Behind Enemy Lines Page 8

  “Actually, Sam, I detect no monitoring devices or listening coils,” said Taurik. “I believe the ship is, as Joulesh said, unaltered except for improvements to the containment lockers and the absence of weapons. There is no reason why we should not speak freely. In fact, our odds of success depend upon the ability to communicate.”

  “Finally somebody is making sense,” muttered Grof. “Listen to the Vulcan. This isn’t a joke or a test—this is a vital mission for the success of the greatest invention in our history. I’ve already explained all of this to Lieutenant Lavelle, but the artificial wormhole will outlive all of us, including the Dominion and the Federation. This invention turns the entire galaxy into one neighborhood.”

  “Giving the Dominion the chance to take over the whole Milky Way,” snapped Leni Shonsui.

  “Don’t bother arguing with him,” muttered Sam. “I’ve already said everything you’re going to say, and he won’t listen.”

  “And what’s the deal with you?” asked Leni. “What did you do to make captain in the Dominion?”

  “I could ask you the same thing about your assignment to this ship. All of us have been blessed, or cursed, by the same fate. We’re here, we have a ship, and we have a job to do. Let’s get on with it, and we’ll worry about everything else later.”

  Enrique edged toward the ladder. “Does that replicator really have any food we want?”

  “I think so,” answered Sam. “Go ahead and enjoy yourselves, because I figure we probably won’t survive, even if we don’t do anything stupid.”

  “The odds of completing this mission without being destroyed are approximately ten to one—against,” added Taurik.

  Sam chuckled, letting the tension drain out of his handsome face. “Thank you, Taurik. Do you see? There’s no sense fighting with each other. The chances are good that we’re going to die in each other’s company, aboard this strange ship, no matter what we do. But at least we’ll die in space, not chained in a cell.”

  Grof scowled and strode toward the ladder, pushing Enrique out of the way. “We’re not going to die—we’re going to succeed!” He clomped down the ladder, his footsteps ringing all over the small ship.

  Sam watched the Trill disappear into the hatch, then he whispered, “With or without him, we’re going to make an escape. But not until I say so.”

  “Approaching ships,” warned Data.

  Will Riker bolted upright in the command chair of the Enterprise. “How many? From where?”

  “Three ships, Jem’Hadar battle cruisers, traversing sector nine-four-six-two on an interception course at warp eight,” answered the android.

  The acting captain of the Enterprise jumped to his feet and strode toward Data’s station. “Who are they after? Us, or the Orb of Peace?”

  “It would seem to be us, sir. It has now been nine minutes and thirty-two seconds since the Orb of Peace entered Cardassian space, and they appear to be undetected.” The android looked earnestly at Riker. “Estimated arrival time of the Jem’Hadar: twenty-one minutes and thirty seconds.”

  “Are there any Starfleet vessels that can help us?”

  “None that can reach us in time.”

  Riker scowled. “We can’t stand up to three cruisers. We have time to run, but we’ll have to stop tracking the away team.”

  “Not necessarily, sir.” Data cocked his head. “The Enterprise must retreat, but I could take a small shuttlecraft and land on the sixth planet of the Kreel solar system. With the shuttlecraft’s sensors, I could monitor the transport until the danger has passed. If I maintain my relative position, I could monitor them indefinitely.”

  “That’s a class-Q planet,” said Riker with distaste, imagining its cold temperatures and deadly methane atmosphere. Then he realized that class Q or class M was all the same to Data.

  “Its inhospitality will prevent the Dominion from following me. I can land in the polar region where the methane is frozen.”

  “We can beam you down,” said Riker.

  “I would prefer to have a shuttlecraft, so I can be mobile.”

  Making an instant decision, Riker motioned toward the turbolift. “Go.”

  In a blur, the android leaped from his seat and rushed off the bridge. A replacement officer, who looked young enough to be Riker’s daughter, settled into his vacated seat.

  “Bridge to shuttlebay one,” said Riker, “prepare a shuttlecraft for Commander Data. He’s on his way.”

  “Yes, sir,” came the response.

  The acting captain tugged on his beard as he paced the circular bridge of the Enterprise. This was his worst nightmare—taking over the ship in the midst of a crisis without Captain Picard, Geordi, or Data. Not only was he worried about his friends, but he was worried about the effectiveness of the crew without her senior staff. He was surrounded by newly minted ensigns fresh from the Academy; half their names he didn’t know. Riker wondered whether Beverly Crusher would like to take over for him now.

  “Estimated arrival time of enemy ships: nineteen minutes,” reported the young ops officer with a slight tremolo to her voice.

  The captain stopped behind the conn. “If they want to chase us, let’s lure them to the rendezvous point and get some help. Set course two-five-eight-mark-six-four.”

  “Yes, sir.” The blue-skinned Bolian plied his console. “Course set.”

  Riker strode toward Ensign Craycroft. “Tactical, send a message to Starfleet and tell them we’re on our way, and that we’re bringing company—three Jem’Hadar battle cruisers.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ensign Craycroft turned on her communications panel and began to enter the message.

  Riker looked back at ops. “Commander Data?”

  “He is entering the shuttlecraft Cook. Launch sequence in progress … opening shuttlebay doors.”

  “On screen.” Riker stepped back to see the hurried launch on the viewscreen. For the second time that day, he watched a small ship soar from the belly of the Enterprise, looking like a bat escaping from a cave into the dead of night.

  “Five hundred kilometers, six hundred kilometers, seven hundred kilometers—” droned the ops officer.

  “Good luck, Data,” muttered Riker. “Conn, prepare to go to maximum warp. Engage.”

  In a halo of golden light, the sleek starship elongated into the sparkling starscape and vanished. Thousands of kilometers away, a tiny shuttlecraft veered toward a medium-large planet engulfed in noxious ivory gases.

  Ro Laren paced across the tastefully illuminated but cramped bridge of the Orb of Peace, thinking their return to Cardassian space had been too easy, too uneventful. Unless a big operation was afoot and most of the Dominion ships were occupied, they should have been hailed or intercepted by now. After all, they were making a straight shot across a war zone toward one of the Dominion’s most sensitive areas.

  “No sign of any ships?” she asked Picard, who was still seated at the conn. In their agreed-upon chain of command, she was captain of the ship, and he was in command of the mission. For a veteran officer, the captain had been remarkably calm about taking a subordinate role to her own. Perhaps a real captain didn’t need to have a special chair, extra pips on his collar, and everyone saluting him. Captain Picard’s bearing and dignity were enough to warrant the respect of anyone in his presence.

  He shook his head. “There is traffic in several solar systems along our route, but no one seems overly interested in us.”

  “It’s too easy,” said Ro with concern. “We’re being watched, evaluated—I can feel it. By the time they come after us, it will be too late; they will have made up their minds.”

  Picard tugged on his earring, a tic he was beginning to develop.

  “Then let’s alter our course,” Picard suggested. “Pick a typical solar system that is inhabited, go there and look like we’re doing some trading.”

  “That will throw us off our timetable,” said the ops officer.

  “Getting killed will throw us off even more,” replied Ro, g
lowering at the man.

  Picard nodded to his officer. “Find us a likely planet. Quickly.”

  “We have goods to trade, don’t we?” asked Ro.

  “Yes,” answered the captain. “We replicated a supply of zajerberry wine, Bajoran silk, and tetralubisol. Plus, we have a box of Bajoran religious tracts.”

  “If we survive this, maybe I’ll read them,” muttered Ro.

  “Won’t it look odd for us to be trading with a Cardassian colony?” asked the ops officer.

  “I wouldn’t be terribly concerned about that,” answered Picard. “According to Starfleet Intelligence, the Cardassians developed quite a taste for Bajoran goods during the occupation, and Bajor is still trying to rebuild its economy. Under the circumstances it will just look like a wise business decision.”

  Behind her, the ops officer sighed loudly, not happy with his options. “There’s a Cardassian farming colony on the sixth planet of System H-949.”

  “All right then. Set course for it and make our way slowly, at warp one,” ordered Ro. “I want them to see that we’ve changed course.”

  Since Picard was stationed at the conn, it was his decision whether to obey the order, and everyone on the bridge was watching him. Without hesitation, he punched in the new coordinates. “New course entered. We’d better come out of warp to change course.”

  There was a slight tremor in the primitive craft as it slowed and made an awkward course correction. Then the warp engines revved once more, and the transport shot into space, headed toward an obscure Cardassian colony.

  Ro sighed, not certain whether her relief was over the course change or the fact that the fake Bajorans had obeyed her order. Her authority over this crew extended solely from Captain Picard, and no one else. Without his faith in her, she was nothing but a grubby refugee to this crew of young upstarts. They were brave and eager to face the enemy, while she was jumpy and cautious. In Cardassian space, surrounded by the enemy, she much preferred her collection of well-earned fears to their naq

  veté.

  “They’re here,” said Picard grimly as he studied his screen. “Two warships are now in pursuit of us. One Jem’Hadar and one Cardassian.”

  “I knew they were watching. Maintain course and speed.” Ro turned to face the crew. “We have to confront them and prove who we are—to get them off our tracks. Had we waited too long, heading directly for the Badlands, they would’ve decided on their own that we were spies. How much time do we have?”

  “Eleven minutes until interception,” said the ops officer, a trace of fear in his formerly condescending voice.

  “When they hail us,” said Ro, “be friendly and do whatever they ask. Remember, the Cardassians treat their riding hounds better than they treat Bajorans. We’re awfully lucky that we got a Jem’Hadar ship in the mix.”

  “We usually don’t feel that way,” said Picard with a wan smile.

  Ro tapped her Bajoran comm badge and spoke in a loud voice. “Captain Ro to the ship’s complement: all off-duty personnel are to go immediately to the cargo bay and unpack the zajerberry wine. Put out samples of all the cargo. Arrange it nicely, as if it’s always on display. Bridge out.”

  “Shall we go on yellow alert?” asked the ops officer uncertainly.

  “No, don’t do anything that looks even remotely aggressive. We’ll either talk our way out of this or die here and now.”

  The lanky Bajoran gazed at Picard. “I notice that one of the ‘improvements’ you made to my ship was to add a self-destruct sequence. Feel free to ready it. I, for one, don’t want to be tortured. How about you?”

  The captain cleared his throat and returned her gaze. “I’ll bring it up on my console, keeping it in the background. I won’t move from this station. If capture looks imminent, I’ll arm it with a ten-second delay.”

  Ro nodded. “We always did think alike.”

  “We’re being hailed,” said tactical.

  “On screen.” Ro turned to look at the viewscreen framed with platitudes, and fear clamped her spine. Instead of the spiny Jem’Hadar face she had hoped to see, a bony, scaly Cardassian face stared at her. He smiled with the delight of a sadistic schoolmaster having caught a tardy student.

  “And what have we here?” he said snidely. “Bajorans in the Cardassian Union? Roaming freely?”

  “Good day to you, noble captain,” replied Ro in as obsequious a tone as she could manage. “We are no longer enemies—we are practically allies, thanks to the benevolence of the Dominion.”

  That wiped the smirk off the Cardassian’s face. “Come to a full stop and prepare to be boarded.”

  “We would welcome that,” said Ro brightly, “as we are looking for the opportunity to trade with your people.”

  “What do you have that we could possibly want?” asked the Cardassian doubtfully.

  “Zajerberry wine,” answered Ro slyly. She knew that Picard’s comments had been on the mark. The Cardassians had developed a taste for the stuff while they occupied Bajor. She had once smuggled some out of Quark’s place on Deep Space Nine to buy the release of Maquis prisoners.

  “Prepare to be boarded.” The Cardassian scowled, and the screen went blank.

  With movements that were so fast they could not be fully appreciated by a human eye, Data scurried around his type-9 personnel shuttlecraft, the Cook. He quickly filled two shielded cases with tricorders, weapons, tools, a distress beacon, and emergency supplies, leaving food and water behind. The android took a final glance at his console and confirmed that one of the Jem’Hadar battle cruisers had indeed broken off from the others and gone into orbit around Kreel VI, the uninhabited planet on which he had taken refuge.

  If Data didn’t want his shuttlecraft to be detected and destroyed, he had to shut down all systems. Plus, he knew it would be prudent to run some distance from the shuttlecraft in case the Jem’Hadar sent down a probe and discovered it. Fortunately, a scan of the planet for life signs would not reveal his existence. Unfortunately, after he turned off all systems, he would be unable to track the Orb of Peace. After the danger passed, he would have to depend upon the transport’s last known position and scan from there. It would be highly imprecise.

  Experiencing a sense of urgency, Data powered down the shuttlecraft. After a brief pause, the interior of the small vessel was plunged into total darkness. Data could sense his surroundings perfectly well as he opened the hatch manually, something which would have required two humans to accomplish in the heavy gravity of Kreel VI.

  Monstrous winds and sleeting methane snow pelted Data as he darted outside, carrying a large case in each hand. His feet crunched on the frozen tundra, and he didn’t even want to think about how cold it was. Data set down the cases long enough to shut the door; then he surveyed his surroundings.

  Visibility was almost zero in the blizzard, and Data relied upon his built-in sensors to locate an outcropping of rocks about three kilometers away. As the only landmark in the area, it would have to serve as his destination.

  At a fast jog, leaping over fissures, he crossed the uneven ground, conscious of the opaque ice beneath his feet. The very fact that the Jem’Hadar had stopped to look for him on this inhospitable planet proved that their technology was quite advanced. They were thorough and determined—a dangerous adversary. Although the Jem’Hadar were biological beings, Data felt some kinship with them. Like himself, they had been engineered to serve without question in a multitude of situations, and they did so without complaint or selfish motives.

  He heard a wrenching explosion somewhere behind him, and a sheet of methane blasted his back. A human would have been pitched off his feet by the impact of the shock wave, but Data just kept loping across the uneven terrain, hardly able to see his own legs in the driving snow. He suddenly detected high readings of radiation, enough to kill most creatures.

  With his emotion chip turned off, the android felt no fear, but he spent a microsecond deciding that he was in serious trouble. His shuttlecraft probably destroyed
, his shipmates scattered in different directions, he was all alone, except for an enemy cruiser with a complement of several hundred Jem’Hadar. If the Enterprise was destroyed, nobody in the universe would know where he was, even if he did manage to survive this incident.

  Data’s most unsettling conclusion, however, was that his mission had already failed. If the shuttlecraft was destroyed, he could not track the Orb of Peace, nor could he catch their distress beacon when they released it. They were also on their own.

  His legs began to pump uphill through ice and rubble, and Data realized that he had reached his destination. The rocky tor offered scant shelter, but it stood forty meters tall and might disguise his mass and metallic components from their sensors.

  As there was nothing to see, Data didn’t bother to look for a vantage point. He set his cases down at the first level ground he came to, then crouched between them, ready to use them for shields. The tor seemed to consist of bedrock, which was some consolation to the android, because it might withstand an attack. Data waited, watching for the Jem’Hadar to emerge from the dense clouds and snow that swirled all around him.

  A dabo-girl smile plastered to her face, Ro Laren stood by in the cargo bay, which had been hastily converted into a showroom. She watched half a dozen Cardassians paw her merchandise and shove her crew around, while another half a dozen trained their weapons on the helpless Bajorans. A gray-haired gul named Ditok had beamed down with the inspection team, and he rifled through the silks, then moved on to the red-clay bottles of wine.

  “An excellent vintage,” chirped Ro. “Would you like to try some?”

  He glared at her. “You have the impertinence to think that I would drink while on duty. Or that I would even like this Bajoran urine?”

  His men chuckled politely, while Gul Ditok grabbed a bottle and hefted it. “Probably replicated, if it isn’t totally fake.”

  “I can verify its authenticity,” promised Ro, “although the truth is in the tasting.” She hoped the Starfleet replicators had been up to the task—some Cardassians were experts on zajerberry wine.