Behind Enemy Lines Page 6

  “Lieutenant junior grade Samuel Lavelle, or has he been promoted?” said the Founder, relishing the unfamiliar syllables of his name. “Captured aboard the Aizawa, formerly stationed on the Enterprise, now technician and Liaison Officer for Pod Eighteen.”

  Sam mumbled through a mouthful of wonderful food. He was afraid to say much, lest he slobber all over the plates, but he was impressed that the Founder had used his name instead of a number. He glanced toward Professor Grof, wondering if he would get a chance to speak privately with the most notorious collaborator in the complex. The Trill edged forward, looking as if he wanted to say something; but he also held his tongue. Sam guessed that a smart collaborator didn’t interrupt a Founder.

  He grabbed some more food. Whatever happened, he was going to try not to get kicked out of this shindig too quickly. With his determined chewing, Sam nearly choked on the next words he heard from the Founder’s smooth lips:

  “Lieutenant Lavelle, we would like to give you a ship to command.”

  Chapter Four

  SAM LAVELLE LOWERED HIS PLATE and stared at the Changeling. What a poker face—there was no way to tell if he was the butt of a cruel joke, or they were actually trying to recruit him for some nefarious purpose. Changelings were rare in the Alpha Quadrant, and he didn’t think one had summoned him only to have a laugh at his expense. Wherever this was going, it had to be dangerous and probably treasonous.

  “You’ll give me a ship to command?” he repeated slowly. “There’s got to be a catch. Why don’t I continue to eat, and you can explain to me what you want. Exactly.”

  “First,” said the Changeling, “do you know anything about the act of sabotage which occurred today?”

  Sam looked around the tasteful observation lounge, and he could tell from their earnest faces that they were serious. “Sabotage? Do you mean the accident? I was out there at the time, and that accident was caused entirely by the boneheaded Cardassians.”

  From force of habit, he looked nervously around the room, but there were no Cardassians present. Every other race of importance was represented at this meeting, but not the lackeys. So Sam decided he could speak freely.

  “I don’t know what you were moving out there, but they put on their thrusters too early and disturbed the stasis field.”

  “Bumbling fools!” muttered Grof, unable to contain himself any longer. “I’ve warned them often enough.”

  “You said it wasn’t entirely their fault,” whined Joulesh. He looked accusingly at Grof.

  The Trill folded his thick arms. “I warned you that the compound was too unstable, and that they were the wrong ones to handle it. I believe I was proven right on both counts.”

  “But all of our models—”

  Sam was beginning to enjoy this bickering when the Changeling glided gracefully between the Vorta and the Trill. “Enough. Explain it to him so that he can understand it.”

  Dumb it down for the stupid human, thought Sam, bristling at the tone of the Changeling’s words. But he was willing to listen until the food ran out.

  Grof pointed accusingly at the Vorta. “They chose the wrong material to reinforce the mouth of the wormhole. I’m sure you know enough physics, Lieutenant, to realize that we can’t use a common building material for the opening. Unless we use the right substance, the collider will get torn apart by the extreme pressures.”

  The scientist paced the length of the table, looking with disgust at the Vorta. “They listened to the Cardassians, who assured them they could use a material made of sub-quark particles, despite the volatility. After the stasis field was destroyed, the sub-quark particles recombined.

  “There is a far more elegant approach. The Federation isolated the perfect substance only a few years ago—it’s stable after it’s extracted and recombined. We are the only ones who have succeeded in extracting it.”

  “Corzanium,” answered Sam.

  “Ah,” said Grof with satisfaction, “I see you are versed on the latest research.”

  “Not really,” admitted the human. “My friend, Taurik, was telling me about it. He admires your work, but he doesn’t think much of you personally.”

  “A common sentiment,” muttered the Trill, “but misguided. We are on the verge of great discoveries, great leaps forward—after our cultures merge. In the short term, Federation personnel are the best equipped to find and extract the Corzanium. We certainly can’t rely on the Cardassians.”

  “Lieutenant Lavelle, will you command the craft?” asked the Founder bluntly. Joulesh’s oversized ears twitched expectantly as the Vorta awaited his answer.

  “Into a black hole?” scoffed Sam. “Isn’t that where this stuff comes from? I can see why you don’t want Cardassians—they’re probably too smart to undertake such a crazy mission.”

  Despite the bravado, Sam was stalling for time as he tried to reason it out. Even though he might go down as the greatest traitor in Starfleet history, the chance to escape from the prison with a ship under his command was too tempting to pass up. Survival instincts that he thought were long dormant suddenly surged to the surface, and Sam envisioned himself making a break for freedom.

  Besides, he knew that if he refused, he would be dead. They had told him too much to let him return to Pod 18 and the general prison population.

  “Will you give us an answer,” said Joulesh, “or simply continue to eat and make snide comments?”

  “What do I get out of it?” asked Sam.

  “You will receive your freedom,” answered the Founder somberly, as if this were the greatest gift he could bestow.

  “I get to pick my crew,” said Sam.

  “Boy, don’t make this difficult!” snarled Grof. “Just say yes to the Founder, and let’s get on with it.”

  Sam cautioned himself to remain as stone-faced as the Changeling and his retinue. He truly was not in a position to bargain, but maybe he was in a position to make a difference. It would appear that his patience, gift of gab, and good work habits were about to get him promoted in the prison hierarchy—into his real job. Sam wished he didn’t have the spectre of Enrak Grof staring at him as he decided his fate. Either way, he doubted whether he would live to reflect on this decision.

  “I’ll do it,” he said. “I won’t be going back to Pod Eighteen, will I?”

  “No,” answered Joulesh. “Would you be afraid for your safety?”

  Sam smiled. “Around here, I’m always afraid for my safety.”

  “Eat,” said the Founder, sounding like a friendly relative. He wasn’t exactly androgynous, but his masculine traits were underplayed. Sam imagined that he could just as easily present a pseudo-female façade. The creature was fascinating to study, up close, and it was all Sam could do not to ask him to morph into a chair. He tried to imagine what it was like on their home planet, where they merged into a sea of their kind called the Great Link.

  Sam fought the temptation to ask this advanced being why it was so important to conquer the Alpha Quadrant. He supposed it was the same arrogance that had driven Europeans to conquer the Americas or Cardassians to conquer Bajor—a certainty of their moral and intellectual superiority.

  With the slightest nod from the Founder, the Jem’Hadar guards suddenly picked up the basin and carried it out of the room. The Founder walked after them, and the two Vorta brought up the rear of the entourage. This left Sam alone with Professor Grof, plus enough food for a barracks.

  “They’re not much for good-byes,” remarked the human.

  “I think the Founder was tired,” said Grof. “He probably has to revert to his liquid form soon. Dominion upper management is spread very thinly through the Alpha Quadrant. Besides, they got what they came for.”

  “Me?” Sam asked incredulously.

  “Yes, but you could have shown them more respect. This is quite an honor.”

  “So everyone tells me.” Sam glanced around the room. “Can I speak freely in here? Are we being watched?”

  “Don’t bother bawling me o
ut,” said the Trill. “You were going to tell me that I’m a traitor, a collaborator, and so on and so forth. You’re going to say that we ought to escape, or sabotage the artificial wormhole. Well, let me tell you—what we’re building here will last longer than either the Dominion or the Federation. The war will be a footnote to this invention. I’m on the side of science, and what we’re building is going to revolutionize the galaxy.”

  “At what cost?” asked Sam. “You would destroy a federation of hundreds of planets for a machine? Whose side are you on? Are you a prisoner here, or are you one of the jailers?”

  Grof scowled and lowered his voice. “I’m both. I want to see my work to fruition, and I’m not going to let politics stand in the way. I would like to take my findings to the Federation. In fact, I hope that this work brings both sides together, and ends this stupid war. Meanwhile, I’m still a prisoner. Would I welcome a chance to escape? Perhaps at a later date, but only if it’s foolproof.”

  Sam picked up a slice of yellow melon and took a bite. The delicious juice ran down his beard. “You’re obviously doing something right to have all of this handed to you.”

  “I’m just doing my job,” snapped Grof.

  At that moment, Sam decided not to trust Enrak Grof, who seemed entirely too wrapped up in his own self-interests. Sam would plan his escape without the Trill, unless his participation was absolutely necessary … and foolproof.

  “What’s the ship like?” asked Sam.

  “It’s a Cardassian antimatter tanker, specially equipped. You start training on it right away. You will need additional crew of six, and Joulesh and I have prepared a preliminary list of names. We have everyone we need right here.”

  “I’m sure of that,” muttered Sam.

  Grof ignored his sarcasm and went on, “We need two specialists in material handling, a tractor-beam specialist, and a senior transporter operator.”

  “And Taurik. I want the Vulcan.”

  “That leaves one more,” said Grof. “Me.”

  Sam blinked at him. “You’re going along on this mining expedition?”

  “Everything depends upon it,” answered the Trill. “Now that their engineers have been proven wrong, it’s up to us to finish the job. And show them how valuable we are.”

  “How dangerous is this going to be?”

  The Trill smiled. “Only as dangerous as we make it.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” insisted Will Riker. “Captain, please, I beg you to reconsider.”

  Captain Picard, who was lying on an operating table in sickbay, closed his eyes and tried to block out the concerned voice of his first officer. He concentrated instead on the sound of Dr. Crusher and Nurse Ogawa preparing their instruments. It sounded like fine silverware in use at a banquet.

  “Captain, we have many other people who could do this mission,” insisted Riker.

  “Nonsense,” said Picard. “We’re so shorthanded that every able-bodied crew member is indispensable. The fact is, you can captain the ship, making me more dispensable than the majority of the crew. I also have the most expertise working with Ro Laren, and she can be a bit prickly.”

  “She’s one of the reasons this is so dangerous,” growled Riker with frustration.

  “I’m sure Mr. La Forge and I can handle whatever she throws at us.” Literally and figuratively, Picard thought, recalling her formidable fighting spirit. “And Data will keep us on long-range scans.”

  “What if he loses you in the Badlands?” Riker persisted.

  “Nothing is without risk, Number One. If we need rescuing, we’ll release our subspace beacon with a coded distress signal.”

  “Still, Captain—”

  The captain finally opened his eyes and gazed sympathetically at his first officer. “You won’t be able to talk me out of it, Will. The truth is, I need a break from this hit-and-run fighting, and you’re better at it than I am. If I can investigate Ro’s story, I’ll feel I’m making a difference.”

  “I hope this isn’t a wild-goose chase.”

  “I hope it is,” said Picard gravely. “A false rumor—even a trap intended to catch us—would be preferable to finding an artificial wormhole in Dominion control. If we find that it actually exists, then the fate of the Federation rests upon our actions, right here.”

  Riker scratched his beard. “I suppose it’s pointless to tell you to be careful in the middle of a war, but be careful.”

  “You, too.”

  Beverly Crusher strode over to the table and shook her head. “Captain Riker, your persistence will be duly noted in my log, but you failed yet again to talk some sense into him. That makes two of us. Now we need to get on with the procedure, because I have a full schedule of appointments today.”

  Riker glanced quickly at the tiny implants resting on a tray held by Nurse Ogawa. Picard tried not to look too closely at them either. When he awoke, his face would be altered to look Bajoran, and he would be given an earring.

  “I’ll check on the repairs to the Orb of Peace,” promised Riker as he backed out of the operating room.

  Brandishing a hypospray, Beverly gave the captain a professional smile. “Relax, Jean-Luc. I have to give you an anesthetic, but you’ll only be out for a short time.”

  Picard nodded, thinking that he wouldn’t mind a few minutes of blissful ignorance. As he felt the pressure of the hypo on his neck, he allowed his tense shoulders to relax. The urge to do something would soon be over. Like Don Quixote, he would be chasing either windmills or the biggest dragon in the kingdom.

  Sam Lavelle stood on the somber, gray bridge of the Tag Garwal, studying schematics of the antimatter tanker under his command. Sam had studied Cardassian vessels for years, and never more intently than in the weeks leading up to the war. This design was well known, on a par with Starfleet tankers of similar vintage. The Tag Garwal was no speed demon or luxury liner, but it was built to be sturdy, dependable, and uncomplicated. Sam didn’t think he and his handpicked crew would have any trouble mastering the craft.

  Professor Grof sat at an auxiliary console, running diagnostics on the tractor beam and the transporters a deck below them. He occasionally glanced at Sam to see what he was doing. The uncomfortable silence between them was beginning to make Sam nervous, and he tried to think of a subject safe enough for small talk.

  “Thank you for translating the manuals,” said Sam.

  “You’re welcome,” replied Grof brusquely. “But that was really Joulesh’s idea. Are you satisfied with the ship?”

  “I won’t know for sure until I take her for a little spin.”

  “About those little spins,” said Grof. “You’ll be closely watched. An attempt to make a break for it would be suicide.”

  “You don’t have to lay the company line on me,” said Sam angrily. “I know how things work around here. We’re more expendable than the Jem’Hadar, or even the Cardassians …”

  “You may be expendable, but I’m not!” protested Grof. “I’m irreplaceable, no matter who wins this thing.”

  “Don’t you even care!” Sam scowled. “Why should you? You’re already on their side.”

  “There’s more to being a prisoner than your feeble mind can envision!” hissed the Trill. “The Federation is the power in the Alpha Quadrant, and that’s why the Dominion is testing us. Although you can’t see it, everything we do in this secret complex is being judged and tested. For example, you had no idea they were paying such close attention to you, but your ability to voice dissatisfaction while being calm and reasonable was very impressive to them.”

  Grof sighed with frustration. “As you know, the Dominion has no real faith in the Cardassians—they’re just convenient locals. Someday this war will be over, and we’ll have to live with the Dominion. If you and I are a success on this mission, the worth of the entire Federation will go up in the eyes of the Founders.”

  “Oh, wonderful. Do you think they’ll give me a promotion?” Sam winced, knowing that he was losing the battle to avoid con
troversial subjects. He had to end this topic, before he said something he regretted to this traitor.

  “Listen, Grof, I’ll do the mission, and I’ll work with them—but don’t expect me to like it. I’m in this for survival, not science, or to score brownie points.”

  The Trill looked deeply disappointed, but he managed to say, “As long as your attitude remains pragmatic, we should succeed.”

  “Fine,” snapped Sam. Although he knew he should keep his mouth shut, he didn’t like Enrak Grof. There had to be some way to needle him without talking local politics.

  “So, what’s it like to be an unjoined Trill?” asked Sam.

  Grof snorted. “You mean, what’s it like to be a second-class citizen? Imagine your planetary society has a small segment of people who are automatically considered superior to everyone else, and they automatically get the best careers. Imagine that these people have several lifetimes of experience to draw upon, and you’re just starting the only lifetime you will ever get. How would you like to compete against them?”

  “I take it you didn’t pass the program?”

  “No, I failed,” admitted Grof. “My field docent didn’t like my attitude, or some such. Of course, when eighteen initiates apply for every available symbiont, they can afford to be choosy.”

  “So you found a field in which to excel, to spite them.”

  Grof’s dour, hirsute face broke into a slight smile. “I suppose I can thank them for some of my ambition and drive. But I firmly believe that I would have been doing this same work even if I had joined with a symbiont.”

  “Maybe that’s why they didn’t take you,” said Sam, “too headstrong.”

  Grof frowned. “At any rate, it has taken me twice as long to have my work and my theories recognized. I should have led teams on which I was only a member, because we had to have a joined Trill in charge.”

  “But the Dominion accepted you right from the start,” said Sam, putting it all together.