Since I'd
already completed a goodly portion of this story before I commenced my hiatus,
I found myself thinking about it—despite my best efforts. And once I'd begun to
reflect, I knew resisting the urge to finish the bloody thing was a useless
endeavor.
It's been
some time since I returned to the Dominion War's initial months with my Tales
of the 13th Fleet series, and a number of readers had clamored for
me to do just that.
Request
granted.
Some of you
will be even more pleased to note that the piece contains no—that's right, no—erotica.
On the other hand, those of you who like that stuff may take heart:
There are a few more yet to come.
"If only we could see into the heart of our enemy,
we would find such a world of sorrow and
pain
that we would be forced to open up to him as
a friend."
- Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow
STARDATE (TERRAN COMMON DATE): 51141.6 (
TIME: 1730 HOURS, FEDERATION STANDARD
LOCATION: ALPHA QUADRANT, SECTOR 21592
FEDERATION EXCELSIOR-CLASS EXPLORER/HEAVY FRIGATE USS HOOD,
CAPTAIN R.M. DESOTO COMMANDING, IN FORMATION WITH STARFLEET/KLINGON SPECIAL
TASK FORCE, DESIGNATE EPSILON ONE FOUR SEVEN TWO
ALERT STATUS: YELLOW
Warrant Officer Brenna Nyx nodded, and
said, "That's pretty good… but I can go you one better.
"My second host, Deven, not only made
the Nova Squadron flight team, he was a member of the last group to execute a
Koolvard Starburst in competition. The next year, performance of that maneuver
was forbidden in response to an accident that killed several cadets.
"No one's done it since—well, not successfully,
at any rate."
Her companions' reactions were about
what she'd expected: They were impressed, even a bit awed, at hearing about the
history in which Brenna, or at least Nyx, had participated.
The Trill hid a sly, somewhat
self-satisfied smile and continued with her assigned task.
Her small engineering team had been at
it for most of their shift, swapping stories and shooting the breeze while
working non-stop to restore one of numerous plasma conduits damaged in Hood's
last encounter with a Cardassian warship. They and the Jem'Hadar had been
becoming gradually more difficult to elude over the last few weeks, as more and
more vessels were diverted to tracking down and destroying the "13th
Fleet." Thus, completing even the most minor repairs swiftly as possible
had for almost two months been critical to Hood's survival.
It made for rather stressful working
conditions.
Their officer-in-charge, Ensign Michael
McBride, smiled... but remained focused on his own portion of the work,
hypo-spanner employed to swift, efficient effect. If they began to neglect
their assignment in favor of conversation, Brenna knew, he'd intervene and
refocus their attention.
Until and unless that occurred, though,
there was fun to be had…
…and a reputation to maintain.
"Well, precision in competition
is one thing; doing it when it counts is another," noted a third
team member. Senior Crewman Gil Ryan wiped the sweat from his brow—accidentally
leaving behind a boyishly charming black smear of lubricant in the process—and
continued tugging at a recalcitrant piece of deck plating that wouldn't quite
slide back into place.
"That's true," Brenna
admitted.
After a carefully calculated silence,
though, she added, "But Deven also spent time as a corvette pilot near the
Orion Congeries… and I think everyone can agree that counts as real
flying."
The murmurs of approval this time were
even more enthusiastic—with one exception.
A muttered, "Oh, for God's
sake," was followed by the sharp clatter of a plasma pressure gauge
none too lovingly returned to its toolbox.
McBride inquired, "You OK,
Jess?"
When everyone caught her expression,
though, it became apparent she wasn't.
Petty Officer Third Class Jessica Horne
stood, stepped back from the half-finished repair she'd been assigned, and
turned—not to answer her supervisor, but instead to face Brenna Nyx. She
exhaled hard enough to blow a wayward lock of blonde hair from before her eyes,
but the deep breath didn't seem to have done much in the way of relaxation.
"No, I’m not 'OK.'
"Brenna," she gritted,
"I'm getting so sick of your 'Been there, done that' Trill schtick.
Jesus, you've been at it for five hours now."
"Five hours, nine minutes, to be
precise… if we measure the incident as having begun at the relation of Mr.
Nyx's first anecdote."
Crewman Sevan's observation had them all
gaping at him for an instant, but it didn't break the tension. In fact, hearing
the Vulcan state the exact time only seemed to make Horne angrier.
She continued, "You know
everything, you've done everything, and probably everyone… you've
practically been everything. I'm tired of it, and I bet I'm not
the only person here who is.
"How about letting someone else
have the coolest story for a change? How about, for once in your life—excuse
me, lives—just shutting the hell up?"
"Hey, uh, maybe everybody should
take a step back, here," McBride offered.
Brenna replied, coolly, "Of
course..."
…you hypersensitive little adolescent.
"I didn't mean to make you feel
inadequate, Jess."
The comment, she knew, could have been
interpreted as either apologetic or inflammatory, depending on your mood and
current level of generosity.
The Trill let them all know which it
was, however, when she added, "But your sense of inadequacy is neither my
fault nor my problem. So stop whining and just do your job—even though
yes, I could do it better."
Five seconds later, the plasma conduit
wasn't the only thing that
needed repairs.
***
Gul Marek was a student of war—an enthusiast, some would say.
An expert, all would agree.
While, certainly, that was not precisely unique among the
Cardassian people, to whom conflict had become a way of life over the last few
centuries, Marek had a perspective on it most of his fellow soldiers didn't
share.
He much preferred military theory
to praxis.
Age had something to do with that, he knew. By any measure his
race used, Marek was an old man; a respectful few—former students, mostly—might
have been so decorous as to say "venerable," instead.
The dismissive many would have laughed and countered with
"decrepit."
His mind was still formidable as ever—perhaps,
in some ways, not quite as swift in reaching conclusions as once it had been,
but still honed to a keenness that ensured they were always correct and
discerning.
The body that housed his intellect, though, would only do so for
perhaps five or six more years before the end. Marek had learned, as so many
once strong men did if they lived long enough, that age is the harshest
mistress of all.
After a lifetime of service, Marek had finally,
over the past few weeks, begun settling into the retirement he'd long
considered but never embraced. Until only two months ago, he had been for some
years content to command the Fifth Order mostly in name, serving more as an
advisor and power behind the throne while his carefully groomed protégé, Gul
Tamar, settled into the role permanently. The arrangement had given him time to
reflect on numerous life experiences—to philosophize and examine his own
decisions as a military commander and leader of men, as well as the Cardassian
government's political choices. Never had he been accused of disloyalty, even
when his opinions ran counter to those of the empowered, since he submitted all
his work to the Detapa Council, Central Command and Obsidian Order, allowing
them to examine it and decide what should be published and disseminated. He
might find some—actually, most—of their decisions thereon absurdly
short-sighted; but the future, for better or worse, belonged to them, and they
had to be allowed to make it.
So, he had ruminated, and written, and watched his sphere of
influence contract as his position—that of dryly amused but carefully obedient
dissident—became known in various circles.
For the most part, he hadn't cared: Old men, he believed, should
be allowed their eccentricities. Eventually, however, Marek knew he'd made a
miscalculation; by infuriating a few too many with his relentlessly candid and,
to them, distasteful perspective, even his strategic and tactical analyses
during the brief and furious Klingon War had been ignored as the ranting of a
suspiciously unorthodox mind.
To this day, he believed if they'd listened and accepted his
recommendations for deployment, Cardassia would have, with difficulty, been
able to repel the surprise invasion. Instead, the brutish Klingon animals had
been able to savage the fleet (with the exception of his Fifth Order, which had
somehow remained largely intact—sheer
coincidence, of course, so far as the current military intelligentsia was
concerned) and damage the economic infrastructure to a degree that left the
Union teetering.
Then, another of his former students, Dukat,
had returned to Cardassia Prime. He'd held a monstrous creature called the
Dominion by an all-too-short, all-too-slender leash, announced he'd brought it
home to stay... and then dared to smile at the cleverness he'd shown in selling
his people into servitude.
As always, you proved to
be a brilliant fool, Dukat.
He knew how and what the younger man thought. It was plain as the
"tactics" he'd used to "pacify" the Bajoran miners during
his years commanding Terok Nor.
"We shall embrace
the beast... for now," Dukat had said, to
himself and whoever would listen—all too many, as became clear soon enough. "We shall suckle at its teat until we
have grown strong again. Then, when it least expects it, we shall turn and rip
out the throat of our benefactor."
You learned only what you wanted to learn
when my student, Dukat. It is at once dismaying and gratifying to see how
little things, and people, change.
The new "generalissimo"
had managed to be both dishonorable and an imbecile with the same
stratagem. The Founders were a power that knew nothing of mercy or restraint; and
despite Dukat's belief that he could heel the leviathan, Marek knew that,
ultimately, their people would be the
ones used. Already, over the last season or two, it had begun: Yes, the
Dominion had provided some emergency aid and helped restore Cardassia's
fleet... but not quite to the
strength it had possessed only a few years ago. And for every capital ship
added to the lists of an Order, two swelled the ranks of the Jem'Hadar navy.
And all of these, too few noted, were built with Cardassian resources.
Marek sat in his small, enclosed garden, beauty close at hand in
the form both of flowers and a young half-Bajoran nurse appointed to attend his
every need—a backhanded compliment which had entertained him greatly. And
there, he basked in the sun and the scent, and considered what went on beyond
the walls of his self-imposed exile.
"G–Gul Marek? You're receiving a s–subspace
transmission."
The girl, Lissa, was a timid one, he thought. Even this small breach
in routine had her flustered entirely out of proportion to the situation.
Then, again, life as a half-breed on Cardassia Prime had probably
left her with good reason to fear anything
new and different. It had taken her weeks until she could relax in his presence
sufficiently to be more than an annoyance. After countless assurances that
neither her life nor virtue was in any peril from, as he'd told her, "a
quavering old vole," Lissa had relaxed enough to smile... and even, on
occasion, fuss over him—much to his amusement. Now, though, a single unforeseen
occurrence had her nigh petrified.
He wasn't, at this particular moment, inclined to coddle her.
"I'm not in the mood for unsolicited conversation. Who is
it?"
"I–I don't know," she stammered, then hastened to add,
"The signal is scrambled, and your automated ciphers aren't having any
luck."
Hmm. Someone with whom I
should talk, then. How irritating.
"Relax, child, and bring me the portable
receiver. I'll take the message out here."
She'd carried the device out to him as if afraid it might
detonate, and scurried away in relief when he motioned offhandedly for her to
do so.
After she was gone, he shook his head and smiled briefly,
speculating on her next actions.
A Cardassian would hover in the doorway and
hope to hear something useful. A Bajoran would seek her mandala and pray that nothing bad resulted from this
call. Lissa, I think, is more the latter—poor little thing.
He recognized certain of the algorithmic patterns contained in the
security protocols; such things could serve to identify the encoder with near
to the same accuracy as a retina scan—if you knew the person well.
This one clearly wanted him to know who was calling.
He applied the proper decryption sequences and was rewarded with a
brief smile followed by a concerned frown.
As always, though, Kirith Ocett went straight to the point.
"Marek, my old
mentor…
"…I need your
help."
***
Robert DeSoto was known as a
"hands-on" commander—not quite so hands-on, though, as Jess
Horne had been with Brenna Nyx.
Now, as they stood before his ready room
desk, he noted that both had come prepared with appropriately melodramatic
visual aids: Horne's utility coveralls clearly showed a darker patch where her
petty officer's rank insignia had recently rested; and Nyx had evidently
refused to apply a dermal regenerator to her jaw-line, wherefrom a bruise
glared—almost as angrily as she herself did.
If they'd struck a pose, hissed and spat
at each other, he wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.
"Shall we speak candidly,
ladies?"
The two women exchanged looks that
were an alloy of confused and wary. Each then turned back to him and hesitantly
nodded.
"Good.
"I hate adjudicating this
petty crap," he told them. "I feel more like a dorm manager than a starship
captain. If I want my crew to see a catfight, I'll rent a holosuite from that
obsequious little Ferengi at Deep Space Nine, what's-his-name…?"
"Quark," supplied Brenna
helpfully.
Jess muttered, "Ms.
Know-It-All strikes again."
The Trill shot her a venomous
glare, but remained silent.
Since DeSoto himself had given
them tacit permission to speak freely, he continued on point as if neither had.
"…once we retake the
station."
He folded his arms.
"Now I understand you're
going to press charges, Mr. Nyx."
She met her superior's displeased
expression with a firm one of her own.
"Indeed I am. Former Petty
Officer Horne…" and everyone noticed the emphasis, "…struck a
superior. I want her disciplined appropriately, according to Starfleet
regulations… and a demotion is insufficient, in my opinion."
Hoo boy. There's nothing like a
vindictive Trill—the very personification of eternal enmity.
Her comment caused DeSoto to flash
back on what their exasperated supervisor, young Ensign McBride, had told him
only ten minutes ago when asked what had happened to escalate things.
"Well," he'd said,
gesturing like a born storyteller, "then Jess cold-cocks Brenna, and when
she's on the ground, totally out of it, stands over her and says, 'Now when
host five's mouthing off, he or she can tell everyone host four had a glass
jaw, you arrogant bitch!'"
Well, Crewman Horne, you're right.
She is an
arrogant bitch… but that's insufficient reason to pop her one.
"No chance of reconciliation,
ladies?"
Horne's expression was an interesting
one; she was clearly a career-enlisted type, and thought that knocking Nyx on
her ass was worth the stripe.
She probably didn't think
it was worth her career.
Nyx answered, "Respectfully…
I'm not the wronged party here, sir."
"I see." DeSoto examined
them both for another minute. The Trill maintained her dignity well, but Horne
was falling prey to minute fidgeting. She was young, and it was never more in
evidence than right now—except perhaps when she'd knocked Brenna Nyx into
dreamland over a simple insult…
…and that, of course, after having
started it in the first place.
"All right, then. Both of you
can seek counsel from among the officer corps.
"I'll make a list of the
official charges against you both and schedule your respective preliminary hearings."
Horne looked perplexed.
But her puzzlement was nothing
compared to her sparring partner's, who asked, "Sir? Why do I need
an attorney?"
DeSoto stood and leaned across his
desk.
"Because, despite the gentle
and not-so-gentle recommendations to let this go, Mr. Nyx, you're now
engaged in what our task force commander would call, in his native tongue, a vendetta…
and if that weren't enough to inspire charges of conduct unbecoming a
warrant officer, your petulant little insult—you know, the one which motivated
the haymaker that laid you out—was labeled as 'provocative' and
'uncalled for' by everyone else at the scene."
On Brenna's face, confusion had
become anger and affront.
DeSoto didn't care. They had no
time for this.
"Your choice, Mr. Nyx: Either
take your hands from around her throat…
"…or your own relentless grip
will end up dragging you down with her."
Before she could answer, his comm
badge beeped.
"Bridge to Captain
DeSoto."
"Go ahead, T'Miir."
"Captain Mantovanni requests
your presence aboard the
She dryly added, "No topic
was forthcoming."
Hmm.
"Anything on the long range
sensors?"
The Vulcan's cool "Negative"
left him clueless and curious.
"Tell him 15 minutes."
"Understood, sir."
He reached the door of his ready room
and turned back to address both women a final time.
"I have to deal with the larger war
now, ladies… and I'm trusting that the two of you will find some way to
put the smaller one aside.
"Stay in here until you do."
As he headed for the turbolift, T'Miir
asked, "Should I flood the ready room with anaesthezine?"
"Vulcan humor," he thought. It's right up there with
"military intelligence"...
…and "friendly enemies."
***
The Trevari fancied themselves a warrior
race.
Gul Revan, Garrison Commander, Treva IV
Occupation Force, had always found that presumption amusing.
Don't we all?
It wasn't that the Trevari people lacked
courage. In fact, Revan, who had seen battle with the Eighth Order for much of
his adult life before being assigned here, readily conceded that the Trevari
went to war with as much enthusiasm as any race he'd ever encountered—even the
others that claimed the same lofty title: Andorians, Klingons, Tzenkethi,
Arellians and countless others.
And what they lacked in technology, the
Trevari more than made up for with sheer bloodlust and savvy. The native
kingdoms of Samilar and Prenn—both of which bordered and surrounded the small
portion of territory claimed by his "occupying" troops—counted catapults
and naphtha as their most sophisticated advancements in weapons development...
but they'd both used one to hurl enough of the other in the last decade that
Revan thought the opposing armies would have drowned in the stuff by now.
Nothing—not inclement weather, not the
steady stream of casualties, not even the realization that the Cardassian Union
had annexed the planet—had ever given them pause... until today.
As he watched from the balcony atop his
command post, the kings, blood enemies for the generation they had ruled their
respective countries, rode to the front of their assembled armies; at a
prearranged signal, each set aside his sword and shield, even as both
respective heralds dipped their banners and sounded their war-horns.
The monarchs stepped forward and
embraced.
For the first time in 217 years, peace
reigned across the small continent.
The cynical old gul would have been more
touched by the spectacle if he wasn't all too aware what lay behind it. These
two men still shared a healthy mutual despite; each still desired to topple his
rival from a throne he coveted for himself, but both had decreed that peace was
necessary.
The plague had made it necessary.
It had begun only a month-and-a-half
before... but in its first week, it had struck indiscriminately across class
lines and borders, laying dozens of the old and infirm first in their beds...
...and then, days later, in their
graves.
Revan had at first been ignorant of what
was happening, since the ravages of disease were customarily a part of any
ongoing war... but when, over the next fortnight, dozens became hundreds, and
the contagion began claiming newborns and toddlers, both neighboring monarchs
had sent messengers and physicians to bring the crisis before him.
His own garrison's doctor, while not primarily
a researcher, was competent and more than qualified, having treated interesting
Trevari cases off and on during his assignment. Thus, when the man had come to
him days later and reported no progress, Revan, who'd been expecting a cure, or
at least an inoculation, had been surprised.
In a month's time, hundreds became
thousands. The first healthy adults were struck down, and the trickle of
desertions any military force experiences became a torrent, as men abandoned
their posts and arms to be with their families before the end.
He'd sent a subspace message to the
Central Command requesting aid, expecting nothing... and getting precisely
that.
The bureaucratic drone had been
predictably infuriating.
"...regrettably unable to
assist...resources strained by the demands of war... have to cope utilizing
materials at your disposal... dispatch a medical ship at the first possible
juncture..."
His small contingent of troops, more a
token presence than an actual occupation, had always been popular with the
locals. Now even those with women or wives hesitated to leave the perimeter of
the shield generator—not for fear of being attacked (though that had happened
once or twice in the last week), or even infected (Doctor Haden was certain
Cardassians were immune), but because it was agonizing to have women and
children clutch at you for help and be unable to do anything.
"Revan?"
The voice drew him back from the balcony
and into the room, where a hand reached for his from the bed.
He sat on its edge, and took what was offered
him.
"You look better."
She laughed, and for a moment, he
thought she'd suddenly lived up to the lie.
"No, I don't. Your doctor says I'll
be dead in five days."
Garinda had always been direct. From the
moment he'd seen her in her father's court at a state function—where the eldest
princess of Samilar had boldly told him that he was handsome, and that she
would consider allowing him to court her—Revan had been under her spell.
But while the enchantment was strong as
ever, the enchantress herself was fading. Her skin, usually a lustrous rose,
had faded almost to alabaster; and the full-bodied frame that had possessed
strength nearly a match for his own, that had ridden both a steed, and him,
with the same commanding air, was now gaunt—almost emaciated.
And, even now, she was still beautiful,
still a princess of the blood…
…and still the sovereign of his heart.
In the face of the inconceivable…
…Gul Revan began to consider the
unthinkable.
Luciano Mantovanni was amused by
Robert DeSoto's reaction upon entering Liberty's observation lounge.
His friend had clearly expected a
private conversation…
…not a public conclave.
Yet that was what he got: DeSoto
was the last of the "13th's" captains to arrive, and the two Klingon
commanders, with a collaborative growl, let it be known that the wait for his
presence had not been appreciated.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"I was attending to a little sorority dispute."
Mantovanni arched a brow, but said
nothing as the older man took the final remaining chair.
"Well, Commodore… though I value every moment I'm able to
spend in this esteemed company, perhaps you might enlighten us as to the purpose
of this ad hoc committee?"
Though delivered in his
distinctive Carolina drawl, Matt Forrest's question held a hint of the
impatience the Klingons were already exhibiting in greater degree.
And when he has no time for the niceties, you know
nerves are frayed.
"Very well.
"We received this subspace
transmission an hour ago; it was barely detectable due to the transceiver's
weakness, and probably escaped the notice of every other ship's comm
array."
The sea of confused and annoyed faces
confirmed that last.
"At any rate, here it
is."
He gestured to the viewer, and as
one they turned to look and listen.
The screen brightened into the
image of an aged Cardassian gul; he stood in the foreground of what looked to
be his command center.
"This message is addressed to
the Federation commander heading the task force of vessels believed to be
currently operating within range of my transmission.
He sighed, and then took a deep
breath. It looked as if the man was marshalling his will, and not easily.
"My name is Gul Etten Revan.
I command the small occupation force currently stationed at Treva IV, a planet
in sector 21997.
"Within the last few weeks, a
plague of tremendous virulence attacked the native population here. Casualties
have increased geometrically each 17-hour period. My on site medical officer
estimates the dead will number in the tens of millions within a week.
"Our appeal to the Central
Command for assistance has been refused. They have instructed me to, and I
quote, 'cope as best I can.'"
He leaned forward towards the
pickup; to Mantovanni, his desperation was palpable.
"Since those orders are vague
and unhelpful at best, I choose to interpret them as permitting me complete
discretionary latitude. That combined with my position as highest-ranking
officer in the sector, and the dire need of the civilians in my charge,
inspires this communication."
Again, Revan hesitated. He reached
just outside the pickup's range, retrieved a carafe that looked to be full of kanar…
and took a long, steadying pull.
"I hereby formally request
your aid in combating this contagion. Utilizing my personal authority, I
hereby… grant you a cease-fire, to begin immediately upon my reception of your
assent, that is completely binding on any forces you encounter, and that will continue until 48 hours after
you have again departed the Trevari system. This should allow you a reasonable
span of time in which to again lose yourselves somewhere in the neighboring
space. Only afterward shall I report your last known position to the Central
Command.
"I—and the planetary
population of Treva IV—await your response."
Over the next few seconds,
Mantovanni decided that his log's assessment had not been at all accurate.
In point of fact, it had been
something of an understatement.
***
Once, Marek had been a man of subtle
thought and decisive action.
The enemies of the Cardassian people had
learned that time and again during ship-to-ship engagements ranging far beyond the
boundaries of the Union. In combat with foes disparate in strength and style as
Romulans, Arellians, Klingons, Tholians and Gorn, Marek had employed his
assets, deployed his forces… and, usually, destroyed his enemies.
Of all the foes he'd ever fought,
though, he respected Starfleet the most.
He had been one of the most vocal
opponents of the First Federation War, believing it un-winnable. Nevertheless,
the Central Command had ultimately decided to launch a major assault against
lightly-held positions along the border, gambling that their much larger but
far more pacifistic foe would relinquish the territories claimed in the opening
weeks in exchange for a lasting peace—a peace lasting, that is, until the Union
espied another opportunity.
It was a repugnant and foolish way to
wage war: It assumed both timidity and short-sightedness on the part of an
enemy—that Starfleet's "fighting spirit" would flag in the face of
Cardassian martial might and relentlessness.
It hadn't turned out that way.
The war had dragged on for over a
decade, with Starfleet, after regaining its initial losses with appalling ease,
content to hold the line against Cardassian offensives that were more ambitious
than substantive.
And once we were immersed, there was no
way to disengage without losing face.
The military budget had grown… but the
situation had if anything deteriorated. Gunboat diplomacy had proven, in this
case, a disastrous choice.
Even though the Federation had regularly
made peace overtures, the Cardassian Union had rebuffed them all: It had been
critical to gain—and actually hold—at
least one system. If not, the Central Command would not have been able
to legitimately declare "victory."
And, as we all know, Marek thought
contemptuously, "Victory is life."
Now, action was beyond his enfeebled
body. Only thought remained to him…
…but that, in itself, was a formidable
weapon.
Kirith Ocett had supplied, nigh
overwhelmed, Marek with intelligence information, tactical data, strategic
overviews and status reports—anything and everything that might prove helpful
in his analysis.
The extent of her… generosity… had
startled even him.
"You are aware," he'd said,
"that much of that to which you have given me access is classified
information, my pupil. I am no longer a member of the military structure.
Technically, your actions are treasonous."
Her lips had curled upward in a sly
smile he remembered well.
"If by my 'treason' we bring these
fugitives to ground, then I shall bear the stigma.
"I know you can't resist a
challenge, Gul Marek. Tell me where they are… where he is… and I shall
win you a last battle."
She had meant it to honor his
name… and so, though such things meant little to him now, he had honored her
request.
For two days he had pored over the torrent
of supplied material, looking for a clue as to the enemy squadron's location.
Once he had absorbed as much of it as was required to give him a working
familiarity with the locale and situation, Marek had sat back and considered it
all, idly perusing a dossier on the enemy commander, a human named Luciano
Mantovanni.
He liked this man, and more…
…suddenly, he'd understood this
man.
***
The meeting went far differently than
Mantovanni had expected.
The Klingons had listened in stony silence
to Gul Revan's appeal. Krajak's expression had never changed; since the loss of
his vessel at Teska IV, he'd been grousing about having missed a golden
opportunity to enter Sto-vo-kor. Even this news barely qualified
as a point of irritating interest.
Ch'moch's commander, Kuvog, who'd inherited
leadership of the Imperial contingent upon Kuras' death, was another matter.
While he'd not said a word either, his dark-skinned visage had acquired a
purplish undertone, and if he hadn't seen Klingons furious before, Mantovanni
would have thought apoplexy imminent.
The Starfleet captains' immediate
reactions in the wake of hearing Revan's request ranged from T'Neva's arched
brow to a typically colorful response from the irrepressible Matt Forrest.
"I'm surprised we didn't hear a
string section in the background o' that 'Woe is us,'” he opined.
"But, hell, if you're going to sling bullshit,
you might as well sling it a few dozen light years."
Mantovanni's eyebrow joined T'Neva's in
ascent.
It was Ptolemy's commander, Bela Tiraz,
who brought the matter to a head.
"I don't know you well, Captain
Mantovanni, but something tells me you not only believe Revan, but are thinking
seriously about lending aid."
The quiet ones… you never know what
they're thinking, or how much they see.
Well, so much for broaching this
gingerly.
"It seems you know me well enough,
Captain Tiraz."
The idea didn't precisely have universal
appeal.
Kuvog surged to his feet.
"The goal of war is to kill the
enemy. While I do not wish the wasting death of pestilence on any creature,
even a foe, every death that weakens Cardassia strengthens our cause."
T'Neva regarded him mildly.
"Treva IV is not a military base.
If what Gul Revan says is true…"
"And that's a huge
'if,'" interjected Forrest.
The Vulcan ignored his interruption.
"…this would not constitute aiding
the Cardassian war effort. Instead, we would be lending humanitarian assistance
to civilians—non-combatants."
"It is the responsibility of the
Cardassian Union and the Dominion to help their own citizens," Kuvog
insisted, as he reclaimed his seat. "Let them commit resources to
relief efforts. We have more important matters to attend."
"Gul Revan made clear that such
succor would not be forthcoming," replied T'Neva.
"'Am I my brother's keeper?'"
murmured Robert DeSoto. The Sicilian noted both the question, and the look that
passed between him and Erika Donaldson.
Then she turned back to Mantovanni… and
saw something she obviously didn't like.
"Then, o' course, there's the obvious
argument that ends this discussion before it really gets goin'," added
Forrest.
"What if this is a trap?"
"Hah!" Kuvog clearly thought this the deciding point, as well.
Tiraz offered, "For what it's
worth, Revan seemed sincere to me."
Evidently that makes two of us… and only two, Mantovanni thought.
"That is meaningless," Kuvog countered.
"The Cardassians are a subtle, relentless foe; even the Romulans respect
their machinations.
"We have caused great havoc in the
last few months. What if they released the plague simply to lure us in?
The Obsidian Order is ruthless enough to have done such a thing. What if
this gul is honorable, but was not informed of the deception?
"We would be charging to our
deaths!"
Forrest added further support.
"Let's assume it is as Revan says,
which is not to say I actually believe that: There is a plague;
it's killing thousands, and soon, millions; the Cardassians will honor the
cease-fire. Even so, for the time we were lending aid, we'd be
immobile—confined to the Treva star system.
"Grandpa Forrest calls that 'bein'
a sittin' duck'… and I'm sure he'd probably have to add 'shootin' fish in a
barrel.'"
The homespun, "countrified"
wisdom's wearing a little thin, Matt… but we all get the point.
"And there's one other consideration."
Robert DeSoto had been relatively silent until now, but his addition to the
discussion left almost everyone silent in its wake.
He told them, "It's really
immaterial whether or not the plague victims are associated with the military.
They're citizens of the Cardassian Union… and providing them with any
help strays dangerously close to the textbook definition of 'giving aid
and comfort to the enemy.'"
Kuvog's tone was pointedly triumphant.
"I would say 'fits it
exactly.'"
"Death is not impressed by valor,
moved to pity, or stayed by strength of arms.
He cares nothing for justice, vengeance,
or even love.
"Death knows only that he has a
quota…
…and despite the will of gods and men,
he always meets it."
- Trevari proverb
Once again, Gul Revan was locked in
battle.
His opponent was weakened by disease,
but that wasn't as much an advantage as an observer might think.
"Absolutely not," Garinda declared… and her voice held
all the imperious forbiddance one would expect from a princess. An angry flush
gave her complexion a deceptively healthy glow—for a moment.
"But why? If we were to place you
in stasis, then a cure could be sought while you remain safe…"
He knew what her answer would be.
"And what of my people? They have
no magical 'stasis chambers,' as you call them—though how a device could defy
the march of time is beyond me. The artifice of you Cardassians is truly
remarkable." She smiled briefly; then her expression hardened again.
"But I shall not flinch from such
fate as the gods have for me, nor cheat it while others die unaided."
She is magnificent, Revan thought…
…and it will be the death of her.
"Go to the north window, my
husband. Tell me what you see, as you gaze out over this once proud realm… and
then, if you have the stomach and cheek to ask me again, I shall consider your
words."
Revan didn't leave her side, though. He
knew all too well what awaited him at the window, and he much preferred the
sight of his dying wife…
…to that of her dead city.
***
Having an "open door" policy
was a mixed blessing, Mantovanni knew. It meant that you not only had to
preside over public discourse, but were then usually subject to private and
personal appeals.
This situation was no exception.
The rest of the briefing and discussion
had gone famously: The Klingons had eventually departed for Ch'moch,
with Kuvog still growling in resentment and near rebellion. That
wouldn't have been so bad, or even unexpected… but Krajak, who'd never broken
his silence, had become progressively more thoughtful-looking as the debate
raged—even once, to Mantovanni's surprise, having smiled slightly before
carefully redecorating his features with a more contemplative pattern.
Conniving in a Klingon usually didn't
bode well for someone…
…and Liberty's captain, in this
case, had little doubt who that someone was.
Of course, certain actions could help
restore one's faith in the predictability of the universe, or at least human
nature: Erika Donaldson's presence as one of the post-debate stragglers was
doing just that.
Unfortunately, it also meant listening
to her perspective, when, at the moment, he just didn't want to hear it.
This woman, like it or not, though, always
had something to say.
"Putting aside everything else we
heard during that meeting, Cicero, we can't do this for another reason: They're
a medieval culture, despite the slight Cardassian presence. To interfere in the
natural progression of their society may violate…"
He cut her off with, "Their level
of technology is completely immaterial. They're a member of the
Cardassian Union; thus, the Prime Directive doesn't apply."
She gaped at him.
"That's a crock, and you know it!
You're using what we both are all too aware is a technicality to do exactly
what you'd planned on doing all along!"
His expression was unreadable, yet still
powerful for all that—a door closed on a fire-filled room.
"Despite what my fellow officers
seem to think, this isn't about me getting my way, Erika.
"This is about doing the right
thing."
"For whom?" she countered.
"For the Trevari? We can't even be certain about that.
"For the Cardassians? Yeah, it is.
It's perfect for them: We spend time and resources on their
citizens—probably while they happily betray and throw a net around us, laughing
the whole time!
"For the Federation and Klingons? I
don't think you'll lie to yourself on that point. You've stressed time and
again how our effectiveness while behind enemy lines is magnified
tremendously—that every blow we strike resounds throughout the
Cardassian Union. The Alliance needs that... and yet you've decided to
risk casting it all aside.
"This is about you getting
your way—not because of ego, which is probably what you want us
to think—but because your personal sense of morality, and maybe even
your private religious convictions, are overriding the higher
responsibility you have to crew and country. It would be a good thing,
Cicero... but it's not the right thing—not now. We're at war. We
can't afford to do this—to take the risk."
He infuriatingly placed it back on her
shoulders.
"There are more than enough of you
to make relieving me stick, Erika. Of course, the Klingons might just try to do
that more directly, if they decide there's honor in it.
"If you're trying to remind me of
my duty, though, there's no need. I've weighed the consequences of either
direction... and I'm close to deciding this needs doing. The final choice is
mine. I'll make it... and I'll live with the consequences."
"Will you?" she pressed. "Will
we? How long? A few days? A week? I hope that warm feeling inside still
seems worth it when they corner us because your heart bled precisely
when it needed to harden."
It was cruel, but she reminded herself
of the cost, and kept her eyes steady under his hooded gaze.
"Don't worry, Captain," he
answered quietly. She noted the sudden use of her rank, and knew then she'd
either missed her mark...
…or cut to the quick.
"You've done more than
enough," he continued, "to make certain that whatever I feel won't
be pleasant.
"But, ultimately, I'd rather see condemnation
in your face than I would the mirror.
"Dismissed."
***
Krajak followed Kuvog
through Ch'moch's dark corridors. His fellow captain clearly had a
purpose, or at least a desire, and his mumbled curses and threats left little doubt
as to what it was. The manner, though, in which he planned to accomplish his
goal interested Krajak—very much.
It was rare to see
Klingons defer, let alone scurry, but Kuvog's
officers and crew did so now. They recognized their captain’s foul mood,
and that these were definitely not
the circumstances in which one wished to draw his attention. Thus, they gave
way.
It was preferable to
a quick death.
A commander's rooms,
even on a Vor'cha-class attack cruiser,
were little more than cubicles containing a sleeping platform, head, computer
terminal, desk and chair. Luxuries—or, as the euphemism-inclined humans would
say, "amenities"—were for the weak.
Kuvog did have one
decoration in his quarters, though—one no Klingon would find untoward.
He yanked the bat'leth from its place on the
wall-mount, and then threw himself down into the room's lone seat, cradling the
weapon in his arms.
His muttering continued. He was working himself
into a fury—not that most Klingons had to do very much work in that regard.
At last, he noticed his guest.
"What do you want?" Kuvog demanded.
"Many things.
Honor, glory… and to know what you plan."
It was presumptuous,
even perilous, but the older man chose to ignore what most of his might
consider a challenge, and replied, "I
shall kill him."
Krajak grunted.
"You would fail. This Mantovanni is no normal human, schooled only
in Starfleet’s polite, defensive martial arts. He is a warrior-born, and his
skills with the blade impressed even Kuras.
“He would kill you—perhaps easily."
Kuvog barked a
derisive denial… but the sound was tinged with an angry acknowledgment that
Krajak's viewpoint might well be true.
He asserted, "Then it would
fall to you."
Now it was Krajak who
laughed; and his was much more heartfelt and sincere.
"Oh, no. This is your crusade… and it dies with you.
"I take Mantovanni's
threat seriously."
Both men knew exactly
what Krajak meant.
The meeting's climax had been anything but pleasant: Their commander had
made it apparent that he might still choose to render aid, despite the risk…
and Kuvog had been nearly apoplectic with rage.
"We shall not stand for this!" he'd roared.
The attitude in
response had been anything but conciliatory.
"You'll do as
your commanded to do, Kuvog. Or is
duty a precept of convenience for you Klingons?"
Krajak had been
momentarily surprised that combat hadn't broken out immediately.
Then, Kuvog had
revealed his true intent.
"We shall challenge you."
That hadn’t impressed
Mantovanni, either—at first.
"I'm at your
disposal."
"You shame us as
a people by even considering this course of action. I shall invoke the Heghbat
Doghruv to prevent it.
Mantovanni's
expression had remained tolerant; for an instant, though, a touch of exasperation
had appeared.
His appreciation for
Klingon ritual seems… strained, Krajak had thought.
"It is little
used in the modern age, but still a just and respected tradition. A warrior
will call you out to honorable combat…
"…and if by some
chance you win, then another will follow, and another after him, until you are
weary and exhausted. You may kill a number of us… but you will not live to see this foolishness of
yours set in motion."
In that moment, though, Krajak's estimation of Mantovanni's resolve and understanding of the Klingon psyche had grown—significantly.
“If that’s the way you want it, then
let’s set a few ground rules.
“First,
there’ll be no hiding behind blades
or armor. Combat will be hand-to-hand, until one or the other is incapable of continuing.
“But make no mistake, Kuvog. When I win—and I’ll definitely win—I shall not
kill my opponent.”
The Klingon had in response grinned,
mistaking the declaration as one motivated by compassion; but the expression
had slackened into shock as Mantovanni made plain his intent.
“Instead, I’ll paralyze him—irrevocably.
“Then, I’ll have him dragged from the
circle and taken to sickbay, where the doctors will lay him on a nice,
comfortable biobed. He’ll live out his life being fed intravenously as his body
softens, weakens, then finally expires… and without benefit of a death in
battle, his spirit will go to Gre’thor. Fek’lhr will have a special
place for him, no doubt: Defiance of his commander, followed by a death in bed?” Unlike the blustering tones of his opponent, Mantovanni’s
voice had decreased in volume throughout his declaration—his last few
statements delivered with little more than a whisper.
They’d been all the more impressive for
it.
“I’m sure eternity will be quite
pleasant.”
He’d then stood.
"Oh, and one other thing.
"You'll go first.
“Well, then… shall we send you on
your way?”
Kuvog’s hand had gone for his d’k’tahg…
…but he’d also taken a step back.
Then, without another word, he had
turned and stormed out.
Now, Kuvog simmered, and Krajak considered
what he'd seen.
"You seek to employ the
ritual improperly," he finally said. "It is used when an opponent is
physically strong, but senile or incompetent. Mantovanni is neither of those
last two things.
"That is your opinion,"
Kuvog countered.
"No. It is a fact. You wish
to unseat him because his directives displease you."
Krajak hadn't realized that his
own temper was rising. For a moment, he considered restraining it.
The moment passed.
"We are Klingons, Kuvog… and he is our
commander! You do not have to like him or his orders. He has proven
himself in battle; it is our lot to obey!
"And, no matter his choice,
you will
obey."
When the older man snarled and
came for him, Krajak had only an instant to realize that he might have waited
for a better time to say his piece: There were no more bat'leths on the
wall, and while Kuvog seemed inclined to share his…
…Krajak didn't think he'd benefit
from the man's generosity—at all.
"'There must be some way out of
here,' said the joker to the thief,
'There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief.
"'No reason to get excited,' the thief, he kindly spoke,
'There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.
"'But you and I, we've been through that, and this is not our fate,
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late.'
"All along the watchtower, princes kept the view
While all the women came and went, barefoot servants, too."
- Bob Dylan
The protests he'd offered had thus far
fallen on deaf ears, but Glinn Madar felt it his duty to try again.
"It is one thing to
sympathize with the plight of the Trevari, Gul Revan." His tone was
neither demanding nor pleading, but some odd amalgam of both.
"It is entirely another when
you invite our enemies here to help them!"
Revan, who he'd met only three months
ago on his arrival here in virtual exile, regarded Madar with precisely the
same facial cast he'd possessed on the three other occasions his subordinate
had raised objections.
It was calm, resolute… and completely
unmoved.
"The decision is made," he
replied. "I have issued the offer; I cannot rescind it now."
Madar glanced around the command center,
but found only averted or unsympathetic faces: These men had served Revan here
for years, and had developed an emotional attachment that was blinding them to
their duty.
They've "gone native," as the
humans say. They're all more Trevari than Cardassian.
Disgusting.
Anger made him incautious.
"How is your wife, the princess,
Gul Revan?"
It was a mistake.
Revan rose from his seat, then moved
until they stood face-to-face.
"She is near death."
Madar suddenly knew that he was
even closer.
***
Donaldson's departure—angry and
stiff-lipped—left DeSoto alone with Mantovanni.
His superior didn't seem overly keen on
continuing the discussion, but since no abjuration was immediately forthcoming,
he pushed ahead.
"I assume you're still concerned about
the Klingon response if you decide to carry through with this."
That earned him a nod.
"It's a consideration, to be
sure."
DeSoto observed, "Well, for a man
who's often claimed he's not interested in commanding a fleet, Cicero, you
certainly seem willing to do whatever it takes to keep this one."
Mantovanni was not a man to answer such
a comment reflexively, in anger—if that was even how he felt. Instead, he
exhaled audibly, set his elbows on the desk and rather theatrically formed his
fingers into steeples.
"Do you really think that my
motivation, Roberto?" His tone held an undercurrent of something DeSoto
couldn't quite identify, but that was decidedly unpleasant.
After a brief hesitation, he answered,
"Of course not.
"I needed to see how you'd react to
the accusation itself, though."
The "13th's" commander smiled
minutely, and arched a brow.
"Were you hoping I might launch
into an egomaniacal rage?"
DeSoto was undeterred.
"'Hoping'? No. But, to be honest,
the thought had occurred. I know you more than well enough to be certain
you'd use whatever might best
serve—even an emotional outburst, if you thought it an appropriate or necessary
option. Distasteful for you, to be sure, but…
"Hell, that might have been a
better way to handle the Klingons than what you did. You do realize that
you may have managed to eradicate almost all of their regard for you with just
a few sentences? They're probably going to despise you, now."
Mantovanni's tone grew cold, but not
contemptuously so.
It was, instead, calculating.
"Let them. As long as they fear me, and obey unhesitatingly in battle, I'm not interested in
their opinions of my personal honor. You knew where this was going as well as I
did... and I couldn't risk having them throw body after body at me whenever
Klingon and Federation tendencies clashed over the next few weeks.
"I have no pretensions towards
invincibility in weapons play, Roberto: I'm an excellent swordsman, and
continuing to improve, but Kuras was incomparable; he should have
killed me, and if I hadn't gotten both cute and lucky, he would have.
"And Klingons live for such
confrontations. It wouldn't matter that I'd acquit myself well. Eventually, in
bladed combat, one of them would get me.
"Hand-to-hand is another matter
entirely. The mok'bara is a… serviceable… martial art, but it lacks both
finesse and sophistication. I don't need to tell you that any prudent combatant
fights on ground of his own choosing, if at all possible. If they're going to
come after me because they don't like my decisions, then they'll have to do it
on my terms… and facing, if they fail, a consequence the idea of which
is too terrible for them to overcome."
DeSoto folded his arms, considering the
point.
"Yeah, you've frightened them, all
right," he agreed. "And with Klingons, that's not too easy to do.
Congratulations.
"Of course, that may mean they'll
hate you all the more."
***
Glinn Madar had known his next actions
would be laughably predictable; even so, he could see no option that allowed him
to retain his honor, self-respect and life.
That last, though, was a secondary
consideration.
Madar was a soldier.
If he had been an engineer, or a
technician of some sort, he could have perhaps devised a plan that included
some clever and undetectable manipulation of the base's transceiver array, even
in the face of what he knew were safeguards designed to prevent such
interference.
Such abilities, though, were beyond him.
Madar was a soldier.
He'd returned to his quarters, set his
affairs in order as best he could, and then poured himself a drink from the
bottle of 2309 he'd brought with him from Cardassia Prime. It had been a gift
from his sister, and she'd made him promise not to open it until the occasion
was truly notable.
This, I believe, qualifies, he'd decided.
It was the best kanar Madar had
ever had: Smooth, sweet and potent. For a moment, he'd considered a second
glass, but knew his limitations and instead replaced the stopper.
Drunkenness on duty was not acceptable.
Madar was a soldier.
Then, he'd arisen, and headed directly
for his destination.
Now, Glinn Levik Madar stood before one
of three comm junctions leading to the command center. For a long moment, he
debated his next action—a final determination to see if his purpose was true
and his resolve steely.
At last, the crisis past, he quickly,
carefully removed the maintenance hatch, and began to work.
He'd gotten perhaps ten seconds into the
task when his communicator sounded.
"Madar… cease your effort
immediately."
The younger man smiled.
"You know I can't do that, Gul
Revan. You and your men are traitors to the Union. I'm sorry it had to be this
way, but… Central Command has to be informed of what you're
planning."
Two of his fellow troopers appeared, one
at each flank. They aimed their disruptors with purpose… but waited.
"Last opportunity, Madar. You
cannot succeed; we shall simply reroute access, and your tampering will have
been for naught."
Madar didn't hesitate. Instead, he
continued working—efficiently, unhurriedly.
The guards fired…
…and the personal force field generator
beside him flared to life, absorbing the bursts and then disappearing again.
That gained me all of a minute—if that.
He heard a telltale whine as his
assailants adjusted their weapons' settings.
This time, when they cut loose, it
wasn't a brief discharge, and the bubble of energy surrounding and protecting
him grew iridescent, then incandescent…
…and finally blinding.
It was beautiful.
He sighed.
I should have had another drink.
Madar was a soldier…
…and he died one.
***
Upon returning to his ship, Robert
DeSoto headed for the refuge of his ready room…
…only to be reminded before reaching it
that he'd left trouble there, too.
"Petty Officer Nyx and Senior
Crewman Horne remain within, sir," noted T'Miir.
It brought him up short, and she
continued with a dry, "Since internal sensors still detect two life signs,
I must assume that negotiations are… continuing."
The chuckles died, though, as Hood's bridge
crew took a better look at their captain.
Something was wrong.
DeSoto was wearing an expression they'd
never seen before—at least not from him.
Immediately regretting her sardonic
observation, T'Miir offered, "Shall I dismiss them, sir?"
The fact that he summoned a smile
clearly meant to reassure worried them even more.
"That's all right, Commander.
"I'll handle it."
Both women rose and came to attention as
he entered.
DeSoto wasn't at all in the mood for
this—especially after the manner in which his conversation with Mantovanni had
played out.
As a matter of fact, he was spoiling for
either woman to say the wrong thing.
They may have sensed their peril,
because neither did.
"Well, let's hear it."
Nyx began, "We've settled our
differences, sir…"
"…and if it's all the same to you, we'd
like to put all this unpleasantness behind us," finished Horne.
The two looked prepared to do whatever
was necessary. For a moment, he thought each might actually throw a
companionable arm around the other.
He spared them that.
"Fine. You can have your stripe
back, Horne. Nyx, let Ensign McBride know that this never happened, and that
it's fine with me.
"Now get back to work... we've got
a lot to do and very little time in which to do it."
"Sir?"
"Don't worry about it.
"Dismissed."
If they were startled at the ease with
which they'd escaped, they were positively stunned to hear DeSoto's request to
the replicator as they filed out.
"Double bourbon," he said.
"Straight up."
As the turbolift closed behind them,
Brenna Nyx and Jessica Horne each immediately staked claim to one side of the
car, and commenced to glaring at each other again.
Their ongoing "dialogue"
resumed.
"Pretentious snot."
"Belligerent twerp."
"You can just shove that
all-knowing worm of yours where the sun don't shine."
"Yeah…? Maybe I'll give it to you.
It could go right next to the bug up your ass."
Bile temporarily spent, their thoughts turned
to DeSoto and his odd behavior.
"Do you think we fooled him?"
asked Horne.
"Not for a second," Nyx
replied, keeping most of the scorn from her tone. "He knows we can't stand each other.
"He just didn't care."
A moment later, they learned why.
***
Kirith Ocett listened to Marek's
conclusions, and recommendation, with the same care she gave all his
statements…
…and found herself waiting for more.
This was Marek, after all. There
was always more—more than she hoped, or at least expected.
A few uncomfortable moments later,
however, it became clear that in this case, there wasn't.
Perhaps the Central Command was right,
and his mind has
failed.
"That's your analysis?
"Please tell me this is a jest."
For an instant, she had hopes it was: He
did seem amused. Then, the old man afforded her a knowing smile, at once
paternal and patronizing.
Despite herself, she flushed slate gray:
Marek, when he chose to employ it, had always possessed a scholarly, almost
rabbinical manner that could make you feel like a student again… and a not
particularly bright one, at that.
His comments only reinforced her
discomfiture.
"You asked for my opinion. I have
tendered it. If you think it of little or no value, disregard what I've said
and formulate a stratagem of your own.
"Now, unless something else is
required of me, I have a retirement to… enjoy."
The comm screen darkened.
Ocett closed her eyes and sighed.
Behind her, the Vorta Shalra, who'd been
privy to the entire conversation, offered a surprisingly mild, "His
enthusiasm for serving the Founders seems… less than fervent."
Distracted and disappointed, Ocett
unthinkingly replied, "He's already spoken out against the Dominion
alliance quite eloquently—by retiring." Then, belatedly realizing how that
could be interpreted when Shalra pursed her thin lips in what looked to be
displeasure, she hastened to append, "It was his time, though. Old
men prefer the old ways... and he would not have been able to adjust."
In response, the Vorta chuckled, and
flicked dismissive fingers in a gesture geared to reassure her companion that
neither she nor her masters bore the gul's mentor any particular malice.
"You have told me nothing the
Founders did not already know; Marek's status as a dissident is not exactly a
well-kept state secret.
"For all his obvious dislike of
Cardassia's new status, though, he has proven helpful in this matter."
She smiled at Ocett's vexed, querulous "How
so?" expression.
"You should have more faith in your
own, my friend." Shalra retrieved the isolinear rod containing Marek's
report, and in a startling display of whimsy, twirled it with and between her
fingers. "I, too, heard his reasoning…
"…and I, for one, believe
him."
***
Revan haunted the command center, a
bottle of kanar his constant companion.
Time was, he'd drunk entirely too much
of the syrupy liquor on a daily basis… but his wife had put a stop to that
years ago.
He smiled, remembering their first night
together… when she'd suddenly, all unlooked for one evening in the midst of
their courtship, let her silver-gilt robe slip to the floor, then asked,
"And is that carafe of spirits you're holding more seductive than I?"
The container had fallen from his hands
and shattered on the tile beneath their feet.
Then, he'd answered her with something
far better than words... and that answer had continued to suffice for him
through the long years of their life together.
Now, though, Revan had returned to his first
love…
…because the need for a bedside vigil
with his second had come to its end only hours before.
Garinda had died as she'd lived: Proud,
unyielding… and unafraid.
And she had died a queen. Her father had
preceded her only an hour before.
Their infant son, who, like Revan,
seemed immune to the plague that was decimating his people, continued to thrive
on the wet nurse's milk and mothering.
Child-king… last son of a noble house…
…and soon, it seems, lord of an empty realm.
A carefully restrained voice roused him.
"Makeshift repairs on the sensor
and communications systems are complete, Gul Revan."
Haral had been his second in command
until the arrival of Glinn Madar, and had reassumed the post upon the other
man's… departure.
"We're bringing them online
now."
At once, the noise of klaxons filled the
room; Revan exercised his own station's override and silenced it before
surprise could become annoyance or distraction. His men didn't need such clamor
as accompaniment to their duty.
It wasn't long before Haral surprised
him with, "Orbital sensor arrays are tracking the presence of a vessel…
aligning for synchronous station-keeping over our location."
With an effort, Revan prevented his next
exhalation from becoming a sigh.
"What type of ship? Cardassian?
Jem'Hadar?"
"No, sir," his exec murmured, as if hardly able to
believe it. "Federation. Excelsior-class.
"They are signaling."
Revan nodded. "Accept
transmission."
The central viewer filled with the image
of an aging, balding human male. The immediate impression he projected was a
man composed—carefully composed.
"This is Ship's Master Robert
DeSoto…
"…commanding the medical ship Hospitaller."
That pronouncement garnered everyone's attention.
While his mind had already begun to
speculate on precisely what this Starfleet captain meant by such a
transparent deception—despite the nondescript gray coveralls and unfamiliar
insignia emblazoned on his collar, he was obviously a military officer, and
almost certainly knew he wasn't fooling anyone—Revan answered mildly.
"You'll pardon me…" he
hesitated, and glanced for reassurance to the reference station at his side.
"…Ship's Master DeSoto… but if I'm not mistaken, you're speaking to
me from the bridge of a Starfleet heavy frigate."
The human nodded.
"Appearances to the contrary, Gul
Revan, I think you'll be surprised."
Haral motioned almost frantically, and
Revan gestured for the link to be placed on standby.
"What have you found?"
"I've conducted an extensive scan of
their ship. They are not interfering with our examination: No subspace fields,
no masking equipment of any sort."
"Continue."
"The vessel is unarmed, Gul
Revan. Her primary and secondary phaser coils are missing. They haven't just
been removed to a cargo bay; they're not on board. She has no photon
torpedoes; her magazine is completely empty."
"Shields? Small arms?"
Haral answered, "Military grade
generators. Enough hand weapons to maintain order… but certainly insufficient
to repel boarders."
Even though he knew DeSoto couldn't
hear, the younger man whispered, "Medical stores and supplies, however,
are extensive—much more than one would expect for this class of vessel."
Revan frowned. The irony of the ship's
arrival now wasn't lost on him.
He was, however, less than appreciative.
"Reestablish audio."
He turned back to the screen.
"As you may have guessed, Ship's
Master, we have examined your… intentions. Such… extravagant precautions were
hardly necessary."
Only now DeSoto did smile slightly.
"You'll pardon us if we went a
little overboard.
"Before we can render aid, however,
I need official
acknowledgment of our status, Gul Revan."
"Your… status?"
"Yes, sir."
He now recited what was clearly a
prepared and precise statement.
"This vessel, as of Stardate
51162.7, was decommissioned and donated to the Interstellar Red Cross. Former
Starfleet Commander Shiro Matsuoka has temporarily resigned his commission and
rejoined that worthy organization to command this relief effort, thus
preventing a conflict of interest.
"According to the provisions of the
Seldonis IV Convention, of which the Cardassian Union was a signatory, your
government acknowledges the neutrality and beneficent nature of the IRC, and
that it is in no way associated
with the United Federation of Planets. In addition, it agrees that Red Cross
vessels are permitted free passage through its space to complete missions of
mercy."
The two Cardassians exchanged glances,
speaking without words as men who'd served together so often could. Revan knew
Haral could read the progression of his internal conflict with all the
discernment long association and friendship gave him.
Garinda was gone…
…and the temptation to simply lock onto
the enemy starship and destroy her nearly overcame him. None of his
subordinates would question his orders, even at this late date.
A single command would suffice: The ship
would make a pyre befitting a queen.
Again Revan faced the screen.
"Your status is… acknowledged,
Ship's Master… and will, 48 hours hence, be relayed to the Central Command and
Founders' Headquarters on Cardassia Prime. Though we have joined the Dominion,
it is bound to respect the treaties we signed prior to admission.
"Hospitaller is now under my protection."
The relief on his counterpart's face was
evident.
Neither he nor Haral—no one, in
fact—would ever know how close the gul had come to a very different decision.
Revan couldn't help but smile… and if it
was tinged with bitterness, well… who would blame him, if they knew?
"It seems that, for both of us,
Captain DeSoto…
"…the war is over."
***
When he'd finally announced his
intentions, Mantovanni hadn't known what reaction to expect—except that of the
man from whom he'd be demanding the most.
DeSoto had listened… and, when his
superior had finished, barked out a colorful curse that his commander could
appreciate in the abstract, even while ignoring the context.
Well, that managed to offend God,
mothers and me all
at once. Nicely done, Roberto.
It had been cathartic, though. When
DeSoto had continued, rationality had once again asserted itself.
"Why not one of the other, less
combat-capable ships? Why Hood?"
Mantovanni, refusing to respond with
anger in return, had stated it as kindly as he could.
"She's a great old lady, Roberto,
and I'd be proud to command her… but she's lost a step, maybe even two, in the
last hundred years. We're only as fast as our slowest ship, and Hood's
been bringing up the rear for the better part of a month. The Cardassians
almost caught us at Beta Sigma, and would have if Liberty and Athene
hadn't managed to synchronize warp fields and draw her along with us.
"But I don't need to tell you any
of this… do I?"
Robert DeSoto had exhaled harshly, and
whispered, "She doesn't deserve this…and neither does her crew.
Neither has ever let me down, Cicero."
His friend and captain had come around
the desk to stand at his side.
"And they haven't now.
"I know what I'm asking, and
I won't order it… but I think it's the only way to serve every purpose.
"Will you do it?"
DeSoto's eventual nod had been both
infinitesimal and grudging… but resolute for all that.
"Then I leave the preparations and
particulars in your hands, Captain. Utilize whatever resources from the fleet
you require. Have Hood ready for her transition as soon as is possible.
I want this group to consist entirely of volunteers. Coordinate with our
task force logistics officer, Commander MacLeod. I know the two of you will
make it work.
"Dismissed…"
When DeSoto had reached the door,
though, Mantovanni had added, "…but never forgotten."
Only now was Mantovanni realizing that
the person making the greatest sacrifice had probably been one of the easiest
to convince.
News spread quickly through the fleet of
his decision, but there was nary a ripple of open dissention in the ranks—at
least not that reached him. Once or twice, over the next few hours, he was
forced to render decisions on personnel transfers: Not surprisingly, quite a
few doctors and nurses wanted to volunteer; each captain was adamantly opposed
to their departure, citing likely future needs and unwillingness to deplete
manpower resources in the face of same.
Knowing full well how it might be
perceived, he overrode the commanders' protests and let most of those medical
personnel who wanted to go do just that, subject to Matsuoka's final approval.
That, of course, precipitated a few more
unwelcome visits to his ready room.
Erika Donaldson, as usual, was
especially vehement and vocal.
"I have two doctors,
Captain… oh, excuse me… now I have one doctor."
Mantovanni employed a patience he hardly
felt, and replied, "I'll point out that I'm losing my chief medical
officer to this little expedition. You'll still have Doctor Arland at your
disposal."
Perhaps she could prescribe a
tranquilizer—at least one for your vocal cords.
His comment mollified her slightly… and
the conversation turned suddenly to the choice he'd made, and its consequences.
"Well, congratulations… you've
managed a solution that pleases precisely no one."
Mantovanni answered with a droll,
"Why do I get the distinct impression you're a woman who's not easily
pleased, Captain Donaldson?"
Remarkably, his counterpart blushed
crimson.
"I… you…
"…if you'll excuse me,
sir." Without a word from him either way, she turned on her heel and beat
a rapid retreat.
Hmm. Why did she…?
On a moment's reflection, the Sicilian
realized precisely what he'd implied with his ill-considered, but all too
well-aimed, comment.
Oh, Madonna mia.
Considering that it had effectively
exorcised her, though, he found himself unable to regret it in the least.
Krajak came next, bearing a new scar
along the right side of his face… and the news that Captain Kuvog had, very
recently, joined Admiral Kuras in the Black Fleet.
Mantovanni waited for a variant on why
"honor" had made the Klingon's actions necessary.
Instead, when questioned, Krajak
surprised him with, "It was a… fraternity 'dispute.'"
He then smiled, and inclined his head in
acknowledgment of that witticism's original source: the soon-to-be-absent Robert
DeSoto.
Mantovanni wasn't sure if his own
expression in response equated to grin or grimace.
That, I think, is what's meant by
"a vicious
sense of humor."
Before Krajak departed after being
confirmed in his command, though, Mantovanni stopped him with a final
observation.
"Captain," he said, "I
suggest that command of the Ch'moch be the summit of your ambitions for
the duration of our association—if you know what's good for you."
The Klingon at first glared…
…and then roared with approving
laughter.
Krajak punctuated his departure
with a quintessentially nasty smile.
"Your recommendation is… noted,
sir."
Mantovanni hoped for everyone's sake he
thought it good advice.
***
Now, three days later, he sat in Liberty's
center seat and listened to DeSoto's first and final report, carefully
relayed through a number of subspace buoys deployed for this very occasion… and
which would self-destruct on the appropriate signal.
The man looked haunted.
"I've been through my share of war,
but… I've never seen so many dead and dying in my life.
"The research team thinks they've
got a line of analysis that will bear fruit within a few days, but…
"…by then, at least 3,000,000 more
will have died."
"My God," whispered Sera MacLeod.
DeSoto shook his head slightly.
"With all due respect to your
convictions and beliefs, Commander… from what I've seen, 'God' is definitely
elsewhere.
"Gul Revan wanted to speak with
you, Cicero—just a moment of your time."
Mantovanni, after a nod from the Andorian
Theren, inclined his head.
"Take the appropriate precautions,
and put him through, Roberto."
He was an old man… and had the face of
someone who'd become one in the last few weeks.
"Captain… you have my personal
gratitude, and that of the Cardassian Union."
Liberty's captain smiled at that.
"I thank you for the first, Gul…
but you'll understand if I doubt the second."
"I thought acknowledgment, at
least, would be appropriate… since I cannot wish you well without compromising my
honor."
The gulf was narrow… but still there,
and still impassable.
"I understand, sir. I hope it won't
always be so."
Revan's expression was one of genuine
amusement.
"That is my desire as well,
Captain."
The screen returned to a weary-looking
Robert DeSoto.
"What an extraordinary man,"
Sera marveled.
Mantovanni's facial cast, though, was
grim.
I should say nothing.
Some part of him, though—whether
mean-spirited or simply saddened he didn't really know—forced him to speak.
"Unfortunately, Sera… that
'extraordinary man' will almost certainly be dead in less than a week."
MacLeod turned, now wearing, much to
Mantovanni's hidden upset, a shocked and stricken expression.
"What? Why?" she asked, almost plaintively.
It was the distant DeSoto who answered
her question.
"I'm betting the Central Command
and the Founders won't care in the least about the lives he saved by allowing
us access to the planet; they'll only see he could have notified them of your
approximate location days ago, and opted not to do so.
"That's treason against the Dominion.
"He certainly knew what it would
cost him; he chose to save the Trevari, anyway, and then adhere to the spirit
rather than the letter of our agreement."
That helping of all-too-harsh reality
dispelled much of the good feeling on Liberty's bridge.
"It rains on the just and the
unjust alike," Mantovanni
thought.
And when it rains, it pours.
"Unlike Gul Revan, I can wish you well," DeSoto
continued, summoning a smile even when, just now, it was clearly an expression
for which he had little use.
"Dedicate the next dance to us,
Cicero…
"…and make certain you tango on."
The screen returned to a star field.
"Subspace relays destroyed,"
reported Bagheer in a not-entirely satisfied growl. "They won't be able to
track us."
Mantovanni nodded absently.
"Permission to be excused,
sir."
MacLeod's quiet request startled almost
everyone—except, perhaps, her captain.
"Take whatever time you need,
Sera."
After she'd left the bridge, Theren
Sih'tarr whispered, "Perhaps she needs to grow a harder carapace, Captain;
it might save her some anguish."
Mantovanni, for a time, considered the
Andorian's suggestion.
Finally he answered.
"No, Theren… I don't think so. She
doesn't have it in her to be callous in such a way… and for that type of
person, I'm thankful. After all, a cold-hearted, well-protected man would have
done his duty, saved himself… and let the Trevari die.
"Instead..." his voice trailed
off into silent regret.
He glanced towards the turbolift, and
considered both his troubled friend... and a man who perhaps could have been,
if only things had been different.
Luciano Mantovanni, with an effort, set
aside his compassion and respect for Gul Etten Revan…
…and turned his thoughts once again to
killing as many of the man's fellow soldiers as he could.
***
For the first time since the war had
begun, Kirith Ocett knew she had reason to be encouraged.
She'd reread the PADD's contents four
times now, hardly daring to believe the data contained therein—despite Central
Command's confirmation of its veracity.
She could hear Marek's voice again.
"You read this Mantovanni's dossier
even before I did; and I thought you'd learned your lessons in xeno-psychology
and profiling well enough to draw this particular conclusion yourself."
And he'd been right—again.
Trapped behind enemy lines, Ocett thought, surrounded by those
dedicated to his destruction… and this man stops, rendering aid to some
ungainly, backward people on a valueless planet.
Captain Mantovanni… I gave you far too much credit. You're as
stupidly sentimental as the rest of your myopically altruistic species. I could
have ended this frustrating affair weeks ago—simply by manufacturing some
desperate bleat for help and awaiting your response.
While she might not experience the
undiluted joy of engaging her counterpart, his actions had provided the
opportunity Ocett's old mentor had told her would be forthcoming. The
Federation ships had strayed all too near the Trevari system, and she had, at
Marek's insistence, moved the forces available to her into place—just as the
old master had directed.
Even across astronomical distances,
simple math was always the deciding factor… and this time, it had worked out in
her favor: No matter where the "13th Fleet" turned, it
would be forced into battle with a pursuing task force.
At last, good fortune smiles on me. What a refreshing change.
With an admixture of amusement and
disgust, however, Ocett noted that her experiences as related to this group of
ships—the collective figurative heels of which she'd been dogging relentlessly—had
forced a revision to her definition of "good fortune." Time was that
only the absolute destruction of such a seemingly paltry force would have
elicited the slightest of smiles.
Now, she was just happy they'd been
sighted.
But Ocett didn't even trust that emotion: Mantovanni's little
collection of vessels had proven sinuously elusive... and most dangerous, thus
far, when brought to bay...
...or to battle.
Despite the fact that it was an
indulgence, she decided to go through the report again. After all, Ocett had
enjoyed so few pleasures recently.
A little light reading couldn't hurt.