and together
they watched the black curtain of space in which
there seemed to be nothing, but in which there was
actually much.
    They stood for several seconds, waiting, not
speaking.
     Just when the pressure of silence began to mount,
a tiny flash erupted in the distant blackness.
  "There!" Dukat pointed out the port.
  "Where?"
    "Over there. That flash of light was the antigravi-
ton beam hitting a mine."
 "And disabling its replication unit?"
 "Exactly. Didn't you see it?"
 "I'm afraid not."
    Exasperated, Dukat sighed. "For months you've
been demanding that I take down those mines and
now that it's finally happening, you can't even see
it?"
 "Weak eyes."
 Weyoun turned and walked away from the port.
 Dukat turned. "Excuse me?"
    "My people have poor eyesight," the Vorta
claimed. "It's something we've learned to live with.
The Jem'Hadar, on the other hand, have excellent
vision. I suppose they need it more than we do. I
suppose I'll have to take your word for it."
    Not about to fall for this, Dukat was determined
to master the moment. "Once we've disabled the
replication units in all the mines, we can detonate
the entire minefield. And I guarantee, weak eyes or
not, that explosion you will see."
    Weyoun faced him. "When will you be ready to
proceed?"
    "Approximately seventy-eight hours. Three more
days, and we can start bringing Jem'Hadar rein-
forcements through the wormhole."
     And that victory will be mine, due to the efforts of
 Cardassians, not yours or any Vorta ~.
    Too excited to contain himself or pretend he
didn't adore the idea of the falling minefield,
Weyoun drew a sustaining breath. "Excellent. I
knew you could do it, Dukat."
  Dukat pressed his lips flat. "Did you?"
  "I never doubted you for a moment."
  Before Dukat could respond, the door opened and
 Damar strode in, fresh off his victory of killing the
 first mine. Though his pride showed in his face, he
 controlled the moment by not mentioning the mine-
 field.
     "Sir, I have new information on enemy fleet
 movements."
  "Go ahead," Dukat responded.
    "The allied Second Fleet has fallen back past the
Kotanka System, while the Fifth Fleet has pulled out
of the fighting along the Vulcan border." He crossed
to a wall monitor and tapped a few keys, until a star
chart came up. "Both fleets have converged here, at
Starbase 375."
    The ghostly face flashed in Dukat's mind. "Isn't
that where Captain Sisko is stationed?"
    Damar nodded. "He's been made an adjutant to
Admiral Ross."
      "Good for him," Weyoun clipped. "Now, why
have those fleets gathered there?"  "I'm not sure."
    "You're not sure? Two large enemy fleets break off
from the front lines to rendezvous at a starbase and
you have no idea why?"
    Moving between them, Dukat said, "We'll have to
find out, won't we?"
 Weyoun nodded. "See that you do."
    In a state of reined worry, he quickly left the
room. Damar watched the Vorta leave and waited
until the door swished closed.
"He should speak to you with greater respect."
"One day," Dukat said, 'Tll let you teach him that
lesson. But right now, there's something more press-
ing I need you to do. It's of a personal nature... a
matter of some delicacy. It's about my daughter."
    Danmr seemed confused at being brought into the
familiar circle. "Ziyal?" he asked, as if Dukat had
any other daughter on DS9.
    "We've had a misunderstanding," Dukat ex-
plained. "I want you to go and convince her to speak
with me."
    "Sir... I really think I could be more valuable
tracking that enemy fleet--"
    "I've given you an order, Damar. We're on the
verge of a great victory. When it comes, I want my
daughter at my side. Is that understood?"
    No, it wasn't, Dukat knew, but what Damar
understood didn't matter. He couldn't go himself,
and he couldn't send anyone else. If Damar ap-
proached Ziyal, she would know for certain that her
father was sincere enough to send his busy aide,
interrupt station business and the trouble of an
interstellar war just to tell her that she was impor-
tant to him. It was a good signal. Damar would go.
He might stall for a few days, but eventually, he
would do as Dukat ordered. Dukat hoped he could
predict what Ziyal would think about the gesture.
     What Damar thought about it... Dukat cared
 not at all.

  "Nausicaans? You can't trust them."
  "I trust latinum. And so do they."
    Quark poured a warm cup of raktajino for Major
Kira and put it on the bar before her.
    "Five bars will buy me five Nausicaans, a fast ship,
and very few questions. Breaking Rom out of the
holding cell will be child's play compared to the
things they're used to doing."
    "Forget it, Quark," she drawled. "Freeing Rom is
going to take careful, precise planning. That's not
the Nausicaan way. They're thugs. They'll come
strutting onto the station, look at the Jem'Hadar the
wrong way, and the next thing you know there'll be
blood on the Promenade."
    Quark shrugged. As if that would be a bad
thing... then again, if she was right, there might be
a security crackdown and Rom would be in even
worse trouble. Although worse than a death sentence
was hard to envision.
"Think I can get my money back?" he asked.
Before she could answer, they were both graced
with the presence of Damar pressing up to the bar.
"Major," the Cardassian said, "a freighter loaded
with Tammeron grain is due to arrive within the
hour. See to it that Cargo Bay Five is ready to receive
it."
    Kira looked at him as if wondering why he felt the
need to tell her about a freighter that was still an
hour away. 'Tll take care of it," she said.
 "Yes, you will. Now."
    She glared at him, irritated. Quark watched the
two of them, the interplay of venom coursing along
between them, and enjoyed his part in it. Damar was
here because Quark now had tacit control over him,
and nobody knew it. Damar wanted Kira to leave so
he could be alone with his wondrous guru--the
provider of the ancient kanar laced with... trade
secrets.
    "That attitude of yours, Major," Damar warned,
"it won't be tolerated forever."
    Pushing off her stool, Kira responded, "You don't
like my attitude, Damar? You're welcome to try and
change it."
    Quark reached for the special decanter of kanar.
Damar watched Kira leave, then said, "I don't
understand what Dukat sees in that woman."
    "Then you need to get your eyes examined. One
kanar. Want me to leave the bottle?"
    Damar nodded. He eyed the decanter. "Maybe I
should have you taste it first. Make sure it isn't
poisoned."
    Quark smiled. "Poisoning customers is bad for
business."
    "True," Damar accepted, "but some people might
place a brother's revenge above business."
    "Not this Ferengi," Quark told him. He was
supremely confident. Damar would trust him im-
plicitly after the first sip, when the drugged kanar
triggered reactivation of the previous session.
    This had been going on for weeks now. Damar had
no idea he was drawn to the bar by any but his own
inner controls. He also had no idea that his inclina-
tion to trust Quark was anything less than his own
solid judgment.
    After the first swig, predictably, Damar was al-
most immediately gazing at him with unshielded
respect. "You're a credit to your race, Quark," the
aide said. "Unlike your brother, you've chosen to
back the winning side."
    "Mmm." Quark poured him another drink--all
the way up to the rim this time. "All right... are
you going to tell me, or do you want me to guess?"
    Damar's eyes were already glazing. "Tell you
what?"
    "Don't be coy with me. Either sonleone you don't
like has died or your promotion came through."
    "It's better than that." Damar took a long drag on
the kanar, swallowed laboriously, then steadied him-
self. "It's about the minefield." "What about it?"
    The Cardassian leaned closer and lowered his
voice. "It's coming down."
    Unimpressed, Quark fished for more information
with, "I've heard that before."
    Damar took another sip. "Remember those field
tests I was telling you about? They were successful.
We've begun to deactivate the mines."
 Forcing his expression to feign something other
than the worry he felt, Quark nodded. "Well...
you've got your work cut out for you. What's it going
to take? A couple of months? A year?"
 Damar smiled ridiculously. "One week."
    "A week?" Quark gulped. "One week to take down
hundreds upon hundreds of mines in a grid half the
size of a planet?"
    Leaning back and pressing his wrists in satisfac-
tion to the bar, Damar cupped a hand around his
glass.
    "That's right," he said. "One week... and the
Alpha Quadrant will be ours!"

CHAPTER
      lO

"A W~K? You're sure about that?"
    Kira blurted her questions so loudly that she had
to draw back quickly and hope nobody heard over
the noise of the bar's customers and the dabo
tables.
      "That's what he said," Quark told her, "and
believe me, it was no idle boast."  "We've got to stop them..."
    "And end up sharing a cell with my brother? No,
thanks. If we could only get to Odo... make him
see what's going on. He'd have to help us--"
    "Forget about Odo," Kira ordered in an unkind
way, peered at being reminded that she hadn't been
able to see Odo and that he'd been holed up in his
quarters with that excuse for a female, enjoying the
"link" while the Alpha Quadrant shuddered around
them. "First, we can't get to him. And second, he
wouldn't help us if we did."
    Quark filled a warm glass for her, even though she
hadn't ordered anything. They had to keep up ap-
pearances. "Then what we have to do," he said, "is
warn Starfleet."
    She looked up. "And how do you suggest we get a
message out to them?"
    "You're asking me? You're the terrorist. I'm just a
bartender."
    Kira appreciated his attempt at a joke, but it
didn't make her feel any better. A week... if the
minefield went down that soon, if Starfleet were
taken by surprise by a huge fleet of Dominion ships,
Bajor and the station would be overwhelmed, the
war could be over in a matter of days, and the
Dominion would rule the quadrant.
    Pausing in the middle of chaos to stretch a muscle
in her back, she groaned inwardly as Jake Sisko
sauntered to them with that postpubescent grin.
That's all she needed--
    "From the look on your faces," the young man
said, "I can see you haven't had much luck getting
Rom out of jail."
    "And the news just keeps getting worse," Quark
finished.
 Jake settled onto a stool. "It's not all that bad."
 "Trust us, Jake," Kira grumbled, "it is."
    "Not for me. I'm getting a message through to my
dad."
  Kira straightened instantly. "How?"
  "I'm a reporter. I have my ways."
  "Jake! This is no time for games!"
    Smiling, he turned and pointed at a nearby table,
where one of the bar's regulars, a sluglike creature
they all knew well, was using his huge mitts to
fumble a ribbon around a box. He almost never
spoke, and he sure couldn't tie a bow. "Morn?" Kira asked.
    "He's going home for his mother's birthday or
something. He has an encrypted message for my dad
in one of her presents."
    "Of course!" Kira knotted her shoulders with
anticipation. "I cleared him over to Cardassian
customs with a limited visa myselfi Do you think
this can work?"
    Jake leaned toward her. "It's already working. The
Cardassians know him and don't think he's smart
enough to be involved in any kind of espionage.
They're taking bets about whether he'll even be able
to find his way to his mother's colony!"
    "Bets?" Quark perked up. "Who's brokering the
bets?"
    "Down, Quark," Kira said. "This isn't the time
for you to be skimming. Let's just very quietly go
over there... and have a drink with our old pal
Morn."
    So far, so good. Morn didn't even want to know
what information he was carrying. Kira checked him
onto the cargo freighter herself, knowing that he
would quietly move across the lines, then funnel the
news about the minefield's imminent fall through to
Captain Sisko. Almost time to launch...
    Clear them through the station's security
codes... good. One more level... release the
docking clamps... cleared for launch.
Good-bye, Morn. Work fast. Only days to go.
How long would it take him to get the message
through to Captain Sisko? They only had a week,
and Starfleet would need time to pull together an
offensive that suddenly. Kira's head swam as she
tried to avoid imagining that kind of hustling.
  "Nerys?"
  She flinched, and wheeled around--"Ziyal?"
    A movement in the shaded outlines of the
docking-ring cargo bay drew her eye, and Dukat's
daughter stepped toward her, almost shy in her
manner.
 Kira let out a relieved huff. "Ziyal."
    "Can I talk to you?" the girl said. "I need to talk to
somebody... and it's been so long since we've spent
any time together--"
    "I told you," Kira said, finishing the closeouts on
the launch sequence, "you shouldn't have to choose
between me and your father. I don't expect that.
He's your father."
 Ziyal pressed her shoulder against the nearest
bulkhead and gazed at the carpet. "I thought things
would be better. I thought we could move toward
some kind of peace between Bajor and Cardassia."
    "You can't hope for that, Ziyal, just because
you're half of each. Real life doesn't work that way.
Your blood isn't really half one and half the other--
and you are who you want to be, not a divided
person. Bajor and Cardassia have different visions of
what life should be. They can't just sit back and
smile at each other. And they shouldn't have to."
    Ziyal nodded sadly. "I really believed that my
father had changed... that he wanted to be a man
of peace."
    "I think he believes that, too, whenever it suits his
purpose."
"Everything he's ever said to me has been a lie."
Kira looked at her. Couldn't let things go that far,
could she? "Not everything. He really does care for
you."
    "I don't care," the girl protested. "I'm not going
back to him. You don't believe that, do you?"
    Letting the transfer sequence and the refueling log
take care of itself, Kira turned away from the panel.
"Right now, you're angry and disappointed. But
that'll pass. And then you'll have to decide what to
do."
    Ziyal started to say something else, but the nearest
doors parted. Damar.
    "Ziyal," the Cardassian blurted immediately, "I
need to speak to you."
    "You and I have nothing to talk about," she told
him.
      He squared off before them. "Maybe not. But you
and your father do. He wants to see you."  
"Well, I don't want to see him."
    Kira motioned toward the doors. "You heard her,
Damar."
    "Stay out of this, Major. Listen to me, Ziyal. Your
father is a great man. A man of destiny. But he also
carries great burdens. He knows our alliance with
the Dominion is a dangerous one. If we show any
sign of weakness, our allies will turn on us. That's
why we must all help your father remain strong. So I
ask you to be a true daughter of Cardassia and stand
beside him."
    "It should be obvious," Ziyal said, "even to you,
Damar, that I am not a 'true daughter of Car-
dassia.'"
    "What's obvious to me," he said through gritting
teeth, "is that your father should've left you to rot in
that Breen prison camp. But he didn't. He took pity
on you and it's your duty to repay him. Now, come
with me."
    He grasped her arm and physically turned her
toward the doors.
    Enough. Kira reached out and pushed him.
"Leave her alone."
    Delighting in the situation, Damar snarled, "And
if I don't?"
 "I was hoping you'd ask."

    Kira knew she was a narrow sort of person with
tiny hands and not much muscle, but she was also a
trained resistance fighter who had never forgotten a
few key weaknesses in Cardassian physiology.
Damar, on the other hand, was a drowsy bureaucrat
who hadn't physically fought with anybody in years.
He also never expected her to actually hit him. Add
to that concoction about three months of frustration
to work off, and Kira had plenty of crushing force to
deliver.
    Jaw, gullet, secondary rib cage--bony brow.
Down he went.
    Now she had a sore hand, a bruised set of knuck-
les, and a deep breath of satisfaction. That felt great!
     Ziyal stepped back, her arms flared, and gaped at
the lump of Damar on the deck. "Did you kill him?"
  "No, but I thought about it."
 "What are you going to do when he wakes up?"
 "That's up to him. Let's get out of here."
 "Ben? Ben! You in here?"
"I'm in the anteroom, Admiral--what's wrong?"
"The Defiant's just docking up! I wanted to tell
you myself instead of over the comm. I wanted to
see your face."
    "Well, here it is!" Ben Sisko finished changing into
a fresh uniform and bolted out of the anteroom into
the main area of his office, to find Admiral Ross
standing there like a kid about to go to a season-
ender. "Why didn't they call in?"
    "Their whole comm system's down. I didn't even
know they were on approach until the lightship
notified my liaison at the dockmaster's office."
    Sisko rushed out into the corridor and headed for
the nearest turbolift, with Admiral Ross jogging
after him. He dodged into the lift and barely waited
for Ross to get in before ordering, "Internal space-
dock, slip number 11."
    "No, Ben," Ross corrected. "They'll be debarking
to the mess hall. The ship had to be cleared immedi-
ately. Toxic leaks."
"Leaks?" Sisko frowned. "Damn that cluster..."
Ross didn't respond. There was nothing much to
say--they had no information about how many
casualties--
    "Wait a minute," Sisko blurted suddenly. "If
they're on the station--" He tapped his cornbadge.
"Sisko to Dax. Are you reading?"
    "Dax here. We're docked and debarked. O'Brien
overseeing the preliminary diagnostics. Mission ac-
complished-the array is down."
    A light-headed relief almost lifted him off his feet.
"Congratulations, old man, and good work. What
are your losses?"
    "Six dead, fifteen injuries, two serious. Julian~
already released several of them, and the two criticals
have been moved to the Starbase infirmary under care
of the new trauma team. I relieved Julian of responsi-
bility for them and ordered him to stand down. He
was about to stay up another thirty-six hours and try
 to care for them himself. Instead, he g down here with
 me, flirting with a pretty ensign."  "We're almost there, Dax."
     Ross smiled. "Tell them we're recommending
 them for E.P.D. citation."
     Sisko returned the smile. "Dax, the admiral is
 recommending you and the whole crew for excep-
 tional performance of duty citations."
      "That~ very gracious, and I think we'll just take
 those and retire to a sunny climate."  "We don't blame you."
  "See you in a minute. Dax out."
    "They sure sound proud of themselves," Ross
said. "I can't wait to read their report. Bet it beats its
way to the top of the best-seller list."
    "I'll bet it will." Swimming in relief and satisfac-
tion, Sisko couldn't stop smiling. Why was this
turbolift going so slowly? "Sir, if you're in agree-
ment, I'd also like to recommend that Cadet Nog be
given a promotion to ensign."
    "How close is he to graduating from the Acad-
emy?"
    "Close enough to risk his life on a virtually
suicidal mission through the Argolis Cluster."
    "Good point. Recommendation accepted. Now
you tell me... how can you grin like that? There
are six dead people over there. Some of them might
be your closest friends."
    "It's a chance we take," Sisko told him, for a
moment enjoying the superiority of having com-
manded a small ship, when he knew Ross never had
a command that intimate, and never during a major
conflict. "If we'd lost any of our immediate family,
Dax would've sounded different. I'd have known.
She mentioned O'Brien and Bashit, so they're all
right, but... I know it seems callous. Losing any
shipmate is hard, even if we don't know that person,
but we all know why we're fighting and what the
risks are. It's not as if anyone signed on for active
duty without understanding. We all accept that,
Admiral... and none of us want to be mourned too
much. It's the last gift we can give each other."
    Ross seemed momentarily circumspect. 'Tll re-
member that. As soon as O'Brien's diagnostic is
finished, we'll start repairs on the Defiant and get her
restaffed."
    Now, at a note he'd come to recognize in the
admiral's tone, Sisko dropped his smile. "What's the
rush, sir? They just came in."
    "I know," Ross said, and sighed. "And they're
going right back out. I'm taking your recommenda-
tion of immediate action in Bravo, Delta, and Zebra
sectors. Now that the sensor array is down, we can
make those major strikes we've been holding back
on. We can move ships and squadrons, and we've got
to do it before the Dominion gets any more advan-
tages. Now, don't look at me like that. This is your
plan. We don't have time for shore leaves or molly-
coddling. I want you to make a plan for Dax to hit
one of those critical depots."

    Sisko had let the admiral speak, hoping that at the
bottom of all those words might be lurking a re-
installation of himself as commander of the Defiant.
No such luck. He'd made himself too valuable as a
tactician.
    They strode in rather odd silence to the mess hall
and immediately swept inside. As the panels parted,
a gush of noise and cheer rushed out and embraced
them, drawing them inside. Sisko did an automatic
head count of how many of the crew were here and
who they were, but said nothing about it.
    "Admiral on deck)" Nog shouted from the table
where he was handing out drinks.
    The crew snapped to attention, but Ross immedi-
ately said, "Carry on."
    And they did. This time there was nothing sub-
dued about their celebration, even with the admiral
and his adjutant in attendance.
      "Nog!" Dax called as she strode toward them,
"Saurian brandy for the brass!" Brass...
    Just as Dax reached them, a slightly besotted
Julian Bashir, with a bruise on his left temple,
headed her off. "Dax! Would you tell Ensign Kirby
how I took over the conn when Lieutenant Haj was
injured during the attack? She doesn't believe me."
    "Frankly," Dax demurred, "I'm not sure it really
happened myself."
    She gave him a scolding look, and only now Bashir
realized he was standing with his back to Sisko and
the admiral. He turned, made a polite, "Sir... sir,"
and melted back into the crew.
 "Congratulations, Captain," Ross said to Dax.
    "Thank you, sir. If you'll excuse me, I need to talk
to Julian."
    Sisko thought it was odd that she ducked away
from them like that. Perhaps she was embarrassed to
be in command of a ship she knew he wanted, or
perhaps she was afraid the admiral might make that
command permanent here and now if she lingered.
He didn't know. He wasn't really in a position to
ask, either. That wouldn't're been decorous.
    Disturbed that things had changed so much be-
tween himself and his closest friends, Sisko accepted
his brandy from Nog with less than rousing enthusi-
asm. He muttered something to Ross, but didn't
even listen to himself.
    He roused only when Miles O'Brien appeared,
carrying another empty phaser canister. Sisko
straightened his shoulders, towering over most of
the crewmen here, but O'Brien didn't see him.
Instead, he headed directly for Dax.
    "Another one, Captain," the engineer said, and
shifted the metal canister into Dax's arms.
    Carrying it like a big ugly baby, Dax held the
canister for all to see. "Take a good look! This says
something about us. It says we're willing to fight and
that we'll keep on fighting until we can't fight any-
more."
  "Yes, sir!" the crew predictably cheered.
  "You don't throw something like this away!"
  "No, sir!"
    Just as Sisko had all the times before, Dax moved
to the side of the mess hall and clanked the canister
into place with all the others.
    Sisko almost shriveled with embarrassment. Dax
had used his exact words. He knew why--she was
making an effort at tribute to him. But he didn't feel
flattered by her effort. He felt shunted aside, pathet-
ic, patronized.
 "They're a good crew," Ross said quietly.
    Cold and envious, worried about the new mission
he would have to foist upon these people within a
day, Sisko buried a shudder. "The best." Ross was watching him. Knew. Saw.
    "What do you say," the admiral wisely suggested,
"we get back to work?"
 Sisko hated him for understanding.
 But followed Ross out. What else could he do?

Boldly they rode and well . . .

0

CHAPTER
      11

"CADET?"
    "Continuing to emit distress signals on all fre-
quencies."
 "Chief?."
    "We're still venting plasma... any ship passing
within a hundred million kilometers will know we're
here... and that we're not going anywhere."
    Miles O'Brien made his report tersely. They were
adrift, leaking all the juices of life, engines cold.
    This was how it had been for weeks. When the
Dominion's sensor array fell, a flurry of confused
offensive activity erupted among the Jem'Hadar
forces. Afraid they'd be attacked all over the front,
they took the offensive and began attacking anything
they could find, any outpost, any ship, any squadron,
any transport. Instead of picking and choosing, they
were now trying to attack and defend everything.
Yes, this was wearing the unreinforced, white-
starved Dominion forces thin, but it was also taking
tremendous effort on the parts of Starfleet and the
Klingons just to keep up the level of harassment.
There could be little forward movement--in fact,
they'd almost reached a stalemate as far as progress
was concerned. For a tie game, there were plenty of
losses.
      "In other words, we're sitting ducks," Julian
Bashir wearily tacked onto O'Brien's tepid report.
  "Looks that way," O'Brien confirmed.
    Dax made no response to them, though O'Brien
automatically glanced at her. They were all tense,
focused, watching for the slightest miscalculation,
each battling to keep from becoming casual about
the danger or even about dying.
    "We have company, Captain," Nog abruptly re-
ported. "Two Dominion ships heading this way,
bearing one-nine-seven mark one-three-five."
    Just what they'd expected. O'Brien came to life
instantly, then pulled his hands back from the
automatic movements his fingers wanted to make.
"They'll have us in weapons' range in twenty-two
seconds."
    Dax looked intently at the forward screen as
two Jem'Hadar fighters streaked toward them.
"Shields?"
 Nog said, "Shields at thirty percent."

    O'Brien planted both feet on the deck and pre-
pared for what was coming.
 "Phaser banks?" Dax asked.
 "The entire weapons array is off line."
"What do we do now, Captain?" Bashir wondered.
Dax gripped her command chair as the first of the
Jem'Hadar ships wheeled into weapons range. "Now
we find something to hold on to."
    Over the last of her words, they were strafed
mercilessly. The shell of Defiant thundered around
them, hammering their ears and their bodies with
shock after shock. O'Brien had braced his legs on the
deck, and now the deck surged, ramming his knees
into the underdeck of his engineering panel.
    "Shields are down to twenty percent," Nog re-
ported.
     O'Brien winced at his knees and the report. "I
don't know how much more of this we can take--"
  "Steady, people," Dax reminded.
    The waiting was the worst. If this went on much
longer--
"Look!" Nog shouted as the screen changed.
Now they could see a Klingon bird of prey, and
how pretty it was, decloak behind one of the Domin-
ion ships and blast it to shards. "Now?" O'Brien asked.
    "Now!" Dax sat up straighter. "Shields up, en-
gines at full impulse, power to main phasers--"
 "Target locked."
  "Fire!"
    Sitting ducks playing possum... they were every
kind of animal but trapped. Around them, all sys-
tems surged to life with an audible hum, and the
Defiant unloaded a barrage of phaser fire on the
second Jem'Hadar ship. Before their eyes--and
close enough to rattle their hull with shrapnel--the
enemy ship was obliterated.
    "Cadet," Dax instantly asked, "any more Domin-
ion ships out there?"
  "None that I can see."
    Dax punched the shipwide comm. "This is the
captain speaking. All hands, stand down. Good job,
people."
      "We're being hailed by the Rotarran," Nog said.
"Commander Worf would like to speak to you."
  "On screen."
    The image of Worf--a welcome sight even though
they'd been faking--gave O'Brien a rush of good
cheer in the midst of the daily grind of stalemate,
which was immediately crushed by an all-ships alert
he picked up on officer-only comm reroute. As Dax
greeted their "rescuers," O'Brien collected the com-
muniqufi.
 "My hero." Dax was smiling.
    "Well done, Captain," Worf responded. Not ex-
actly a balcony scene. "You were a very effective
decoy."
    "How about next time we switch roles? That way,
I can rescue you?"

    O'Brien sighed. No getting around this. "You may
have to wait awhile, Captain. We've just received
orders from Starfleet Command. All ships in this
sector are to fall back to Starbase 375."
    She looked at him as if it were his fault. "Fall back
again?"
 The sense of victory now crumbled.
    "Engage and retreat, engage and retreat," O'Brien
chanted. "I'm telling you, that's become our favorite
tune."
    "Well," Bashir added, "we'd better learn a new
one or the next song we'll be singing will be 'Hail the
Conquering Dominion.'"
    Irritated, Dax said, "I wouldn't start learning
those lyrics just yet, Doctor. Worf, we'll see you at
Starbase 375."
  "I'll be waiting."
"Set a course for these coordinates, warp seven."
O'Brien pushed out of his chair and worked his
bruised knees over to the command deck. "Is this a
plan or isn't it? We're doing some kind of profitless
waltz and it's getting harder and harder to explain."
  "I know," she said.
     "We're holding our own for now, but every exer-
cise costs us in weapons and fuel, if not manpower."
  "I know, Chiefi"
    "The hardier souls among us might hope this was
all part of a bigger plan Starfleet Command has for a
few eventual forward movements, but from this
level, it's a bit hard to see into the future."
  "I know, I know."
    "Captain Sisko must know what's going on... he
keeps sending us out on these hit-and-runs. Maybe
you could ask... I mean he is our..."
    Failing a polite articulation, he gave up. His hand
was making some pathetic waves, and now he turned
it upward to give his head a scratch.
    "If there isn't some kind of plan," Dax inter-
rupted, "if this is just a holding pattern and all we're
doing is keeping the Dominion from overrunning
us, then eventually that minefield will fall and the
enemy will get reinforcements. And we don't have
any reinforcements to get. Fuel, weapons, man-
power... the most dangerous loss is going to be the
will to fight among the troops. And that's when we'll
lose the war."
    O'Brien leaned an elbow on the command chair to
spare his throbbing knees, and felt the cloying pres-
sure of reality depress his chest.
 "I know," he said.

    "Admiral, the time has come. There's only so
much icy composure we can ask of our troops while
we thin out the Dominion forces. We've brought the
Dominion down to our level of military capability,
but we haven't brought our own up any. We've
weakened the enemy as much as we can, in my
opinion, and the situation's getting precarious. It'll
start tipping in the Dominion's favor again if we
don't push it our way soon."
 "I know."
    Admiral Ross's response was not enheartening.
Ben Sisko knew Ross had come to his office instead
of the other way around in order to give him a little
boost, and now he was talking to the admiral about
giving everybody a boost. Wars could be won or lost
on morale, and this one was on its firing line.
    "You asked to see me," Ross went on, "so I'm
going to assume you've got some big idea that you've
had in mind while you implemented all these little
ideas. Go ahead, Ben, you don't have to run around
the perimeter with me."
    The keen assessment of what Sisko had been doing
was embarrassing in its accuracy, but Sisko couldn't
resist a smile. He'd been in command in a distant
post so long that he'd gotten used to being the
smartest kid in class and knowing what was happen-
ing on many levels. Ross's bluntness disarmed him.
How long had the admiral known Sisko was coyly
magistrating an overriding plan?
    Maybe this was why the admiralty held so few
attractions for Sisko and many captains--because a
good captain is a person able to find strength and
abilities where there might appear to be few, to tease
out and efficiently use the talents of whatever crew
was assigned to him, without the ability to pick and
choose people. An admiral had to be something else,
and not everybody could do that.
    Ross was like a very successful coach of a sports
team. He couldn't hit a ball out of the park or race
around the bases in a matter of seconds, but he had
always had the ability to see who could and push
them to do it. This made him very valuable to
Starfleet. As an admiral, he might have twenty
people telling him what to do. He was good at the
important part--picking the right twenty people.
Then, he was also good at deciding who was the
most right of a lot of possible rights, and which of
those was best to carry out those plans--not always
the same people at all.
    He was also smart enough to damned well realize
he'd never commanded anything small and inti-
mate. He couldn't count on his own experience for
that kind of thing, and he was bright enough not to
try.
    As Sisko responded to a simple at-ease motion by
Ross and settled back into his chair, he felt a flicker
of respect for this man from whom he'd tried to keep
his real intentions hidden. Ross did him a favor by
sitting down also.
    "We tied the score with the attack on the ketracel-
white processing station," Sisko began. "Then we
tipped it our way when we destroyed the sensor
array. That gave us an opportunity to move our
fleets and squadrons without the Dominion's know-
ing what we were doing. We've made strategic hits
since then, but we've been asking a lot of our troops
simply by not explaining any long-term plan to
them."
 "We couldn't," Ross said. "It's been the same for
every admiral. We're barely speaking to each other,
for fear of hidden shapeshifter spies. It's very hard
to coordinate anything."
    For an instant Sisko held his breath, wondering if
Ross's intuition had tipped him off about plans
between Sisko and Martok, or if the admiral had
noticed how many of Sisko's small mission plans
had been enacted by Martok and the Defiant. Of
course he'd noticed. How could he not?
    But Ross spared him the further revealing.
"You've been planning something," he urged. "Time
to tell me."
    Sisko nodded, thereby acknowledging that Ross
had him and the time had indeed come.
    "I want to make a comprehensive assault on the
Bajoran system and repossess it before the minefield
falls."
    Ross blinked, then laughed openly. "You don't
think small, do you? Do you know how far behind
enemy lines Bajor is now? Never mind--of course
you do. What do you think we'll need for this? No,
don't tell me. Tell me who you'll need."
    "Who... I'll need Martok and Worf... I'll need
the Klingon Defense Forces--"
    "All right, I'll see that Chancellor Gowron is
contacted directly. How about if Worf or Martok
talks to Gowron?"
 "That's a very sound suggestion, sir."
 "I'm known for those."
 "I don't know how Worf will feel about it--he's
not on the smoothest of terms with Gowron right
now. But being approached by other Klingons of
high family status in both fleets is something he can't
ignore, at least. I'll need to present my strategic
plans to the admiralty as soon as possible."
  "How about 0800 tomorrow?"
 Sisko sat back in surprise. That easily?
    "Well," Ross said, reading his expression, "I was
going to present my own plan, but it was only a
couple of distraction skirmishes and a ground as-
sault on Centaurus Nine. If you can do this, that
won't matter. Why don't you take my segment of
time before Command tomorrow morning?"
    Shaking his head in admiration, Sisko dropped
the last measure of protocol and decorum that was
expected between a captain and an admiral, and
looked at Ross with unshielded camaraderie.
    "If either of us was as good at tactics as we were at
lying," he said, "this war would've been won a
month ago."
    Ross clapped his knees and stood up. "Yeah, but
we can learn. See you at 0800."
    Flattered that the admiral didn't ask for specif-
ics-probably he already suspected what his frus-
trated adjutant had in mind--Sisko didn't bother to
stand up in polite escort of the admiral's leaving the
office. Didn't seem necessary, somehow. The for-
mality had gone out, blessedly, of their relationship.
At least in private. Tomorrow morning, there would
be another kind of dutiful performance.

    Almost as soon as the admiral had gone, the door
to Sisko's office slid open again without chimes,
leading him for a moment to believe that Ross was
coming back in, but rather it was Dax who entered,
not looking very content at all.
    "Why did you call us back?" she demanded with-
out greeting. "All Starfleet ships in the area banding
up here? What are we all doing here, Benjamin?
Providing a target?"
    Sisko regarded her with tolerance. "I haven't seen
you angry in... oh, let's see..."
    "I don't know what all you brass hats in Starfleet
Command are thinking, but take it from a simple
field officer, we're not going to win this war by
running away from the enemy."
    This made him bristle and his grin dropped away.
Her unfairness surprised him. She wasn't usually
petty or shortsighted enough to scratch a dividing
line between them when she knew he wasn't here by
choice or that the "brass hats" were carrying the
weight of the future under their brims and they felt it
every moment. She knew that. She knew that.
    Choosing to remain silent, he simply looked at
Dax and let her get the rest out.
    "Benjamin," she went on, "troop morale is at an
all-time low. Even the Klingons are starting to
wonder if we can defeat the Dominion. We need a
victory! A big victory. And we need it soon!"
 "I couldn't agree with you more," he uttered.
 "Then do something about it!"
 "I have."
    Perhaps his tone embarrassed her, reminded her
of something she should be remembering on her
own, but she suddenly backed off as if he had
drenched her in cold water.
    "In fact," he was proud to be able to say, "I'm
presenting a plan to Starfleet Command at 0800
tomorrow."
 Her doll-perfect face creased. "What plan?"
    He tapped a panel. A familiar graphic, the most
beautiful sight in the galaxy to both of them now,
appeared on the office's big screen.
    Sisko turned to regard it as if he were visiting a
museum and had just found the show's signature
piece.
 "We'l,e going to take back Deep Space Nine."

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

William Butler Yeats,
Into the Twilight

0

CHAPTER
      12

Now THAT HE'D convinced himself and blithely an-
nounced his intentions to Dax and elicited Martok's
assistance, there was only one obstacle. Just a little
thing. Just Starfleet Command.
    The Admiralty had a command unit in this sector
consisting of three admirals--Ross, Coburn, and
Sitak. Coburn was a middle-aged rear admiral, Sitak
a seemingly ageless Vulcan vice-admiral, and the
three of them made a formidable jury before which
Sisko found himself pacing six days later.
    Six days--he'd hardly had time to gather intelli-
gence information about enemy-force positions that
was fresh enough to use in an assault plan, never
mind pull together statistical information on Star-
fleet deployment. Still, he was glad he'd tried to
move faster than usual.
    "I hope you'll all forgive my brazenness, but in my
opinion," he told them, "we're making a mistake
trying to put a wide-range defense perimeter around
Earth and primary Federation colonies and trade
routes."
    "Those routes are critical, Captain," Sitak said.
"The main arteries between Earth and Vulcan, Vul-
can and Alpha Centauri... they're our life's blood.
In any war, the first goal is to strangle the enemy. We
dare not let the Dominion cut off the routes of
supplies and arms to our colonies and outposts."
    "And an attack on Earth would be a deadly blow if
they succeeded," Coburn agreed. "Are you suggest-
ing we should stop defending them?"
    "Not at all," Sisko said. "But, so far, all we're
doing is defense. We can't defend our way to victory.
And by doing nothing but responding all the time,
we're letting the Dominion set the pattern of events.
Yes, Admiral Sitak, you're right--they're predict-
able. They're waging a war right out of the manual at
least for now. If we're clever enough, we can use that
against them. I don't actually believe they intend to
keep it up. If they're planning to attack Earth,
they're making a huge strategic mistake. I don't
think they'll make it."
    "Why don't you explain what you've got in
mind?" Ross encouraged.
    Sisko drew a tense breath and held it a little too
long. He directed their attention to the wall-monitor
display, on which he had arranged a design for
attack.
    "By putting together a task force comprised of
elements from the Second, Fifth, and Ninth Fleets, I
believe that we can take back Deep Space Nine...
the most important piece of real estate in the quad-
rant."
    Sitak immediately said, "Your plan, Captain Sis-
ko, is not without merit, however I remain skeptical.
The Dominion will undoubtedly send a large fleet to
stop you."
    "Which will divert their forces and slow their
advance into Federation territory."
    Ross tossed in, "As well as leave their flank
vulnerable."
    Sisko nodded. "Giving us a chance to go on the
offensive for a change."
    "There's one thing that concerns me," Coburn
broke in.
 "What's that, Admiral?"
 "Earth. You've left it a very tempting target."
    Ross pointed at the schematic. "Earth would still
be defended by the Third Fleet."
    "But what if you're wrong and the Dominion
doesn't commit its forces to protect Deep Space
Nine? What if they launch a full-scale assault on
Earth instead?"

    A moment of pause interrupted them as they all
ran through the various scenarios in their minds.
Sisko was very nervous suddenly--what if they
thought he was trying to do this just to get his station
back? What if they imagined his pride was bruised
and he just wanted to recapture the station for his
own reputation, or for the edification of his own
crew? It looked that way, he had to admit, and he'd
think that about anyone else suggesting such a risk.
    Then Coburn squinted at the displays with a
discerning eye. "If we do what you're proposing,
we'll never get reinforcements there in time."
    Sisko bluntly said, "The Dominion won't attack
Earth."
    Might as well get it out and let them think
whatever they were bound to think.
Sitak turned to him. "How can you be sure?"
"Because Earth isn't the key to the Alpha Quad-
rant. The wormhole is. And whoever controls Deep
Space Nine controls the wormhole."
    Prejudice or predilection, there was no denying
the simple truth of that. He was the gatekeeper, yes,
but there had to be a gate and the gate had to be
controlled. These were admirals, not idiots. They
knew he was right.
    He understood their point too--the need to pro-
tect what needed protecting, but also possess what
needed to be possessed, and DS9 had already been
lost once at great cost. So far the wormhole was still
closed and the enemy fleet was being held off, but
that couldn't last. A swarm of Dominion ships
coming through the wormhole wouldn't be stopped
once they flooded the quadrant. The only hope was
to control the mouth of the wormhole.
    Yes, he was right, and he made himself cling to his
rightness. If they saw that he was confident, they
might go his way.
    He should argue his point again. Repeat every-
thing. Point at the screens. Pound a table.
    But he didn't. That would've been unprofessional.
He'd made his statement. They either believed he
was an expert on the Federation deep space perime-
ter or they didn't. Dramatic insistence would get
him nothing but disrespect.
    Then came the most amazing occurrence--Admi-
ral Coburn simply asked, "Who've you got for
backup?"
    Sisko smiled like a schoolboy who'd just gotten his
homework back with a good grade.
    "Have you ever heard of General Martok?" he
asked.

    "Gentlemen, this mission cannot succeed without
the involvement of the Klingon Defense Forces."
    Sisko led the way into his office and motioned for
Martok and Worf to sit down. The meeting with
Starfleet Command, just an hour ago, had gone well
enough, but left him holding a lot of balls and
juggling like mad. Martok and Worf had remained
quiet during the meeting, representing the willing-
ness of the Klingon Empire to participate in Star-
fleet schemes. Now came the hard part--making
good on that symbolism.
    "We agree, Captain," Worf told him, "but Chan-
cellor Gowron does not."
  "Then you have to change his mind."
    One ball, effectively tossed into somebody else's
hands. Worf didn't appear surprised or very much
bothered by the idea of confronting Gowron in
person, but Martok shifted uneasily. The general,
Sisko sensed, was displeased at the political aspect,
of being pulled into such machinations by the
thready relationship between the Federation and the
Empire. It was unappealing, Sisko had to agree.
    Martok glowered for a moment. "The chancellor
is reluctant to commit such a large fleet to a single
engagement."
    Worf nodded. "He feels it would leave the Empire
vulnerable."
    Sisko appreciated the reports, and even more the
fact that neither of these Klingons agreed with what
they were having to say. He could tell that without
asking a thing.
    "Starfleet Command had the same concerns about
Earth," he told them. "But after careful considera-
tion, they decided it was worth the risk. We have to
take some kind of decisive action in the Bajor area
before that minefield comes down. That means
taking back Deep Space Nine and doing it now, while
the Dominion forces are at their weakest."
    "General," Worf said, turning to Martok, "per-
haps you should return to Qo'noS and make your
plea in person. The chancellor has great respect for
you. If you cannot persuade him, no one can."
    "I will go see Gowron," Martok agreed, "and you
will come with me."
    Worf hesitated. "The chancellor no longer consid-
ers me a friend."
    "I know. But what could be better--an ally and
an enemy, both telling him the same thing. He'll
have no choice but to agree."
    Sisko regarded the general with a certain forbear-
ance. No choice? There were plenty of choices.
Martok was being optimistic, and that was cause for
worry. "Gentlemen," he said, "I need those ships."
"And you shall have them," Worf told him.
    Unfounded optimism and promises that might
never be kept.
    "I'm going to gather and organize the Starfleet
squadrons as quietly as possible," Sisko told them.
"I doubt there's a way to keep such maneuvers
completely secret, but we're going to put off the
Dominion's finding out about it as long as possible.
We still have to move fast. I'll do my part here. You
convince the chancellor to go along with me, and I'll
get you both season tickets to the biggest game this
side of Alpha Centauri."
  "Security to Captain Sisko."
    He motioned to the Klingons, then tapped his
comm. "Sisko."
      "Sir, we've got a citizen here who wants to talk to
you, and only you." "What about?"
    "He won't say, sir. But he insists he broke through
the lines at the Bajoran front on some kind of
hardship pass. I tried to get him to leave and go
through channels, but he g . . . kind of on the big side.
Unless you want to see him, I'll have to call for
backup to move him out of here."
 Sisko looked at Worf, then Martok.
 "Send him in, Ensign. Let's have a look."

    Sisko spiraled into Admiral Ross's office without
even announcing himself. Luckily, adjutants could
get away with that from time to time. Well, once.
    "Admiral, we've got a problem," he said before
the door had managed to close behind him.
 Ross looked up. "What kind of problem?"
    "The kind that's going to make us move a lot
earlier than makes any sense."
    He held out an iridescent strip with a message
encrypted on the dull side.
    "You're condemning us with a Christmas rib-
bon?" Ross grumbled.
    "It's not a Christmas ribbon. It's a birthday
ribbon."
 "Oh... happy birthday." Ross took the ribbon
and squinted at the message. "Minefield down star-
date 69923.2... station shields converted to grav-
ity... grav--"
    "Graviton emitter, sir. Dukat's people have fig-
ured out how to use the station to shut down the
mines' replication system."
  "Hell... are you sure this is reliable?"
    "I've known the courier for five years. I trust
him."
    "Then we have a problem. According to this, the
minefield's coming down in three days. The Ninth
Fleet won't be here for at least four!"
  Sisko steeled himselfi This was the hard part.
  "Then I suggest we go without them."
    Ross visibly flinched at that idea, but clearly he'd
seen it coming. "What about the Klingons?"
    "Looks like we go without them too. We've run
out of time, Admiral."
    Too smart to argue that they shouldn't go, Ross
sighed and nodded. "If those Dominion reinforce-
ments come through the wormhole, we'll have lost
everything. Okay, I can tell you've got an idea, so
let's just hear it right now before my knees start
shaking and I realize my son's on a ship docked right
outside this starbase."
    "We take the ships we have," Sisko said instantly,
"fight our way to Deep Space Nine, and destroy that
antigraviton emitter. It's our only hope."
    They both hesitated then. Both looked at the little
ribbon which changed everything.

     With typical common sense and low-key decisive-
ness, Ross looked up at him without really moving.
  "Do it."
    Sisko clutched his hand so tightly that the ribbon
was half crushed. "Thank you, sir."
     Bobbing his brows, Ross asked, "Well, aren't you
going to mention the other thing?"
  "Other thing, sir?"
  "Well, sure."
  "I..."
    "You know, the thing that's been cooking on the
back burner since you saw Dax put that phaser
canister on the rack."
    Feeling the blood rise to his face, Sisko was glad
his complexion was dark enough to hide a blush.
    Ross took the shiny ribbon from him, straightened
it, then wrapped it around Sisko's wrist and tied a
festive double bow. "There. Take yourself over to
the Defiant and tell 'em you're a birthday present
from Uncle Admiral. You've got your ship back.
Now go get your station."

 "Captain on the bridge."
    Sisko was cheered by Nog's vaulting voice racing
through the bridge as he stepped back into his
command arena. From the rail, Bashir watched him,
smiling. Over at engineering, O'Brien was trying not
to smile. Failing, though. Nog looking good in his
new ensign uniform--all was well in one little
corner of the galaxy.
    Dax floated out of the command chair, then
turned the chair toward him. "I've kept it warm for
you, Ben."
    So much for ceremony. This felt good! No awk-
ward transitions. Just come back and sit down. One
thing goes right. One down, ten thousand to go.
    "Ensign," Sisko said, tasting his first order in a
while, "alert all ships. We're moving out."
    A small set of words, not much that history would
remember. Not exactly "Remember the Bismarck"
or "I have not yet begun to fight." Small words, but
enough to set into motion one of the largest task
forces ever.
    Even without the Ninth Fleet and without the
Klingons, the gathered Starfleet ships and the ragtag
Klingon bird of prey who had managed to muster at
Starbase 375 were an impressive sight as they
washed away from the silver spool of the base and
flocked into the shimmering eternal night. Flanks of
fighter ships and Klingon warbirds, columns of
Starfleet support4enders and power-packed frigates,
progressing back to ships of the line, and finally a
prancing troupe of picket destroyers--all led by the
stubborn little knot of the Defiant. Sisko was proud
to be leading them. Indeed, as victorious as this
moment should be, he was instead deeply humbled
and cold to the fingers with trepidation of what was
to come. As majestic as this fleet indeed was, they
simply didn't have enough ships to do the job.

    Other things would have to come into play, things
he had no control over. Like luck and chance and
guesswork and the unlikely miracle that surprise
would still be on their side when they fell out of
warp at Bajor.
    Those, and the faintest possibility that Kira and
Odo and whoever else had sent him the message
about the minefield's ticking clock would also be
working against the Dominion inside the station. He
hoped they knew he would come, because that
would make them brave and they would take
chances.
    He would have to be ready, and make his crew
ready, to jump at any chance they provided, or none
if none came.

    "Our initial intelligence reports have been veri-
fied. The Federation fleet is on the move."
    Gul Dukat found a sour taste in his mouth as he
reported the unsavory news to Weyoun. Deliberately
he did not tack on what else he knew, until Weyoun
asked.
 "Do we know their destination?"
    More sourness. "It would appear they're headed
here."
    "Here?" Weyoun paused, thought, then actually
smiled with realization. "He knows we're taking
down the minefield!" Then the smile dropped.
"Someone must've gotten a message out."
  "So it would seem."
    "No matter," the Vorta tossed off. "We'll crush
them."
    "Yes, we will." Dukat handed him a padd with the
significant information upon it. "And in order to do
that, we're going to have to pull a significant number
of our ships off the front lines."  "Do it."
    Annoyance rumbled in Dukat's throat. Do it?
That was all? Pull strategically arranged vessels to a
central location, and the Vorta could see no prob-
lems with that kind of necessity?
    "Once the mine field comes down," the Vorta was
musing on, "there'll be more than enough ships to
take their place."
    "I understand," Dukat said, floating an impatient
nod to Weyoun as Damar entered and took his
attention. "One moment."
    Damar stalked to him and instantly said, "I want
your permission to arrest Major Kira."
    "Kira?" Dukat lowered his voice. "What about
Ziyal? Did you talk to her?"
    "She doesn't want to see you. When I insisted, the
major 'objected.'"
    Suddenly boiling, Dukat glanced at Weyoun and
forced some internal control. He knew by Damar's
demeanor what had happened. He saw Kira's objec-
tion all over the bruised left side of Damar's face.
"What did you do to Ziyal?"
 "I did nothing to her," Damar quickly said.
    "Then why did Kira attack you? You must've
done something--threatened my daughter in some
way. I told you to be tactful."
    "Excuse me," Weyoun spoke up. "But don't you
think resolving family squabbles can wait until after
we've won this war?"
    Annoyed first that Weyoun had heard them whis-
pering and second that Weyoun could so easily
trivialize the personal troubles weighing upon the
leader of the Cardassian forces in this area, Dukat
glared at him.
 "Weak eyes," Weyoun said, "but good ears."
 Nauseating.
 "Yes," Dukat droned, "you're quite right."
 "Then you're clear on what must be done."
    "We will call back enough ships to destroy the
Federation fleet and hold this station."
 Like some kind of schoolchild reciting a rhyme.
    Damar stiffened. "The Federation is moving
against us?"
    "That's right," Dukat told him. "Now, I want to
hear exactly what went on between you and Ziyal."
    "I tried to convince her to speak to you. She
refused, and I took her arm. Kira struck out at me.
When did you find out about the Federation? Have
they discovered what we're doing with the antigravi-
ton beam?"
    "It seems so or they would not likely be moving so
near our bringing down the minefield. Was Ziyal
upset?"
"I don't know. Is Captain Sisko leading the fleet
himself?."
    "We have no information about that. Pay atten-
tion, Damar--was Ziyal angry at me?"
    "She was... she was disturbed. I'm sure it'll
work out. Fathers and daughterswfamilies--these
things happen, sir. But the Federationre"
    "Will get here in its own time. When it comes, we
will smash it. I want my daughter at my side,
Damar... that was your job."
    Damar's face hardened. "I resist this expectation
you have that I can manage your daughter!"
    "I do, too." Weyoun stood up and faced them
both. "It is inappropriate for you to concern your-
self, Dukat, with the irritations of personal problems
when larger things are looming."
    Flaring, Damar knotted his fists. "I need no
assistance from such as you, Vorta!"
    Instantly Dukat pressed a hand to Damar's chest
and pushed him back. This was a deadly road. The
Vorta, however cloying and disgusting, was im-
mensely powerful in his attachment to the Founders,
and Damar represented the Cardassian presence.
For Weyoun to sense a flaw in the armor of Cardas-
sia could be a virus in Dukat's long-term plans for
his own empire.
    "So much passion," Dukat uttered, bottling his
own furious tension. "I am honored, both of you.
Yes, of course I will attend the coming invasion.
Damar, take your place in Ops. We must cap any
venom that flows through the veins of our victory.
You and I will review the repairs on the station. We
must make many plans. We're going into battle. We
must have order... there must be order here ...
and goodwill among us... You see, we must some-
how fight... be a unit, one and all... and at the
same time we must bring down the minefield."
  He turned to Weyoun.
  "As promised."

 "Major!"
 She heard him call.
 She ignored him.
    Too much to do, too many fronts to cover--a
hundred worries, and only two hands... the turbo-
lift closed on the echo of his call.
    The station seemed so quiet. Only the whir of the
lift.
     Several decks down, the lift breathed to a stop and
the doors opened. And she still heard him call.
  "Kira!"
    He came around the far corner. Must've come
down another lift.
 She turned away and hurried to her tasks.
    Behind her, Odo's soft boots thumped on the deck
carpet. "Wait, pleasere"
    "I have nothing to say to you," she said, and
meant it.
 "I understand you're angry."
 "You bet I'm angry." At this she stopped and spun
to face him. "Do you have any idea what's been
going on all this time while you've been locked in
your private world with that... that pseudo-
woman?"
    "Yes, somewhat," he said with undenied sheepish-
ness. "I've been occupied."
    Through her teeth she burned, "Dukat's bringing
down the mine field, the Federation is about to be
overrun by Dominion forces, and Weyoun's ordered
Rom's execution. And you've been 'occupied.'"
    She whirled around and paced away, leaving him
to catch up. "It's so difficult to explain--"
    "If you're going to tell me about the link, don't
bother," she told him. "I'm a 'solid,' remember? I
wouldn't understand."
    "Nerysm" He caught her arm, and she felt herself
draw up short. "I'm sorry."
      "Sorry? That's what you wanted to say to me?
You're sorry?" "Yes..."
    "Let me tell you something, Odo, we are way past
'sorry.'"
 "I heard you got a message out to Captain Sisko."
 "How did you hear that?"
 "Jake told me."
    "Jake's foolish to speak to you while that woman
is still around here."
    He looked as hurt as he ever had. "You don't trust
me?"
 She felt her eyes flare and her blunt honesty shoot
out. "Would you trust you? I don't know what kind
of influence she's had over you for all these days. By
your own admission, you don't know whether or not
she knows what you know after one of those moult-
ing sessions."
 "Melding..."
    "You call it anything you want. All I know is that I
have no way to be sure she isn't manipulating you,
Odo. You're a strong person with flawless convic-
tions and you're as brave as anyone I've ever known,
except when this shapeshifter persona comes over
you. Then you... you change. And I don't mean
physically. We're going into a deadly few hours and
you haven't been here for the important parts. You
haven't shared the tension and the fear and the
worry. For that, you can bet your 'sorry' will never
be enough. For the rest of it, I'm going to do
everything I can to deprive the Dominion of this
station and Dukat of the glory and Weyoun of Rom's
death. You can go back with her or you can join us.
But you cannot do both. That part, Odo, is over.
Make up your mind who you are and quit letting
somebody else tell you. If you want to be one of us
again, understand that you're damned right along
with us. Otherwise, you go with her, and be damned
alone."

When can their glory fade?
0 the wild charge they made!

CHAPTER
      13

A BEAUTIFUL AND terrifying sight, indeed, was the
Starfleet combined armada, sailing across open
space in a silent tapestry of constructed wonder.
Slightly less than six hundred ships. Five hundred
ninety-two, at latest count.
    Still, even as Ben Sisko marveled at the beauty of
so many ships gathered here, he knew they were less
than a third of what they might have been if only
time had allowed the gathering of power. If only the
Klingons had been able to get here in time, if only
the Ninth and Second Fleets had been able to make
it here in time.
    But there were positives too--a smaller armada
drew less attention.
    Sisko frowned at himself. There had to be more
positives than that, didn't there?
    And there were troubles. Many of these ships were
still handling damage. The Defiant herself had not
been soundly repaired from her last four missions,
but just had patches piled on jury-rigs on improvisa-
tions and now she was flying again. Nearby, in
comforting proximity, was the Centaur, brimming
with Charlie Reynolds's tough little crew, and Rotar-
ran, and other individual ships which had per-
formed so nobly in the past few weeks. He wanted to
contact them and tell them how glad he was that
they were so close, and all about to go into the strife
at one another's side, yet he restrained himself.
Unnecessary, sentimental ship-to-ship communica-
tions would be unwise, and this was a time for stiff
wisdom. Others were conspicuously and painfully
missing. Lyric, K'lashm'a, and the Traynor were all
destroyed lately in action, and Sisko felt their ab-
sence like a keen blade nicking the corner of his
heart. Bitterness welled, and he fought it all the way.
Until the war came, his world had been the station
of DS9 and the crew of the Defiant, but little more.
Now there was more, and he wanted it all. "Sir."
    Dax at the helm, O'Brien and Nog at engineering
and tactical stations, Garak at the science stationm
he'd pretty much earned a position... Bashir right
here at Sisko's sidem
 "Sir."

Sisko turnedmO'Brien was speaking to him.
"Incoming message from the Cortez," the chief
said. "They're still having trouble stabilizing the
guidance thrusters on their port nacelle."
     "Tell them to drop back and make repairs. Bring
up the Sarek to take its place." "Will do."
    Gloomy at this news, Garak looked up. "That's
the eleventh ship to fall out of formation."
 "Nice of you to keep track, Garak," Dax scolded.
    "He can't help being negative," Bashir said. "It's
his nature."
    "On the contrary," Garak retorted, "I always
hope for the best. Unfortunately, experience has
taught me to expect the worst."
    "I'm picking something up." O'Brien's announce-
ment clicked them all back to work. "Sir, it's a large
Dominion fleet, bearing zero-zero-zero mark zero-
zero-nine?
    Sisko watched the helm monitors, but nothing
showed yet. "How large?"
    O'Brien checked his sensors, then checked them
again. His face drained of half its color.
 "Twelve hundred and fifty-four ships."
    Sisko's head pounded. The Dominion must have
found out they were coming and gathered up. Beside
his shoulder, Bashir's voice was ill wind. "They
outnumber us two to one..."
    Garak smiled snidely. "Now who's being nega-
tive?"
    "On screen," Sisko ordered, "maximum magnifi-
cation."
    With the ship's sensors pulling for all they were
worth, a wide-scan view came into focus on the
main screen and several diagnostic monitors. Before
them lay a cargo net of enemy ships, sprawled in a
great dotted curtain against space, backlit by the
warm and strangely welcoming Bajoran sun.
    "Ship to ship," Sisko ordered. Then he didn't
wait. He tapped the comm himself. "To all ships...
this is Captain Sisko. Assume attack formation
Delta-2. Cruiser and Galaxy wings, drop to half
impulse. You too, Dax."  "Half impulse."
    Garak glanced at his science board, but this wasn't
exactly a survey mission. "I feel sorry for the Kling-
ons. They're going to miss a very interesting fight."
    Without looking up, O'Brien commented, "I have
a feeling we're going to miss having them here."
    "Forget the Klingons," Sisko coldly told them.
"Our job is to get to Deep Space Nine and prevent
the Dominion reinforcements from coming through
the wormhole. And that's what we're going to do.
Attack fighters, tactical pattern Theta. Concentrate
your fire on the Cardassian ships, then split off into
squadrons and run like hell."
    With an attack order, the Defiant automatically
went to red alert, as if life's blood were suddenly
flowing through the ship and her crew and mingling
between them.

    He knew the last order might be confusing, but
there was no time nor any inclination, as tactical
group leader, to explain his hopes to get the Cardas-
sians angry enough to break formation and follow
the running Federation fighters.
    There would be no such chance with the by-the-
book Jem'Hadar, who couldn't be baited. But the
Cardassians--they might provide a hole to punch
through.
    "Attack fighters, prepare to engage on my com-
mand." Sisko leaned back in his chair as the armada
dropped out of warp. "There's an old saying...
'Fortune favors the bold.' Well, we're about to find
out."

Noble six hundred!

CHAPTER
      14

"ATTACK FIGHTERS, full impulse and fire at will."
    Sisko waited until the last possible moment, calcu-
lating distance, trajectory, breadth of energy wash,
fallout, and weapons and fuel limitations, then gave
the order to open fire.
    He was one second too late. The Dominion fleet
opened fire first and got in the critical initial hits,
blowing back several of the Federation fighters' first
wave in such a flurry that there was no way to
visually count the casualties. The remaining fighters
unleashed a barrage of quantum torpedoes at the
center of the Dominion curtain. Sisko flinched to see
several of them immediately destroyed, but was
heartened as the rest followed Sisko's plan and broke
formation, then split in four directions.
 Sisko stood up on braced legs and watched.
 "They're not taking the bait," O'Brien voiced.
    "Ensign," Sisko said to Nog, "send in the second
wave. Tell them to keep targeting the Cardassians."
    "Aye, sir. Second wave on its way... third and
fourth waves on hot-standby."
    To O'Brien, Sisko ordered, "Have Destroyer
Wings two and six move in closer. They need more
cover fire. And tell Captains Diego and Reynolds to
stay alert. They may try to outflank us."
    That man talking sure sounded like he knew what
he was doing. Sisko buried his nervousness in a long
breath and held it several seconds. In fact, he had
never done this, never choreographed a multisquad-
ron maneuver of any kind. One station, one ship--
oddly enough, this was a lot more like running the
station than running a ship. Still, how many things
was he doing wrong? He had never been a commo-
dore before. This was a hell of a way to start--four
hundred vessels waiting for him to tell them which
part of the stage to dance on...
    Trying to trick the enemy into cracking open their
own lines--it had seemed good when he first
thought of it, but he realized now that he had been
relying too much on training. This was one of the
primary battle maneuvers. Where did he get the idea
that Dukat wouldn't know about it or expect it?
    Dukat would know that the station's deflector grid
that would drag down the mine field, and not the
ships defending it, would be the Federation fleet's
target. He would send wave after wave of fighters, if
he had to. He would regroup and send fighters who
had already gone. If Dukat could not be tempted,
perhaps the Cardassian commanders of individual
ships could be angered to madness. Maybe.
    Then what? What if a hole did open up? Knowing
that Dukat understood this maneuver, what should
the Federation forces do ifDukat let them have their
way?
    Suddenly very insecure and sharply suspicious of
his own plans, Sisko scrambled in his mind to come
up with a half-dozen alternate plans for whatever
happened next.
    The problem was, he had no idea what r~i,~,~t
happen next.

    "Sisko is trying to provoke us into opening a ?;ote
in our lines. He's determined to get here and stop us
from taking down the minefield. I plan to give Sisko
his opening... and then close it on him."
    Dukat's mind nearly wandered toward the flicker
of victory he saw swimming around before his
imagination, but at his sides reality shifted. Weyoun
on one side, the female shapeshifter on the other,
and Damar over there, all watching the computer
graphic schematic of the battle unfolding on tbeir
perimeter.
 "Proceed," the female deigned.
    A terrible tightness ran up the backs of Dukat's
legs. Proceed... He gritted his teeth and held back
from comment. His was the final word. He was in
command here.
 Proceed. Pruuuu ceeeed.
    "Tonight," Dukat told them, "we will drink to the
conquerors of the Federation. I've waited a long
time for this."
    "Aren't you being premature?" Weyoun pointed
out.
    "I don't think so. Not with twenty-eight hundred
Dominion ships about to come through the worm-
hole and reinforce us."
    "What about the minefield?" Weyoun asked. "Are
we still on schedule?"
    Forcing himself back to the moment, Dukat
ground out, "We should be able to detonate the
mines in eight hours."
 "Good," the female said.
Why didn't she melt back into a pot somewhere?
Luckily, she decided for some undisclosed reason
to turn and leave. Perhaps the presence of people
with actual backbones was repugnant to her. Good.
    "Eight hours," Weyoun echoed. 'TII hold you to
that, Dukat. A lot can happen in that time."
    "Tell me, Weyoun, have you ever been diagnosed
as anhedonic?"
    Weyoun's black eyes hardened. "You think I'm
incapable of joy just because I'm being cautious?"
    "We didn't defeat the Federation by being cau-
tious."

    "We haven't defeated them yet. And even if we do,
that's only the beginning. Holding on to a prize as
vast as the Federation isn't going to be easy. It's
going to require an enormous number of ships, a
massive occupation army, and constant vigilance."
    From somewhere in the bowels of determination,
Dukat scoured up a smile. "I'm looking forward to
it."
    "I'm sure you're also looking forward to occupy-
ing Bajor. And we all know what a disappointment
that was for you."
    "On Bajor," Dukat shot back, too defensively to
hide, "I merely implemented policy. I didn't make
it. If I had, things would've turned out quite differ-
ently."
    "If you ask me," the damned Vorta pressed, "the
key to holding the Federation is Earth. If there's
going to be an organized resistance against us, its
birthplace will be there." "You could be right."
    "Then our first step will be to eradicate its popula-
tion. It's the only way."
    Dukat stared at him. Admittedly, this revelation
was shocking. Control had always been the Cardas-
sian way. Eradication--that was another color of
flag completely.
 "You can't do that," he attempted.
    Weyoun's sanctimonious brows went up. "Why
not?"
    "Because a true victory is to make your enemy see
that they were wrong to oppose you in the first place.
To force them to acknowledge your greatness--"
  "Then you kill them?" The brows stayed up.
  "Only if necessary."
    Weyoun murmured something else, but Dukat
didn't hear it.
    Instead he drifted into a foggy thought, lingering
for a moment in the distant past as he gazed at the
graphic of the battle so nearby.
    "Perhaps," he uttered, "the biggest disappoint-
ment of my life is that the Bajoran people still refuse
to appreciate how lucky they were to have me as
their liberator. I protected them in so many ways...
cared for them as if they were my own children...
but to this day, is there a single statue of me on
Bajor?"
    "I would guess not," Weyoun said. He needn't
have said anything. He just wanted to hear his own
voice making noise.
    "And you'd be right," Dukat sighed. He looked
down at his hand--in it was the baseball he had
been clutching all day. He'd forgotten it was there.
"Take Captain Sisko... an otherwise intelligent
and perceptive man... even he refuses to grant me
the respect I deserve. You find that amusing?"
  "Not at all. I find it fascinating."
  "Laugh all you want. History will prove me right."
    Weyoun offered only a simpering grin. "I can
hardly wait."

    After securing the last word, which was apparently
the only reason Weyoun ever spoke once a subject
was exhausted, the Vorta floated around and fol-
lowed his Founder-god out of the operations area.
    Arrogance and threats. Dukat's hands shook and
he hid them under the edge of the graphic panels.
    Damar stewed beside him. "I'd like to toss that
smug little Vorta out the nearest airlock and his
Founder with him." Ah, focus.
    Dukat forced his neck to relax. He still had an
image to maintain.
    "Now, Damar. That's no way to talk about our
valued allies. Not until this war is over, anyway."
     Visibly controlling himself, Damar turned to him.
"Sir, there is one other thing." "Make it brief."
    "I'm concerned about further attempts to sabo-
tage this station. The enemy knows that if they don't
act soon, it'll be too late."
    "By 'enemy,' I assume you're referring to Rom's
associates?"
    Damar nodded. "I doubt he was working alone
when he tried to sabotage the station. He must've
had help. His wife Leeta, Jake Sisko, Major Kira--"
  "What are you proposing?"
    "That we arrest them and keep them in custody, at
least until the wormhole is reopened."
    His innards grating, Dukat felt the pull of every-
thing to which he was obliged. "A wise precaution,
but our Bajoran 'allies' might object to an arrest
without cause. If anyone asks, we're merely holding
them for questioning. And Damar... make sure
they're not harmed in any way. Major Kira is very
important to my daughter. And to me."
    At mention of this delicacy, Damar hesitated.
"Sir, about your daughter... perhaps it would be
better, for her own sake, if Ziyal were confined to
quarters."
 Dukat hardened instantly. "For what reason?"
    "To be perfectly honest, sir, I don't completely
trust her. And neither should you."
    The boldness beneath Damar's hesitation gave
Dukat a chill.
    "Are you accusing my daughter of being a sabo-
teur?"
    "I'm not accusing her of anything," Damar said
quickly, "but she is quite friendly with Major
Kira--"
  "That will be all, Damar."
    "She doesn't appreciate what it means to be
Cardassian! Or to be your daughter!"
    "But she is my daughter." Dukat pivoted to glare
directly into Damar's steel eyes and meet them with
the acid of his own. "That may mean nothing to you,
but it means everything to me. Perhaps you can
overlook that, but I can't."
    The graphic screen beside them flickered. Things
were happening outside. Things were changing.
Things were dangerous, volatile, unpredictable.

    And in here, things were cold. Very cold... very
cold.

    Minefields, force fields, multiphasic how-to-shut'em-
down fields--Kira's mind roiled with fields and
forces and molecular disruption as she sat at a
sheltered corner table in Quark's nearly empty bar.
Jake sat with her, and across from them was a
nervous Leeta. Hovering over and trying to appear
busy, Quark held an empty tray.
    "I heard that the Federation fleet has been am-
bushed," Leeta fished.
    Quark wasn't helping. "I heard two Cardassian
soldiers saying the fleet was completely destroyed."
    As Kira shot him a glare for his indiscreet gossip-
ing, Jake Sisko, the Great Journalist, said, "Don't
believe everything you hear."
    "Jake's right," Kira pounced. "Sisko'11 be here.
The questions is, will he get here in time."
    "He's only got seven hours before they detonate
the minefield and start bringing reinforcements
through the wormhole."
Jake narrowed his eyes. "We've got to stop them."
"How?" Leeta sensibly asked, but with a jagged
edge of hopelessness. Sisko's limited hours were also
theirs.
    Kira noticed that all their eyes quite abruptly
swung on her. So she tossed out the thoughts she'd
been turning. "What if we cut the power supply to
the main computer? Shut down the whole station."
    "Great," Quark snarled. "That'll put me out of
business altogether."
 "It'll also keep them from detonating the mines."
    "Okay, so we shut down the main computer.
How?"
 Kira shrugged. "With a bomb."
 "What kind of bomb?"
    "Leave that to me." A simple way of saying she
had no idea. "It'll be crude, but effective."
    Quark shook his head. For all his eternal pessi-
mism about anything that upset the status quo, he
had a streak of sensibleness that made Kira look up
and pay attention as he said, "The main computer's
in the central core. It's too heavily guarded. You'll
never be able to smuggle a bomb in there."
    With that blunt--and quite correct--declaration,
he noticed the wandering eyes of a Jem'Hadar who
walked by the bar entrance and Quark too walked
away from the table, making their meeting seem less
conspiratorial.
    Kira appreciated the simple but critical move. She
knew Quark wanted to be here, not over there.
    But bundling was bad strategy. Even if they
weren't plotting sabotage, it was a better idea to
avoid clustering.
    She spoke quietly, but was careful with her expres-
sion. "I'll plant the bomb... all we need to do is
distract the guards."
 "Ah, Major--there you are."
 Damar. With two Cardassian soldiers. Maybe
Quark had moved away because he saw them
coming.
    The Cardassians approached the table and Damar
grinned mirthlessly.
    "How nice of you to gather your friends for us,"
he said immediately to Kira.
    "I'm off duty, Damar," she returned. "What do
you want?"
 "I want you to come with me. All three of you."
 Kira looked up sharply. "Where?"
    "To the security office. We have some questions to
ask you."
    Jake Sisko stiflened visibly. "What kind of ques-
tions?"
 "You'll find out when we get there."
    Instantly, instinctively, Kira sized up the Cardas-
sians for a sprint escape. An uppercut could dispatch
Damar. One of the guards could be smashed in the
face by Damar's knobby skull if she hit them with
enough force--
    "Go ahead, Major," Damar invited. "Nothing
would make me happier."
    As he spoke, two more Cardassian guards ap-
peared at the doorway.
    The odds of fighting their way out dissolved. She
might make it alone, but Jake and Leeta... oh, who
was she kidding? She couldn't even make it alone.
    "Don't worry," she told them as she rose to her
feet. "It'll be all right."
    "Of course it will," Damar said. "You have noth-
ing to hide, do you? You certainly don't."
    For an instant, Kira thought he might be satisfied
if she went with him alone, but Damar lagged back
until Jake and Leeta stood also and were herded out
by the guards. She caught Quark's lonely gaze in her
periphery on the way out, and prayed he wouldn't
speak up. If this was it, if they were out of commis-
sion, Quark was the last of their meager hopes.
 Uh-oh...

    "Captain, two squadrons of Cardassian attack
ships are breaking formation! They're going after
our fighters!"
    Miles O'Brien's victorious report comforted Ben
Sisko none at all. He had sent nine waves of fighters
at the wall of Dominion ships. They had complied
with his plans. Now he was really worried.
    "We've opened a hole in their lines," Garak
uttered with undue admiration.
  Sisko looked at the panels. "Have we?"
    Dax nodded. "Sir, do you see those Galor-class
destroyers?"
 "I see them."
     Then Bashir confirmed everything that had been
worrying Sisko by saying, "It's a trap..." Sisko felt his stomach tighten.
    "It's also an opportunity. And we may not get
another. Ensign, have Galaxy wings nine-one and
nine-three engage those destroyers. All other ships,
head for that opening. Anyone who gets through
doesn't stop until they reach Deep Space Nine."
    In spear formation, with the Defiant as the point,
Centaur and Sarek anchoring the comers, the Feder-
ation squadron blared forward toward the hole in
the Dominion lines, firing all the way. The enemy
fleet unleashed its own weapons and cut wounds
into the Federation flanks even before the hole was
breached. With the ships tightening formation, al-
most every shot from both sides found a target.
    But the hole certainly would be breached. The
cost was already enormous--casualty after casualty
fell from the Federation formation, quick to get out
of the way after suffering too much damage to keep
going. That was a good plan--get out of the way,
don't tempt other allied vessels to render assistance.
Leave the path clear. Other ships tightened the lines
to take their places, and Sisko was proud to a point
of being choked up when he saw that the Starfleet
captains were freely sacrificing themselves in order
that the Defiant and the lead ships should break
through. Captains had egos, to be sure, and they
were all compromising themselves in order to let
Ben Sisko be the one to breach the line. The generos-
ity of it overwhelmed him. Even more stunning was
the evil relief he felt when he saw that Charlie
Reynolds was still with him and not among the
casualties.
    Terrible, ungentlemanly--to pick and choose who
he wanted to survive, to have preferences or wishes
like that. He had always wanted to be above that sort
of thing, but what could a man do? The only way to
care unilaterally about everyone in general was to
avoid caring about anyone in particular, and he just
couldn't do that. Not perfect, apparently.
    The terrifying proximity slammed home and
drove Sisko out of his personal thoughts as enemy
fire rocked the Defiant with a deafening boom. He
turned to see if Dax were going to return fire, if she
even had a clear shot, but on the substation's moni-
tor at engineering he saw the Centaur open up on the
Jem'Hadar ship that had hit Defiant and drive it off
the attack course.
    "Congratulations, Captain," Garak spoke up.
"You wanted them angry. They're angry."
    "The Magellan and the Venture are supposed to be
protecting our starboard flank," Sisko observed,
"but they're in too tight. Ensign, tell the Sixth,
Seventh, and Eighth Fighter Squadrons to regroup
and--"
    "Sir, I can't get through to anybody! Communica-
tions are down!"
 So much for the commodore's choreography.
     "They're jamming our signals by generating a
rotating EM pulse," O'Brien explained.
  "Can you clear it?"
  "I'm trying to."
    As they spoke, hit after hit rocked the ship despite
the protection of several other vessels around them,
and on two of the port screens Sisko clearly saw the
Centaur dive aside as Argent Wing and the Admiral
Stanley were both pummeled to bits no bigger than
soupbowls. Some of the power surges they were
feeling were the wash from utter destruction of their
comrades.
    He watched and held his breath as Centaur spun
on its starboard side, wheeled belly-up, then contin-
ued its roll and righted herself on the assault plane,
but now had fallen out of protective formation.
Sisko parted his lips--wanted to call over there and
ask Charlie his condition.
No, no, this wasn't the time for that. Not until--
Half the bridge erupted into smoke and sparks so
thick that Sisko couldn't tell where the damage had
occurred. Two crewmen went down on the deckin
one got back up. On the screen, the Sitak spun out of
control. Beyond them, a ship Sisko didn't recognize
took a hard direct hit and veered off.
    "Sir," Dax shouted over the crackle, "we've just
lost the Sitak and the Majestic. We're on our own,
Ben!"
 "Comm's back on line!" O'Brien called.
 From Nog--"Four enemy ships dead ahead!"
    "Evasive maneuvers," Sisko called, "pattern
Omega. We're going through!"

"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said.

0

CHAPTER
      15

"COME ON, ROGER, plow the way for him! Heading
three-three-nine-zero right now, Randy boy, right
now!"
    Charlie Reynolds roared his orders with a lilt of
winning possibility. There was the golden prize,
right there, the way through to Deep Space Nine, the
Federation's chance to botch all the Dominion's
cancerous plans and negate all their back-wins, if
only Sisko and the Defiant could shear through
there.
"Protect him! Fire on those pursuing ships!"
Engineer Fitzgerald turned and paused in his work
for an almost casual moment. "You don't want me
to repair main drive long-range thrust? Try to get us
through there with him?"
    "Hell, yes, try to get us through! If anybody gets
through to Deep Space Nine, I sure as hell want to be
one of 'em! What's the leak situation, Fitz?"
  "Bad. Plasma."
    "Plug it and keep the shields up. Get ready to shift
'em aft if we clear the Dominion lines."
    "We're going through!" Roger Buick cheered,
working his helm like a charging horse. "Great!"
    The lilt in his navigator's voice made Reynolds
realize he'd made a mistake. "Stay behind Defiant,"
he corrected instantly. "We'll go through, but Sisko
deserves to go in first and show those Cardassians
how the bread's buttered."
     "What, and we don't?" Lang complained without
taking his eyes off the nav and weapons station.
  "Ten points starboard, and shut up, Randy."
  "Right."
    "More speed, Fitz. Let's tease one of those bas-
tards off Defiant if we can."
    The Centaur sucked its way into a tight turn and
trailed a beautiful glittering stream of plasma leak-
age as it roared forward and opened fire on the ships
pursuing Sisko.
    There it was--a break in Dominion lines. And
there was the Defiant, surging ahead, crackling with
bright damage, making for the breach in the enemy
line. Centaur raced forward at a ridiculous speed for
close combat, blowing past two of the five vessels
pursuing Sisko, firing all the way. Charlie could feel
the taste of burning metal in his mouth. All he
wanted was a bite off one Jem'Hadar tail section.
    "Come on, I just want one of them off him! Veer
starboard! Ram it if you have to!"
    Nobody questioned the order. They just held on
tight as Randy Lang slammed the ship sideways and
drove its starboard wing into the port engine strut of
the nearest Jem'Hadar ship.
    Instantly that ship was forced out of the line of
pursuit. Locked together like rutting stags, the two
ships wheeled on a diagonal across the path toward
the break in Dominion lines, and lost the course.
    "Break us off him!" Charlie shouted. "Hard over!
Shake 'im off?'
    No one responded, but he saw his helmsman's
shoulders working, and at the best moment Fitzger-
ald hammered his board and jettisoned several hull
plates on that side, causing the two ships to slide off
each other.
    That was when the Jem'Hadar ship turned on
them without losing any speed at all. Uh-oh--
Charlie suddenly realized he should've kept a grip
on the tiger's tail while he had it. Now the tiger was
turning.
    Before he could take a breath the enemy ship
opened fire at point-blank range. Centaur bucked
like a convulsing animal.
    "Shields are down!" Gerrie Ruddy gulped sud-
denly. "We just lost the whole grid, Charlie?
      "He's on our tail!" Buick shouted at the same
time. "Coming through the plasma stream!"
  "Can we increase speed?"
  "I'm full-out now!"
  "Fire on them."
    "Too much drain," Fitzgerald cryptically said.
"Phasers are down seventy percent."
    As a cold wash engulfed his body under the film of
sweat, Reynolds turned to the aft-view screen and
looked at the face of slaughter plowing toward them.
No shields... no shields.
    The faces of his crew turned to him as meadow
flowers turn in a wind.
    "Fire aft with whatever you've got," Charlie or-
dered. His voice drummed in his ears. "Hurt him if
you can. Keep punching until the last moment.
Sisko's getting through. We won. This is it. Gerry,
release the destruct log buoy. Fitz, emergency break-
ing thrusters in five seconds. If we gotta go, we're
taking those bastards with us."

    With four enemy fighters in hot pursuit, the Defi-
ant raced on a direct spinning path straight through
the break in Dominion lines, taking every hit with
stalwart will and good old-fashioned hard-shelled
hull plates. With so many shields down or flickering,
the plain shell of the plates was all that stood
between the crew and very quick death.
 "That's one down!" Dax called as the Defiant
successfully drilled the nearest Jem'Hadar ship into
Swiss cheese and forced it to fall out of pursuit.
"Can you shake the other three?" Sisko asked her.
"I'm trying."
Of course she was trying. Why did he ask the
obvious at times like this? Bad habit.
    "We've lost aft shields," a sweaty Bashir reported.
"Forward shields are down to twenty percent."
    "This might be a good time to cloak," Garak
suggested.
    "The cloaking system's fried," O'Brien instantly
said.
    Sisko turned. "Divert auxiliary power to weapons.
Let's see if we can fight our way out of this."
    The beetlelike Jem'Hadar pursuit ships bore down
on them. They must be sacrificing everything to
speed and weapons. Sisko felt his chest constrict.
Defiant, in this condition, couldn't afford to flush
everything to speed, and weapons would never be
enough to take out three of those hard-nail fighters.
    Suddenly the whole ship was pushed from be-
hind--not a hit, but something else. A stern wash of
some kind, like an ocean wave hitting a surfboard.
Sisko looked around... no damage reports coming
up... what was that?
    Rather than ask for something his crew would tell
him as soon as they knew it, he clamped his lips and
forced himself to wait.
 The viewscreen flickered--Nog said something,
but over the crackle of his panel, his words were lost.
Something about being hailed--
    "On screen," Sisko told him. Might as well talk to
whoever was hailing.
    The comm screen zapped a few times, then tried
to focus on a face.
    "Sorry we're late, Captain, but it wasn't easy to
convince Chancellor Gowron to spare us any ships."
    Sisko felt the blood drain out of his throbbing
head. Wor~ He'd completely forgotten about the
Klingons!
    "Just glad you could join us, Commander," he
responded, barely hearing his own voice.
     "Captain," O'Brien interrupted, "the Klingons
have opened a hole in the Dominion lines."
  "Dax, can you take us through?"
  "I'd love to try."
    Leaving the Klingons to cover their stern, Sisko
didn't bother with amenities that would only dis-
tract their saviors. On the screens he could clearly
see the knot of dogfights going on as Klingon birds of
prey and heavy cruisers flocked into the struggle and
divided the Jem'Hadar pursuit ships among them
like hounds ripping flesh from kicking prey. The tide
had turned--
    And the Defiant had a clear path through enemy
lines and forward at high speed toward Deep Space
Nine.
  "Any other ships make it?" he asked.
  "No, sir," Nog tightly answered.

    Not much of a surprise there. All the other ships
had worked to clear the way so he could get through,
and he couldn't even call back a thank-you without
distracting them from the terrible fight he was forced
to leave behind.
    As if his guts were being gored alive, he hated
leaving them. Even running out for a good reason
was running out--yet he knew they were fighting to
buy him time to run.
    "We've got three hours before the minefield is
detonated," he murmured. "Set a course for Deep
Space Nine, maximum warp."
    "Maximum warp," Dax confirmed, then turned
and gave him one of her typically soothing looks. "If
I were you, I'd start coming up with plan B."

    "The Defiant has broken through our lines." Da-
mar's voice was gravelly as he stared at the reports
coming through from the front. "It's on its way here.
Shall I order pursuit?"
    Gul Dukat parted his lips to answer, but it was
Weyoun who spoke first.
 "At once," the Vorta fluidly said.
    Stiff and insulted, Dukat countermanded with a
glance to Damar. "The Defiant's no match for this
station. If Sisko wants to commit suicide, I say we let
him."
    "Sir, the Klingons have outflanked us," Damar
told him. "Our lines are beginning to crumble."
 Dukat's hands grew cold again. He could no
longer feel the shape of the baseball he was holding.
"There's nothing to worry about. Soon thousands of
Dominion ships will start pouring through the
wormhole. I just hope the Defiant gets here in time
for Sisko to see it."

    "How much longer before they detonate the mine-
field?" Rom asked.
    Since Kira couldn't see him from this angle in her
holding cell, she only sighed and grumbled, "I wish
you'd stop asking me that." "Sorry."
    Sharing her cell, Leeta just shivered with dread. In
the next cell, Rom and Jake also sat waiting for
Armageddon.
    Then Jake couldn't stand the silence and guessed,
"I'd say about ninety minutes."
    Rom sorrowfully muttered, "My time grows
short."
 "Don't say that!" his fiancee mourned.
    "The only reason they haven't killed me yet is that
I'm part of their victory celebration. Seven
o'clock... Dukat makes a speech... eight-thirty,
cake and raktajino... eisht forty-five, execute the
Ferengi."
     Kixa parted her lips to put a stop to that, but a
voice from the outer cell area cut her off.
  "Lunch for Major Kira."
    Inside the holding cell, Kira straightened in her
seat. That was Quark! He was speaking up more
sharply than anyone needed to speak in the holding
cell area. Quickly she motioned Leeta to be silent,
not to react at all, or the two Jem'Hadar guards
would, even in their lunkheadedness, be able to
gauge that there was something stirring.
    Kira hoped Jake and Rom, in the next cell, would
have the sense to be quiet too. She tensed, but
remained very still and listened.
    "Major Kira has already been fed." That was the
Cardassian warden.
    "And I can only imagine," Quark's voice perked
again, "the slop you've served her. What I have here
is Haspcrate souff16. Just the way the major likes it."
  "Do you know who I am?"
 Another voice--Kira flinched to hear it. Ziyal!
    "Gul Dukat's daughter," the warden acknowl-
edged, but he wasn't impressed.
    "That's right. Now I suggest you allow us to
deliver this food."
    As Kira strained to hear, there was a brief silence,
then a shuffle of movement.
     "I can't do that," the warden finally said. "How-
ever, I will take the tray to her. After I examine it."
  "Is that really necessary?" Quark asked.
  "Lift the lid."
  "If you insist."
 A scratch of metal...
    "You see? Haspcrate soufi16. Just as I said. Stop
poking at it! It's very delicate--"
 More sounds. A shuffle... a hiss . a splat...

    Then Quark muttered something else. This time
the Cardassian didn't answer.
    There were more sounds of movement, then
Quark suddenly appeared with a disruptor in each
hand and Ziyal right behind him. They struck a
ridiculous but somehow enheartening pose as Quark
shouted at the two Jem'Hadar guards.  "All right! No one move!"
    The Jem'Hadar stared at him, but didn't lower
their weapons.
    "Brother!" Rom gasped. "I knew you would
come!"
  "It's a surprise to me," Quark drawled.
    He kept both disruptors pointed at the guards.
Kira thought he looked nervous, as if he would
rather be behind his bar and who could blame him,
but the Jem'Hadar didn't seem to know how to
judge the demeanor of a Ferengi. They still didn't
move.
    "Just keep calm and stay where you are," he said
to the guards. "Understand? Don't move. You--
open the holding cells." When the guards still didn't
respond, Quark insisted, "I said open the holding
cells!"
    Ziyal glanced at him. "You told them not to
move."
    "Right. Nobody moves except you," Quark said,
pointing at one of the guards. "Now open the cells."
    The Jem'Hadar exchanged a quick glance of clean
communication, then turned their weapons down-
ward, but Quark, with the advantage of his nervous-
ness, instantly fired. Both guards were struck in the
chest, one a little more off center than the other, but
well enough done.
    Quark stood in a pool of astonishment, looking
at the crumpled masses of what he had done. Two
Jem'Hadar soldiers, all by himselfi
  "Quark," Kira murmured admiringly.
  He was still staring at the bodies. "Yes?"
  "Take down the forcefields."
  "Forcefields?"
    Still he didn't move. Ziyal moved to him, took one
of the disruptors from his hand, went to the cell
control panel, aimed, closed her eyes, and fired at
the key pad.
    The cell forcefields flashed, sizzled, and dissolved.
Leeta rushed from her cell and into Rom's arms. Kira
rushed out also and embraced one of the Jem'Hadar's
rifles, then hurried to confiscate the other one, which
she tossed to Rom. "We've got to find a way to shut
down the power to the main computer!" "I can do that," Rom quickly said.
    Leeta gazed at him and looked as if she wanted to
do something that didn't involve computers. "Oh,
Rom..."
    "That is," he considered, "if we can make it to tile
central computer core without being killed."
    "Rom, you're with me!" Kira snapped them out of
their respective, if not collaborating, thoughts. "The
rest of you, find some place to keep out of sight!"
    "Will do!" Jake called, urging Ziyal out to the
corridor and dragging the still-stupefied Quark after
them.
    Kira led Rom in a charge out into the main
corridor, but by then their biochemistry had trig-
gered the scanner-sentry and the alarms were ring-
ing. There was no stopping that, not in less than
twenty minutes, anyway, and she wanted those min-
utes for something a lot more important than just
avoiding a fight. Besides, if she and Rom attracted
enough attention, Jake, Quark, and Leeta might find
a sensor-shielded area to hide.
    That was critical--if they were taken prisoner
again, they could be used as leverage against Kira
and Rom, and Kira knew she would find the resolve
deep within herself to let them be casually killed by
the angry Cardassians rather than let the whole
Alpha Quadrant be risked. That was her duty, her
moral obligation, and she had to be ready for it. If
the entire station and everybody she had come to
care about had to be sacrifled... she would do it.
    In minutes they were being pursued by three
Cardassian troops, but by now she had led Rom into
the lower levels, into the cargo bays. Stacks of crates,
boxes, shipping cartons, and cool metal kegs pro-
tected them from the wildfire from the furious
Cardassians.
    "This way!" she called to Rom, not bothering to
waste rifle shots back the way they'd come.
When the doors at the opposite side of the bay,
right where she was headed, opened and discharged
three Jem'Hadar soldiers, their weapons blazing
even before they could possibly have clear shots,
Kira had no choice but to shoot. She ducked behind
a stack of cargo and fired, hoping to cover Rom in
case he wasn't fast enough to take cover.
    Slamming her shoulder hard into a storage bin,
Kira tried to find a break in the enemy assault to
shoot back, but the barrage was insane. Sparks and
rattling disruptor fire chewed into the stack of cargo,
blasting the crates and containers wide open, splin-
tering her and Rom with shavings of hot metal and
razor-edged shards of plastic. The stink almost
choked her and made her dizzy.
    The Jem'Hadar on one end of the cargo bay and
the Cardassians behind Kira and Rom were firing
with rage on their location, unfortunately not at a
straight enough range to hurt each other any. There
was just enough angle that they could freely fire at
the two escaped saboteurs without endangering
themselves. The Jem'Hadar were taking the cue of
the insulted cardassians, who were shooting as if
there were no end to their weapons charge--and
there might not be. Hopelessness stabbed Kira as she
realized the enemy soldiers had no reason to pre-
serve power. They were free to take out their frustra-
tion until Kira and Rom were roasted like birds on
spits.
    She gritted her teeth and opened her eyes, then
wished she hadn't. A blinding streak of energy cut
past her and drilled into the keg Rom was hiding
behind. For an instant she saw his astonished face,
and a moment later he disappeared in the flash of
ignited cargo.
    Hot sparks engulfed Kira like a blowing volcano,
and she crumpled, waiting to die of raw heat and
hopelessness.

Damn the torpedoes--full speed ahead!

        Admiral David Glasgow Farragut,
        Battle of Mobile Bay, 1864

CHAPTER
      16

"THIS WASN'T part of my plan!" Kira gritted her teeth
on a piece of melting plastic that flew at her as one of
the Jem'Hadar shots nearly cut off her head.
    Then there was more fire--more than six weap-
ons. A searing squeal, high-pitched and painful even
from a distance.
     "Do you hear that?" Rom called through a chok-
ing cloud. "That's Bajoran phaser fire!"  He was still alive!
    "Why would Dominion troops be using Bajoran
weapons?" Kira clung to the sound of her own voice,
but she wasn't really expecting an answer from him.
Worse fears than her own death now crawled in her
stomach--had the Cardassians suspended Odo's
Bajoran security squad and confiscated all their
weapons? Now to be used against her and Rom and
everyone here?  What?
  Had the firing stopped?
    Her ears were still ringing--she shook her head to
clear it. Echoes of the weapons' fire spun upward
into the high ceiling of the cargo bay, but then there
was no more noise.
    She saw Rom peeking at her. Shifting her legs
under her, Kira got to one knee, tucked her rifle tight
to her ribs, and leaned an inch or two outward.
    At the end of the cargo bay stood Odo and two
Bajoran guards, their phasers poised over the bodies
of the Jem'Hadar guards. At the other entry were
two more Bajorans, standing over the crumpled
forms of the Cardassians.
    "Never underestimate the element of surprise,"
Odo said proudly. A shy grin tugged at his flat lips.
    Shoving hard on a bruised wrist, Kira plunged out
from her hiding place, smiling broadly and feeling as
if she'd been given a new life.
    "Let's go!" She grasped Odo's wrist in a sustaining
grip as she rushed between him and his guards. They
followed her out, through a passage, and into the
habitat ring.
    "You have less than forty minutes," Odo called,
"to shut down the main computer."
 Rom gulped, "I hope that's enough time!"
    "It'll have to be," Kira told them, her voice
vibrant with determination. Casting a glance at
Odo, she added, "Can you keep the Dominion
patrols off our backs?"
    'TI1 head over to security. I'll create enough false
alarms to keep them occupied."
    They skidded to a halt at the main computer's
conduit access, where Row, instantly yanked off the
panel.
                  ú    ?,,
 "Any questions. Odo asked, as if he wa~ted
questions.
    Kira warmed l~im with another smile. "I could ask
why..."
    "I don't think I have time to explain it." He
seemed to be irritated with himself and disap-
pointed that she hadn't scolded him for his failures
in search of the vague and broad. "Besides, I think
you know the ansu er.
    She paused, hoping that their forty-minute win-
dow could allow for thirty seconds between them.
"What about the link?"
    He sighed. "The link was paradise... but it ap-
pears I'm not ready for paradise."
    Not much of an explanation. But she didn't really
want otto. She stepped into the conduit after Rote- as
Odo picked up the access panel, preparing to close it.
    As they paused through a final gaze before the
station and the war called again, Odo softly said,
"Good luck."
    Forgiving him privately, with a look, a smile, Kira
said only, "You too."
  Deep within the station, less than twenty minutes
later, still warmed by Odo's return to the fold, Kira
stood guard over Rom at the conduit juncture of the
main computer's core. He had worked in near si-
lence, give or take the occasional curse of self, and
Kira finally prodded, "How's it going, Rom?" 
 "I wish you'd stop asking me that."
    "Sorry," she said, even though she hadn't asked
before this at all.
  "I'm not going to make it..."
    "Then concentrate on cutting off the power to the
station's weapons array. Without weapons, they
won't be able to detonate the mine field."
    "Not for a while, anyway... almost there... I
just need to decouple the ODN relays... just tell
me one thing, Major--"  "What's that?"
    "When did I grow twelve extra fingers? Because
they're all in knots. Why do I think I can do these
things? My brother's the smart one. He's the one
who knows how to run a business. He's the one who
understands why people do the things they do. All I
want is the normal number of fingers. Is that too
much to ask?"

    "I can see the station, Captain," O'Brien called
over the crackle and fritz of his damaged panels.
"I'll try to get it onto the main screen--there's some
of it..."
    Sisko squinted to look at the main screen, whose
milky picture was struggling to focus like a good dog
trying to catch a stick that kept bouncing off his
snout.
    "The minefield!" Bashir came down to Sisko's
level and gaped at the screen.
    Before them, the previously cloaked minefield
now showed at least two-thirds of its mines for the
naked eye to see--that meant the cloaking devices
had been compromised. With them, the self-
replication mechanics would also shut down. Beam
upon beam streaked from the distant clamshell of
Deep Space Nine. Those were the antigraviton
beams.
      "We're not going to make it," Bashir murmured.
"We're not close enough--"  "Quiet, Doctor."
    But Sisko knew he was right. They weren't even
close to weapon's range.
  "Narrate for me, Chief," he requested.
    O'Brien's voice was bitter medicine. "Eighty per-
cent of the mines neutralized... eighty-three...
eighty-eight... ninety-two percent... they'll be able
to open fire on the minefield in ten seconds..."
  "Are we in range?"
    "No, sir. Ninety-seven... that's it. The mines are
neutralized."
    The crew fell to silence. Only the bleeping and
chittering of ship's systems swirled around their
heads. Together they stood inert, with the ship
driving itself, and watched as the station that had
been their home and base opened fire with a full-
power phaser sweep on the dotted Swiss field of
green mines blocking the mouth of the wormhole.
    In a shimmering show that otherwise would have
been grand and beautiful, a series of explosions
flickered across space. Pop, pop, pop, pop--hundreds
of mines blew to bits, one by one, as if each
explosion wanted its own applause.  And the mine field fell.
  Out of range, out of options.
    Jadzia Dax turned and gave Sisko the most embar-
rassing look he'd ever gotten from a pretty girl.
"What do we do now, Captain?"
    Somehow the gloom of the moment erupted in-
side Sisko's mind. Things weren't supposed to hap-
pen this way. He had outthought the enemy at a
dozen tums. For weeks now he had risen to every
challenge. The Federation troops had stood fast
against bitter odds and managed to stalemate a
virtually unbeatable enemy. Things weren't sup-
posed to be this way--things weren't supposed to
come down to a couple of seconds, and then be lost.
    This wasn't how legends were made... this was
how the ugly bits of history were made--the Alamo,
Custer's Last Stand, the Six Hundred... I don't want to be one of those stories.t
    Gritting his teeth, staring with aching eyes at the
main screen, he growled, "Take us into the worm-
hole!"

Plunged in the battery-smoke

Right thro' the line they broke.

0

CHAPTER
      17

THE WORMHOLE. An uneasy, unnatural place. Sisko
never liked being inside here. In the not-very-far-
back of his mind was always the possibility that both
ends of this demonic vortex would shut down and
he'd be trapped forever inside.
    But those were the nightmares of a man who had
sleep. This--this was something else.
    The swirling white maw opened up for them like
an Everest blizzard and swallowed the Defiant. On
the screen, they saw the churning mass of energy as
if they were headed down the drain of a sink with the
water running. Once well inside, Sisko braced him-
self.
    "Full stop. Chief, divert all power to forward
shields and weapons."

 This was crazy. This was nuts.
    "Captain," Dax said, "I'm reading multiple warp
signatures ahead."
 "On screen, maximum magnification."
    So how much magnification was needed to see a
thousand Dominion ships flocking toward them in a
tubular formation to fit the shape of the wormhole?
Not much.
    His crew was so quiet... saying silent good-byes
to each other, he imagined. He would do no such
thing. One ship against a thousand was its own good-
bye. He only hoped that those Dominion crews
would see what this crew was doing and be moved at
the pits of their cold-constructed hearts. They would
go on and conquer, but perhaps they would always
remember.
    And those back at Deep Space Nine... Kira,
Odo, Jake ... even Dukat. They would see. They
would remember.
    "Lock phasers," he murmured. "Prepare to
launch quantum torpedoes."
    Before the sound fell, a bright white flash engulfed
him. They were hit. Dead.
    It felt strange--he was floating. His hands were
ten feet from his body. His feet were gone.
    Foom . . . room... room... his heartbeat. And
his breathing. In. Out. Like a wind tunnel. His lungs
were as big as houses.
  Other voices, whispering, unintelligible.

    Sisko parted his lips, surprised that he still had
muscle control. "Why have you brought me here?"
    His voice drummed in his skull. He heard the
rustling of trees, the crack of a bat on a ball, the roar
of a crowd. Home run.
    "Show yourselves," he demanded. "What do you
want?"
    His mind collected itself. He remembered this. He
knew what was happening... those beings were
here, those entities who lived in the wormhole and
kept it from closing down...
    Reality was suddenly elastic. He fought to wrap
his mind around what was happening and what
wasn't. Why were they interrupting his suicidal
sacrifice?
    They had talked to him before, these beings.
Couldn't rightly call them people. But why now?
This was a matter for him and his own kind.
  The Sisko has returned to us.
  He turned his head. Odo?
    No ... Jake sitting on a barstool. But Odo was
here.
 He arrives with questions.
    Kira... and Dukat... Damar... they were all
here. The Promenade. Was that a Vorta over there?
They were all talking, one at a time.  There are always questions.
    Sisko angrily spoke up. "I didn't ask to come
here!"
  You desire to end the game.
 "What game? I don't understand!"
  You seek to shed your corporeal existence.
  That cannot be allowed.
    They were sharing these thoughts. First Kira, then
Dukat, then the Vorta, Jake, Odo--they were all
speaking, but it wasn't several people he was hear-
ing, or even those of the faces he recognized. Some-
how these aliens were using convenient images
already in his mind to communicate with him.
  The game must not end.
    "The game?" Sisko asked. "You mean my life? Is
that what this is about? You don't want me to die?"
    Maybe an emissary to the Bajoran people was
more rare than he thought. Maybe he was worth
something to these aliens as much as to the Bajorans
they clung to. Why couldn't they just speak up with
answers?
  The game must continue.
  You are the Sisko.
    He balled his fists, and was surprised to find the
hands were still connected. Something about this, at
least, was physical--why did these pompous critters
have to be so vague? Did they think that meant they
were profound? Hardly! Vague was vague! Why
didn't they say something that made sense! Were
they waiting for a mere mortal to tease it out of
them?
    "Believe me, I don't want to die," he said flatly.
"But I have to do everything I can to prevent the
Dominion from conquering the Alpha Quadrant. If
that means sacrificing my life and the lives of my
crew, so be it!"
     And if it didn't fit into their idea of an overreach-
ing scheme, then too bad.  We do not agree.
  We find your reasoning flawed.
 Insufficient.
    Why couldn't he just punch one of them in the
nose?
    "I'm flattered that you feel that way," he snapped,
"but it doesn't change anything. Now send me back
to my ship."
    The scene changed. Bridge of the Defiant. Flat as a
theater set.
     As if scolding a child, Sisko grumbled, "This isn't
what I meant. I want to return to my reality."
  You are the Sisko.
    As if he didn't know his own name. He was the
annoyed Sisko. The impatient Sisko. The quit-
interfering-with-my-reality Sisko.
     "I'm also a Starfleet captain," he insisted. "I have
a job to do and I intend to do it."
  The Sisko is belligerent.
  Aggressive.
  Adversarial.
     "You're damned right I'm adversarial! You have
no right to interfere in my life!"  We have every right.
    "Fine! You want to interfere, then interfere! Do
something about those Dominion reinforcements!"

 That is a corporeal matter.
 Corporeal matters do not concern us.
 What bilge. Now he had them. What liars.
    "The hell they don't," Sisko charged. "What
about Bajor? You can't tell me Bajor doesn't concern
you. You've sent the Bajorans orbs and emissaries,
you've encouraged them to create an entire religion
around you--you even told me once that you were
'of Bajor'! So don't tell me you're not concerned
with 'corporeal matters'!"
    He moved around the table--when had that ap-
peared?--and walked through the aliens who were
pretending to look like people he knew. They
weren't looking at him.
    "I don't want to see Bajor destroyed," he went on
with boiling force, "and neither do you. And we all
know that's exactly what's going to happen if the
Dominion takes over the Alpha Quadrant. You say
you don't want me to sacrifice my life? Fine!
Neither do I! You want to be gods? Then be gods! I
need a miracle! Bajor needs a miracle! Stop those
ships!"
    The scene around him blurred. He heard voices,
disjointed words, flashing thoughts. Were they
speaking to each other on some distant plane?
control... penance... path... follow the path...
"What path is that?" he called into the flickering
void. "What path is that? What are you saying?
Where is my miracle?"

  "Torpedoes locked. Targets locked."
    Sisko looked around. The crew, as he had left
themrebut had he left at all? Was he dead or
dreaming? Were these the last seconds as his body
fell apart in disruption?  "Here they come!"
 Dax's voice was dreadfully near.
    Seizing himself by the mind, Sisko shook off the
visions still rolling in his head and snapped, "Fire
on my command. Steady, people. Make every shot
count..."
    Closer, closerrathe Dominion fleet pressed to-
ward the one tiny ship.
 "Benjamin!" Dax again, surprised.
    Energy bolts rocketed past them from the sides of
the wormhole's internal structure. Wild, uncon-
trolled viral energy crackled from ship to ship. From
outside to in, the Dominion ships began to fade
away as if they were paintings being washed out by a
big brush.
 "They've cloaked," O'Brien gasped.
    Dax looked at her panel. "I'm not picking up any
neutrino emissions--"
    Garak stared at the screen. "Then where did they
go?"
    His legs shuddering, Sisko began slowly to under-
stand what he was seeing.
    "Wherever they went," he said, "I don't think
they're coming back..."

    "What happened?" O'Brien came out from be-
hind his panel and gaped at the empty screen.
"What in hell happened to them?"
    As they all stared at the empty swirl of energy
where a moment ago a deadly fleet had swarmed,
Ben Sisko felt a bizarre peace flow over him from his
toes to the top of his skull.
    "Hell's own miracle, Chief," he said quietly. "I
guess gods don't like to be scolded."

Storm'd at with shot and shell ....
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

0

CHAPTER
      18

"THE DEFIANT!"
    Damar's cry narrated the sudden opening of the
wormhole on the main screens and in the large
viewports as Dukat turned to look. Beside him,
Weyoun and the female shapeshifter also watched,
incredulous and hopeful.
    Dukat pressed closer to the vision. "Our re-
inforcements must be right behind..."
    Whir, whir, whir--and the wormhole closed up
again with a brilliant flash.
    "No, sir," Damar said, scanning his readouts.
"There's no sign of them!"
 No readings, no emissions, no signatures--
    "That's impossible?' Weyoun gasped. "Check our
listening posts in the Gamma Quadrant!"

  "They're not there either."
    "But they entered the wormhole," Dukat pro-
tested. "Where could they be?"
      Damar turned confused eyes to him. "I don't
know--the Defiant has opened fire on us!"
  "Destroy it!"
      On Dukat's order, Damar hammered at the weap-
ons panel. Not a thing happened. Nothing.
  "What's the matter, Damar?"
  "Our weapons are off-line!"
  "How can that be?"
    Gritting his teeth, Damar anticipated, "Major
Kira."
  "But she's in custody!"
    "It must be her or some part of that sabotage
unit!"
  "Call security!"
    Damar pounded again, blinked at the monitors,
then gulped, "You see? They've escaped from the
cell! Rom and Kira--they must're had help!"
    Ready to pull Damar's jaw apart, Dukat held
himself in check somehow and Damar apparently
saw the great danger of suggesting that Ziyal must be
involved. What mattered was that the rebels had
escaped and their weapons were down. This was no
coincidence. And Kira could be very thorough.
    "Can you get our weapons back on line?" he
demanded.
 "Not for a while. Sir--two hundred enemy ships
have broken through our lines. They're headed this
way!"
    Too much, too much. Dukat felt his body collapse
with realization of what the past few seconds meant.
    Weyoun broke into an inexplicable smile. "Well,
time to start packing."
    The female shapeshifter showed no reaction ex-
cept perhaps to straighten her shoulders a little as
she turned to Damar. "Contact our forces in the
Alpha Quadrant and tell them to fall back to Cardas-
sian territory. It appears this war is going to take
longer than expected."
     "I'11 meet you at airlock five," Weyoun told her,
and just like that the two of them faded mistily away.
  Just like that!
 Stunned, Damar turned to Dukat. "Sir?"
    Dukat stared into open space through the main
viewport, shaking his head, staring, shaking, star-
ing--he pressed a hand to his forehead and with the
other hand he fondled the baseball. Sisko's baseball.
The baseball was laughing at him. It had grown a
little face and was sneering at him.
 "Victory was within our grasp..."
 "We have to evacuate the station, sir!"
    "Bajor... the Federation... the Alpha Quad-
rant... all lost..."
 "We have to go now, sir!"
  "Go?"
    "The Federation ships," Damar gasped. "They'll
be here soon! We have to get to Cardassia!"
     Dukat almost nodded. Suddenly he shook himself
 and bolted for the turbolift. "I have to find my
 daughter!"
     Damar grasped his arm roughly. "I'11 send some-
 one for her!"
Dignity. Honor. Poise. "That won't be necessary."
Dukat stepped into the turbolift, concentrating his
thoughts down to one small goal. Ziyal. He had to
find Ziyal.
    "You're wasting your time," Damar told him as
the door began to close. As the turbolift sank into
the body of the station, Dukat heard Damar's fading
last call right through the metal walls--  "She won't go with you..."
    The words echoed in his head. Lost. All was lost.
He had to get Ziyal, and then he wouldn't be lost.
The others were all leaving. The Jem'Hadar ships
would soon peel away from the station and run.
Weyoun would run. The female Founder would go
hide in the Cardassian system, masquerading as a
jug of soap or something. They were all running.
    Yes, everyone had to run sooner or later. This
would not be the first time he had left Terok Nor...
it would not be the last.
    Yet his heart was cold, as if it had stopped beating
and stood waiting for orders. Run, run, everybody
run.
    The habitat ring opened before him and the
turbolift spat him out like chewed waste. Where was
she? In their quarters? He would find her. He would
cling to her. She was the last possession he had. She
was his reason to go on. She was his only future--his
daughter--the one thing in the universe he might
have done right.
  "Father!"
  "Ziyal!"
    They ran toward each other. She didn't hate him!
He could see in her face that she had forgiven him!
    "I've been looking for you," she said quickly. "I
heard about the evacuation."
    Feeling his face brighten, Dukat gazed at her and
grasped her arms. She still cared for him! Victory!
  "You're all I have," he told her. "All I care about."
    She smiled. "No matter how much I try to hate
you, I can't."
    "I couldn't live with myself if you hated me," he
said sincerely. He grasped her elbow. "Come--we'll
talk on the way home."
 Her expression changed. "Home?"
    "Cardassia," he said. "We have to leave here,
before the Federation arrives."
    But she pulled against his grip. "I'm not leaving,"
she declared.
    Dukat stared at her, chilled by a sudden fear.
"These people are our enemies!"
    "They're not my enemies," she said. "I'm one of
them."
  "That's not true."
  "Father," Ziyal insisted, her eyes very clear, "I
helped Major Kira and the others escape from the
holding cells."
    No, no, this was one of Damar's silly accusations.
This was a joke, and Ziyal was cheerful enough to
help pull it on her father, her precious father who
had learned to love her. Yes, that was it. She was
joking, teasing.
    Dukat swallowed, then again. "Do you know what
you're saying?"
    "Yes, I do," she told him firmly. "I belong here.
Good-bye, Father... I love you..."
    She stepped away from him, putting a gap between
them as if to declare her position. No, no, this was
not right. Dukat reached for her. He smiled, he took
a step--
    She gazed at him with the oddest expression. A
crease of pain, wonder in her eyes, confusion... a
flash... a gaping hole opened up in her chest...
her arms flared slightly as she was propelled back-
ward away from Dukat.
    His fingers scratched the air to catch her, but she
shot away from him.
 "No? he screamed.
 He spun around.
    At first he saw nothing, no one, but then Damar
stepped out from behind an archway. His sidearm
was raised. A phaser.
 "You heard her," Damar said. "She's a traitor."
 Shivering, Dukat dropped at his daughter's side
and collected her into his arms. The gash in her
chest steamed and sizzled as the remnant energy
from the phaser hit continued to burn through her
body. Under his hand, he felt her spine fuse and her
muscles convulse.
    "I forgive you," he murmured. "Do you hear me,
Ziyal? It's all right... it's all right..."
    A pair of legs appeared at his side. Damar was
looking down at them. "We're out of time, sir. The
last ship is waiting for us."
    Feeling Damar clasp his arm and try to pull him
away, Dukat yanked fiercely until the grip was
broken. "I love you, Ziyal... do you hear me? I
love you!"
    Soon the legs were gone and all he heard was
Damar's retreating footsteps and the ragged, sucking
breaths of air rushing directly from his lips into
Ziyal's open wound and into her lungs. He could
breathe for her... he could keep her alive. His love
could keep her alive. His promises. Their future. She
would live. She would be alive. She would paint him
a flower.
    "I love you," he murmured, rocking her in his
arms. "I love you, Ziyal... I'm going to conquer
the quadrant for you... all of Bajor will bow at
your feet... you'll be a princess... you'll be a
queen... no--no--much more than Bajor will
worship you. A hundred planets will know your
name... you'll never be lonely or frightened
again... Ziyal? You're so cold... let me get my
arms around you. I'll tell you about the future...
our future together... you won't leave me... you
know I can change for you. I can change, Ziyal... I
can change... I can win, Ziyal... your father can
win... we'll go back to Cardassia... we'll be safe
there. You'll live with me, father and daughter...
everything will be fine... everything will be
wonderful..."

    Captain's Log, Stardate unspecified, destruct situa-
tion entry. Charles W. Reynolds recording on behalf
of the crew of the U.S.S. Centaur.
    I'm not good at this sort of thing, Admiral, so I'll
make it short. If you're hearing this tape, then
myself and my crew are dead in the line of duty. In
just a few hours we're going to storm the Dominion
lines with the rest of the armada, so if I haven't
amended this, it's a good bet that's where we bought
the farm. Guess I don't believe it's my time to go, or
I wouldn't be so flip about it, would I?
    On to business. I've shipped the personal logs,
wills, and personal effects of my crewmen back to
Starbase 375 on a passing private supply ship called
the Bernadine Cook. It's a real dependable ship with
a captain I've known for about a decade. Ought to
arrive in about four days with all our stuff. I also left
a few mementos we usually keep on board here, but
no sense taking things we care about into a withering
battle. Just leave everything on the Cook and I'll be
sure to pick them up when we get back to home
space.
    In that pack is a personal tape to my wife and my
kids... gave me the squirms to record a thing like
that. If we're just lost without a trace out here, be
sure not to send that tape home to Blue Rocket
before you're absolutely sure we're not landed on a
scrubby planet in survival mode or floating around
in one of the pods. I don't want my family to hear
that tape only to have me show up later like some
kind of a zombie. If it's at all possible, I mean if he
doesn't have too much of a mess to clean up at the
wormhole, I wonder if Ben Sisko wouldn't mind
explaining everything to my wife? I mean, he knows
what it's like to have a wife and a family, and there
aren't that many Starfleet lifers who bother with that
kind of anchorage--I guess I should probably edit
this later, shouldn't I? Just talking off the top of my
head.
    You know, I never used to think the hard few years
we've had on the o1' Centaur, trying to settle Blue
Rocket and build up colonial stability and some
security, but it's always just been struggle and strife,
not really life-or-death danger. There really hasn't
been this kind of threat in years and years. War's
something different, isn't it? Funny how it gets easier
to face death when you got the idea you're doing
some real good. All of us here, we all feel like that, I
want you to know. We all do.

    I'm lousy at this, aren't I? Well, I'll sign off and
hope nobody ever has to listen to this. I just want to
tell you, sir, and especially Ben Sisko one thing...
thanks for letting us in on the hot action. Us colony
builders, we don't very often get to feel as if we're
heroes.
    Thanks, Admiral, and thanks to you too, Ben.
Thanks for that feeling.
    I'll see you both at Deep Space Nine. Charlie
Reynolds, out.

    The glorious sounds of cheering--what a wonder-
ful noise!
    Even before the airlock opened, Sisko heard the
cheers. Before the doors opened he heard Jake's
voice shouting some vocal joy or other. He heard
Quark--and that was Rom's voice. Alive--they
were alive.
 And laughter. He heard that too.
    Finally, finally the pressure equalized and the
doors opened and he piled out into the arms of his
friends. Behind him were Dax, O'Brien, Nog, Garak,
Bashir, and the rest of Defiant's crew, none quite as
dead as they had shortly ago expected. Every clap on
the shoulder, every handshake, every hug, was sec-
ondary until he got his arms around his son. Damn,
this kid was tall!
    And Odo appeared over Jake's shoulder as Sisko
smiled so hard his face hurt.
 "Welcome back, Captain," the shapeshifter said.
    "It's good to see you, Odo," Sisko told him, then
scanned all the others. "It's good to see all of you!"
    The other airlock chunked open and out came
General Martok and Commander Worf, flanked by a
gush of Klingons. This was their victory party too.
    "Worfl" Dax broke away from the crowd and ran
into her fianc6's arms. "I guess the wedding's still
on!"
    Martok lumbered to Sisko and roared, "It appears
I owe you a barrel of blood wine!"
 "We'll drink it together, General."
    He paused, surveyed the reunions going on all
around him. O'Brien, Quark, Bashir... Rom and
his wife greeting Nog and seeing the new
uniforms... someone was missing.
     In all the flurry, it actually took a few seconds for
him to isolate what he was thinking.
 "Where's Major Kira?" he asked.
    Beside him, Jake's smile dropped away. "She's in
the infirmary. With Ziyal."
 "Ziyal? Was she injured?"
    As the crowd dissipated and various joyous people
went in their own directions to jump-start their lives
on the station, Sisko looked into Jake's youthful
face, and saw Odo's plastic expression beyond. Over
his shoulder, Martok waited for the answer too,
understanding the complexities of this particular
turn.
 "Maybe Bashir can help," Sisko suggested.
      Odo lowered his gaze. "Perhaps... but he would
be of more assistance for Dukat, Captain."
  "Dukat? He's still here?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "Where? Take me to him."
  "This way."
    Joy was put on suspension, but Sisko clung to his
son on one side and the presence of Odo on the other
as they hurried through the station, letting Odo lead
them. On the way, both Jake and Odo told him of
the adventures they'd had here. Tension. Resistance.
Secret meetings. Plots. Espionage. Sabotage. Sen-
tences of execution. Escape. More sabotage. Damar
and a phaser, loaded with desperation.
    Sisko heard all this with great interest, and won-
dered what was being left out. The bittersweet juice
of victory at great cost flooded his veins instead of
blood. He had no blood--it had all been shed out
there, drained from the bodies of all those who had
given their lives so he could walk here today. He had
many captain's logs to listen to, many requests to
fulfill. He wondered how much it would hurt and if
he still had that much courage left. Whose voices
would he hear?
    Odo led the way not to the infirmary, but straight
past it to the holding cells of the security corridor.
Why?
    They went inside the main vestibule. Before them
lay the cells. In one cell, protected by a low-grade
force field, Gul Dukat sat crumpled on the deck,
muttering to himself.
    "We'll go back to Cardassia... we'll live to-
gether... father and daughter... I know you for-
give me... After all, I am your father... and I
forgive you."
    Gripped with unexpected sympathy, Sisko gazed
upon his strong and worthy opponent. Death, per-
haps. But no soldier wished this on another.
    Sisko nodded to Odo. Without a word he gave
permission for this poor man to be taken to Bashir
and treated... if this could be treated.
    Odo silently keyed off the force field. Inside the
cell, Dukat did not respond with so much as a flinch.
He just kept on murmuring.
 "I forgive you, I forgive you."
    Uttering pointless reassurances, and using a touch
so gentle that Sisko was surprised to see it, Odo
lifted the once-powerful nemesis to his feet. Dukat
gazed at Odo briefly, beseechingly, as if he didn't
understand the face he saw.
    As Odo led him past Sisko, Dukat paused. The
once lucid eyes were tepid and glazed.
    "I forgive you too," the Cardassian leader uttered.
He reached for Sisko's hand, and into it he pressed
the baseball Sisko had left behind in the office.
    Like a child giving up a teddy bear, Dukat raised
his chin and fought for a shred of common dignity as
he shuffled away in Odo's grip.

      Sisko watched them go. He tossed the ball into the
air and caught it. So that was that.
  "You did it, Dad... you won."
  Oh--Jake was still here.
    Reluctant to take this particular laud, perhaps
reluctant to take the very last of Dukat's hopes and
burning it to a cinder, Sisko simply said, "I had
some help. Besides, this war isn't over yet." He
turned to his son and threw an arm around his
knobby shoulders. "But let's worry about that to~
morrow. Right now, it's just good to be home."
 And he tossed the ball. And he caught it.