Star Trek Deep Space 9 26 The Rebels Rebels Liberated

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Star Trek - DS9 - 026 - Rebels Liberated

CHAPTER 1

MAJOR KIRA NERYS stood rigid, forcing her body not to tremble in suppressed anger and

humiliation. It was all the Bajoran freedom fighter could do not to leap across the brief gap and throttle

the black-clad, black-helmeted alien "dean" who now commanded Deep Space Nine... or EmissaryW

Sanctuary, as Kai Winn had renamed it--the same Kai Winn who had just surrendered the station to the

"Liberated," as the invaders had called themselves.

The Liberated said little but the necessary. But that was a welcome change from the more loathsome,

loquatious representatives of the Dominion, the Vorta--and from the harsh Jem'Hadar, who would

already have slapped a restraining field on Kira, the Kai, and the other Bajorans. These unknowns were

gentle, at least, now that they'd won the station. Have to change the name to Hot Potato, thought Kira

with a curled lip, the way we're passing it around from hand to hand. Living among humans had taught

her many old Earth expressions.

"Courage, child," said the Kai in a monumentally condescending attempt at raising Kira's spirits.

"The Prophets send tribulations to test us." "Did you say that during the Occupation, too?" The words

were out before Kira could swallow them, but she was secretly glad she'd said it: too many people,

herself included, tiptoed around the blind, stubborn Kai Winn as if she were a glacier, unturnable and

irresistible.

"Yes, child, I did." Winn turned to stare at Kira's face, bringing a flush of self-consciousness to the

major's cheek. Kira kept her eyes on the invader dean, who was quietly ordering his troops into quite an

effective occupation of all three Promenade levels. "And at last, we passed that test," said the Kai.

Kira clenched her teeth so hard, she felt one of them crack. There was nothing she could do but obey the

dean's last order to stand still and not move: Kai Winn, Kira's commanding officer and governor of the

station, had surrendered to the Liberated, and the Bajoran frigates had backed far enough away not to

be a factor. Not that they couM have done anything but die gallantly, she thought, tasting another lump of

bile; we were outgunned, out fought, and out thought. Already, the ghosts of three hundred Bajoran souls

haunted Kira Neryswthe number lost in the first naval wave sent by Bajor to reinforce the Emissary~

Sanctuary and its governor, the Kai.

Kira snuck a glance to her right. The Kai wore a sweet smile, the vapid mask of "serenity" that Kira had

learned hid a capable and determined middleaged woman, a true leader of her beleaguered people.

Kira fought the illusion that Kai Winn projected.

The major struggled to remember that Winn could be as bloodthirsty and dangerous as any Resistance

fighter, no matter how much or little she might have done during the Resistance. We fought in different

ways, Kira caught herself thinking; now my way is futile... couM the Kai Winn route still be viable?

The futility of fighting had been demonstrated to Kira a few scant minutes after she and the Kai met the

alien dean on the Promenade three hours ago.

Then, Kira had been her angry self, coldly confronting the dean and demanding, demanding... what?

Everything: that the prisoners be treated gently, that the station integrity be respected, that the Liberated

apologize, beg forgiveness, and get off Deep Space Nine/But Kai Winn passed on an opportunity to

back up her executive officer, offering only that the name of the station was Emissary~ Sanctuary now.

Furious, Kira turned on her Kai. "That's it?

That's all you can say?" Winn smiled gently through the tirade, irritating Kira even further. "Child, the

Way of the Prophets is not the child's blind resistance to authority. I'm sure our new masters will be kind

to the Bajorans, who freely offer to share the Orb, the far-seeing anomaly." Kai Winn turned to the dean.

"Won't you?" "Bajorans will not be harmed," said the universaltranslator implant in Kira's head, the

clicking and buzzing of the alien's actual speech an annoying background noise.

"And what about those who aren't Bajorans?" asked Kira, beginning to tremble as she held back a wall

of rage. "Jake Sisko, and Nog, and--and Garak." Did I really just say that, fretting for the safety of that

butcher? "And what about our freedom? Is that just another casualty of war?" She was shouting at the

dean, but her fury was directed more at Kai Winn for her betrayal.

Dropping her hands to her side, Kira's thumb brushed the combat knife she still carried. She had of

course surrendered her phaser rifle and hand phaser, but she had conveniently forgotten about the largely

ceremonial "kolba~ tooth" commando knife, which she had worn all through the Resistance. Then, though

used only once to kill, it had come in handy a thousand times to open a food pack or cut a fishing line.

Without thinking, her hand curled around the wooden haft. She slid it from the sheathe, silent as the

grave, and concealed it up behind her forearm.

Kira glanced at the Kai... but she could never turn her wrath on one annointed by the Prophets, no

matter what the betrayal. Kai Winn will never get a knife in the back from me, whatever the provocation.

At that moment the alien dean turned his back to order a complete search of all buildings on the

Promenade. Kira had a single chance and took it.

She leapt the short distance, thrusting directly forward with the blade in a brutal and efficient lunge.

Evidently the Liberated boasted significantly quicker reaction time than Bajorans. The dean barely

glanced back over his shoulder as he hooked his foot up and slightly deflected Kira's lunge, which missed

wide. Giving her a gentle push in the direction she was already moving, he flung Kira to the ground with

disturbing ease. Then he picked up his conversation where he'd left off. Meanwhile, three other aliens

dogpiled on Kira's back, wrenching the knife from her grasp and nearly breaking her wrist in the bargain.

The black-clad invaders were anonymous, their heads in tight-fitting, opaque helmets, or so Kira

originally thought. Close up, she saw there were no helmets. Their faces were featureless cyphers, and

she felt her stomach turn despite long exposure to disgusting aliens. Sensory organs buried inside, she

realized; built to withstand terrible punishment.

Feeling the hardness of the bodies pinning her, she understood with revulsion that they wore no armor, as

she first imagined: their outer skin was an insectlike carapace covered only with a layer of metallic

clothing. They needed no suits or helmets, not even to cross the abyss of space between their ships and

the station, nothing but what looked like some kind of foil, to protect them against the background

cosmic radiation. Perfect killing machines.

And they let her up. Her captors helped Kira to her feet and didn't even bother binding her hands.

They even gave her back her knife. Burning with humiliation, Kira shuffled back to stand alongside her

Kai... who throughout her attempt had never stopped negotiating diplomatically with the dean.

I'm not the slightest threat to them, Major Kira realized. I'm a chiM with a toy sword.

Hours later she still felt the dull ache of uselessness, the same claustrophobic feeling of horror that had

driven her to join the Resistance at such a young age. Today, however, there was no outlet. Kira's

shoulders slumped, and she could barely work up the energy for verbal defiance.

One certainty echoed through her head: despite the Kai's seeming surrender, she knew that Winn had no

intention of giving up either control of the station or hegemony in Bajor, that she would never voluntarily

turn over so much power.

Kai Winn must have a plan, some plan, some amazing, unexpected plan that would cast out the tide and

reclaim the dry land! If Major Kira could only control her temper and work with Kai Winn, together they

still had a chance--many chances--to unspill the water jug. ú.. Or at least, any other thought was

intolerable to the major. Bajorans, and most especially Kira Nerys, could not live without hope. And the

most burning desire in Kira's stomach, she admitted to herself shamefully, was to live through the ordeal--

to survive.

Light-years away, on a strange and different world, Security Chief Odo sat rigidly on an overturned

barrel, puzzling over the sheaf of documents Tivvama, daughter of hereditary Mayor Asta-ha, had just

shoved into his hands.

Odo pored over the pages she had scrawled on in her childish hand. At first, he humored her: he began a

suitable period of study, to be followed by a pat on the head and some encouraging words.

But as he read section after section, Odo became so enthralled he forgot even to simulate breath.

What Tivva-ma had pushed into his indulgent hands was less a manifesto, as she had claimed, than a fully

developed constitution for a complex trade republic; it included a declaration of rights and duties that

balanced so nicely, Odo thought the United Federation of Planets might want to take a look.

"Tivva-ma, where did you say you got this?" The girl put her hands over her eyes, shyly refusing to

answer.

"Did your mother work it out?" She grunted, meaning No. "Owena-da? One of the away--one of us

officers?" "Uh-uh." Abruptly, the waif threw her arms wide, exposing a huge grin set against her pale blue

hair and alabaster skin. "I did!" Odo slowly lowered the pages into his lap, restraining the pulse of

excitement that whirled round his mind, which was his whole body. Easy, easy.

Maybe she didn't understand the question. Maybe she g lying or mistaken. Choosing his most imperious

schoolmaster tone, he began to question Tivvama about specifics and particulars. But at every query, he

was satisfied: the tot knew the proposal backward and forward, at least. And in her squeaky, little-girl

voice, she defended the provisions from all attack, whether the tricameral judicial legislature, the

ceremonial and functional presidents, the selection and evaluation criteria for government officials, or the

minimalist nature of state authority. After a quarter hour of discussion Odo was reeling from her

observations, calling into question as they did everything he had ever believed anent the value of law in

guiding good behavior.

Odo rose, holding the pages carefully. He wanted to scan them into a computer and compare them to the

constitutions of thousands of societies in the Federation memory banks... but a more important task

loomed. "Child, what you have created is brilliant. You are a shining star. But we cannot set up a

government until we have a society at least--a community!" Tivva-ma gasped; her eyes showed she had

been stunned by Odo's critique. "ThaFs what I forgot! I knew I forgot something, but I couldn't

remember what it was." The girl turned and sped like a lightning discharge back toward the temporary

camp. She paused, just before the scattered trees that hid the shelters. "I'11 be right back! Wait.... "

Then she grinned sheepishly. "Actually, it might take a couple a days." She dashed away; if Odo had

blinked, he would have missed her exit.

Suddenly freed from the darkness of technoutopia, the Natives, as Commander Dax called them, had lit

up as though suddenly electrified. They had been living their lives unchallenged, with nothing to tax the

brain beyond a few peripatetic raids of one village by another, and the simple act of destroying the

hemisphere's power grid had energized them like the spark of life. The socially infantile Natives flickered

suddenly at the threshhold of intellectual puberty.

How far will they go? wondered the constable, looking nervously back over his shoulder at the away

team's own camp. How soon will the Tiffnaki surpass us?And what will they do then, when we're no

longer useful to the them? He snorted, taking refuge in sensible cynicism. They were still the same

Natives: Mayor-General Asta-ha had once again changed the name of her villagers, the third time in the

ten days since Captain Sisko, Odo, and the rest of the away team had blown the power generators: from

Tiffnaki to Tivvnaffi to Vanaffi, and now to Vanimastavvi. So what if their IQs were already cruising past

200 on their way up? Their personalities had hardly changed--and that was a better measure of who one

was than raw brain power. Or so the constable and the rest of the away team had told themselves at

every opportunity.

He heard a terrible, hacking cough from Chief O'Brien. Odo felt a twinge of guilt that he alone of all the

team members didn't experience the asthmatic agony produced by microscopic, poisonous algae in the

atmosphere. Captain Sisko had concocted a slapdash antitoxin from his own emergency Medi- Kit, but it

couldn't compensate for the algae anywhere near as well as Dr. Bashir's original had. We must return to

the Defiant, thought Odo. But the Defiant had disappeared from orbit and was not communicating.

The constable heard a wild patter and someone screaming semicoherently. He leapt to his feet, already

annoyed even before he recognized the owner of the bare feet pounding in the latinurn-laced mud toward

the constable. But he was struck dumb at the sight of mad Quark, naked save for a large, palm-like frond

wrapped around his midsection, dashing like a frog monster toward Odo's "courthouse stump." The

Ferengi's eyes were wide and wild, his skin a livid pink-tinged orange under the ruddy sun.

"Do something--do something! You--you--just do something, by the Final Accountant! Or I'll..." The

Ferengi heaved and panted, gripping his frond, simultaneously enraged and humiliated.

"Oh dear, Quark. Mind snapped at last?" Odo tsktsked and turned back to Tivva-ma's astonishing

constitution.

"I've been robbed! By force!" Quark mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that last part?" asked Odo, half-sure he knew what the Ferengi had said but wanting the

pleasure of hearing it aloud.

Quark closed his eyes, took a deep breath, facing up to the latest outrage against his Ferengi sensibilities.

"I said, I've been robbed by force--of fraud." "Force of fraud? Is that what you call it?" Odo smirked, a

talent he had perfected through long years of dealing with the Ferengi bartender. "In other words, your

little Native friends, whom you've been swindling out of everything they owned before you came

here--oh, I have notes!--and I'm going to file quite an interesting report when we get back to the

station... your friends have now turned the tables on you, Quark, and beaten you out of every slip and

strip. And from the look of things," Odo stretched his finger out to poke nastily at Quark's bare chest,

"you've been kind enough to let them have the shirt off your back. How generous of you!" Quark paced

up and down nervously, waving his arms in agitation; the mauve-colored palm frond slipped and almost

fell. "You raise them, you try to help them, teach them everything you know--" "And they turn around and

out-Ferengi the Ferengi. So you, too, are discovering the full mental abilities of our Native friends, eh,

Quark? Now that we've kicked away the crutch of new tech." Odo threw the sheaf of papers down on

the barrelhead.

"Forget your petty losses for a moment. You see this formative document? It puts to shame the

constitutions of every planet in the Federation and, not incidentally, all my own research on the ideal

government. And it was drafted this afternoon by an eight-year-old child." The constable shook his head,

speaking more to himself than his audience. "With all the changes around here, the Natives decided to put

together a workable society to deal with the Cardassian/ Drek'la invasion and the sudden loss of their

magical technology. I helped them a little with some sociological information and some organizing

documents... and I get back this." Constable and Ferengi sighed in unexpected harmony, to Odo's

chagrin. Quark sat gingerly, holding the frond carefully to prevent undue financial exposure. "I wonder

how Commander Worf is doing?" After a beat, the Ferengi grinned wickedly. Only the iron will of

Constable Odo prevented him from doing the same. The image of Commander Worf trying to "instruct" a

class full of inquisitive, socially inept military geniuses raised his spirits tenfold.

Elsewhere on the planet, the Cardassian prisoner, Gul Ragat, walked in front of Julian Bashir like a man

already dead whose legs had not yet gotten the message. Jadzia Dax followed somewhere far behind and

to the side, so that she and Julian would not drift close enough to make a single target. I wish we could

talk, thought the doctor. But speech would have informed the prisoner that they were Federation, and

Dax wanted to hold that information in reserve.

The Gul had recovered somewhat. The doctor quietly scanned him while he rested and determined that

Ragat had no serious injuries--minor burns and abrasions, smoke inhalation, bruises, and other

blunt-force trauma, but nothing life-threatening.

The diagnosis was a relief. Had Gul Ragat required medical treatment, not all the wild splitheads on

Sierra-Bravo 112-II could have stopped Bashir from doing his medical duty, and their cover as "Natives"

would have been blown; Ragat would then realize that Starfleet officers had infiltrated the

CardassiardDrek'la occupation.

So what would that mean? wondered Julian; what's he going to do, publish it in a news clip? Still, the

lovely Jadzia (who had insisted upon command prerogative) had gone to great lengths to guard that

secret. The Cardassians and their Drek'la crew evidently believed that the Deftant had crashed and

burned in the ocean--when in fact it lay submerged in shallow water, intact, under the command of Ensign

Joson Wabak and a couple other junior officers, waiting to lift off when the Cardassians and Drek'la

were cleansed from orbit. So long as no soldiers of the Empire knew that the Defiant still lived, they

wouldn't waste time searching for her.

So maybe Jadzia is right after all, Bashir tentatively concluded. Still it was a pain: they couldn't talk for

fear the Gul's "universal translator," or whatever the Cardassians called their version, would warn Ragat

that Julian and Dax were speaking a Federation, not Native, language. They couldn't show their faces--or

even let Ragat look back at them for fear his sharp, Cardassian eyes would penetrate the disguise.

But nothing stopped the Gul himself from talking, which he did without concern for their stony silence.

"They couldn't take my title. The house was far too old for that. But they took everything else. Stripped

of all rating. No command, no authority, no face. Do you know what it's like to enter a room and hear

only silence? I knew Legate Migar and Gul Dukat personally. I was on the list--on the list, I say. I was to

be legate, legate! Until... she came and dashed the cup from my lips. She spilled it on the ground-- my

honor, my promotion, even my governorship. I was a governor, that's what I tell you. But there were

those, those--don't think I didn't know who they were! Neemak, now he was the one to watch. He was

the one who waited, any slip, a weakness. And she gave it to him in a silver chalice. She, she, she. Don't

mind me--I'm an old man now, I run on. You know what it's like? It's entering a room and hearing all

conversation cease, the music, dead silence. Do you know?" Julian Bashir continued to walk silently

behind as they headed toward the hidden skimmer; there was only one left now, the other having long

since run out of fuel and been abandoned. The ex-Gul rattled on, an old man with a new, fresh ear for the

first time probably in decades. He told them more than they wanted to know about his pain and suffering,

his banishment. He never mentioned the name of the woman who had done him wrong (a failed love

affair?) save that she was his sister, or perhaps a friend close enough to be called Sister.

Jadzia didn't so much as glance at the prisoner.

The doctor felt pangs of guilt. Ragat had made some sort of terrible mistake long ago, something

involving a woman, and had been stripped of all his positions and power. No wonder he had fled the

Empire and tried to stake out a life far across the quadrant. To a Cardassian, losing face was infinitely

worse than losing one's life.

But Bashir and Dax's own problems were more pressing than understanding the enemy: they had to find

Captain Sisko and link up. He didn't know that the Defiant was still on (actually under) the surface, or

that they were waiting for his signal via oldfashioned radio waves, which neither the Cardassians nor the

vicious, automatic planetary defenses were likely to monitor. Dax, Bashir, and the junior officers back on

the ship needed to know what the captain intended, fight or flee; either an attack on the Cardassians and

their Drek'la allies or abandonment of the mission would have to be coordinated between Sisko, Dax,

and Wabak back on the Defiant.

The day was hot and steamy, the ground broken, the sun reflected from brittle crystals in the latinumlaced

soil. Gul Ragat fell to his knees without warning, palms loudly slapping the baked mud. The old man had

had it for now. But they were near enough the hidden skimmer that they could stop for the night, and

mount up and ride in the morning. If we're chummy enough, thought the doctor, I suppose it can carry the

three of us.

Commander Dax caught Julian's eye; she gestured at the ground, then formed a triangle with index fingers

and thumbs. The doctor was puzzled for a moment, before he connected the gesture with the stylized

image of a tent: they didn't have one, but the idea was clear: camp here for the night.

Julian sat down, surprised at how tired he felt. It took even more energy to remain lithe and graceful (as a

genetic freak should, he added to himself) than merely to march in the bright, red sun. Jadzia, with no

reputation to protect, had the easy job.

Gul Ragat continued to talk. He spoke of the invasion of Sierra-Bravo, speaking with repugnance of the

"aborigines," how primitive and savage they were, how disgusting, what a perversion of men. His bigotry

was bright but blunted by impotence: there was nothing Gul Ragat would ever be able to do about the

Natives again, and he knew it. He could curse them freely now, for he was himself free of responsibility:

having surrendered to the two of them, he could at last also surrender to his bottledup rage, humiliation,

and prejudice.

After several early attempts by Ragat to turn and look at his captors, the Gul had got the message; he

kept his back to the Starfleet officers as he lay on his side, breathing too deeply. Worried, Julian again

scanned Ragat from behind. I'm not sure, he thought, but I think some internal bleeding may have started

up. Julian decided that during the night, while Gul Ragat slept, his ghoulish doctor, like a reverse vampire,

would slip some life into the old fellow.

The ragged breathing provoked an empathy in Julian Bashir that burned beyond the Hippocratic oath. He

gently laid a hand on the Gul's shoulder from behind, squeezing gently.

Ragat cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said.

"Good night, doctor." Alarmed, Julian stared at Dax; but the Trill frowned and shook her head. Probably

just an honorific, Julian nodded, then lay back to look at the stars.

Just before drifting into a troubled sleep, Gul Ragat raised his voice again to a throaty whisper, which was

all he could still manage. "And good night to you too... Commander Dax." Julian grinned, unwilling to

look the startled and probably stunned Jadzia Dax in the face. All that care, the silence, the face

masks/And all along, the damned Cardassian had known exactly who his captors were.

With a quiet chuckle, Julian, too, drifted into the shadowlands, too exhausted even to consider eating.

CHAPTER 2

COMMANDER WORF had his hands full of mayor: he was holding the "mayor-general," Asta-ha, the

mother of Tivva-ma, in a pressure hold from which she struggled desperately to escape.

The Klingon was surprised by the female's ingenuity: she independently invented several holdbreaking

maneuvers that Worf had not even taught yet. A brilliant pupil! Unfortunately, her lithe but weak body

was not up to the level of her tactical brain. Finally, Worf allowed his hold to be broken by Asta-ha's

third attempt: creativity in combat must always be encouraged in a student.

"You have progressed adequately," he praised; "but the weakness of your body holds you back. You

must reapply yourself to a vigorous calisthenics program until your muscles respond." Owena-da, a

constant irritant, stepped forward.

Worf prepared to bellow the man into silence; but unexpectedly, the Native "tech-master" came to

attention and saluted... a first for Owena-da. "Sir, request permission to speak freely." "Request denied.

You will use all proper forms of address as you speak." Owena-da already took too many liberties, and

Worf was not about to give him more.

"Aye, aye, sir. Sir, this recruit recommends a change in the PT program." "Oh. You do? I am sure the

Klingon Military Command Council will be eager to hear your suggestions." "Thank you, sir! This recruit

has prepared an anatomical kinesthetic analysis of the physicaltraining regime, sir. Including suggestions

for increasing the efficiency and speed of bodily responses through nondestructive hormone therapy."

From nowhere, Owena-da pulled a sheaf of paper, which the villagers had lately invented. From where

Worf stood, he could see that it was covered with a dense thicket of crabbed writing in the language

used by Starfleet--a language the Natives had learned in five days.

The Klingon sighed, accepting the pages and handwaving Owena-da back into the ranks. Worf did not

look at the paper... not yet. "On your faces," he said quietly, but with absolute authority.

The Natives dropped quickly to the standard push-up position. "Down, up," began Worf; "down, up,

down, up, down, up... halfway down." Worf held them halfway through a single push-up, waiting until he

heard groans and saw them beginning to collapse before resuming the count.

An hour later, safely ensconced in his makeshift bivouac tent, the Klingon read through Owena-da's

analysis with mounting irritation and frustration.

He keenly felt the slap to his authority--a raw recruit, telling Worf of House Mogh how to teach physical

training! It was a deadly insult to his military bearing, his honor, and his house. And the most humiliating

factor was that Worf would have to implement Owena-da's training recommendations immediately,

because they were brilliant and insightful and training time was horribly short.

Worf brooded for too long after finishing the paper. Honor dictated that he would even have to submit

the paper to the Federation journal for immediate adoption throughout Starfleet and the civilian milieu.

And Worf's honorable role in defending Sierra- Bravo against the Cardassian/Drek'la invasion would

forever be subsumed under the Natives' miraculous tactical and training innovations. For generations,

their genius had been blocked by instant access to all the "new tech" their hearts desired.

Now, under the stress of having to fend for their own lives, the native intellectual capacity was bursting

forth like the human war goddess Athena erupting from the head of Zeus in Worffs favorite human myth,

taught him by his foster father.

And who would draw the lesson for the Federation itself?. "And who was it who warned of this danger?"

he asked aloud; the wind supplied no answer.

Nobody would remember. Worf's honor had been snatched by Klingon thieves, won back at enormous

cost... and now was about to be buried under the casual brilliance of a race of supergenius dilettantes.

The situation was intolerable. But Worf was a Klingon, and had a duty to perform, so the intolerable

would be tolerated. He rose; the squadron would have set up their spring traps by now, ready to be

tested. The Klingon grimaced as he ducked through the tent flap, dreading the marvelous innovations in

booby trapping he was about to see.

Major Kira lay on the deck on Level Four, held prone by a heavy foot planted on her cervical vertibrae.

She made no attempt to struggle; she already knew it would be useless. Of course, the whole damned

thing is useless, isn't it? Through overlong familiarity, the thought barely bothered her anymore.

She listened at the corner of her ear to the dean: "You are not worthy of trust. You must be restrained.

You will wear the collar of slaves." The Kai's voice sounded offstage, faintly chastising without

provoking. "As you were restrained by the Dominion?" A long silence. "Yes, as we were." "I see." Kai

Winn's tone would have chilled a winter river.

Kira, however, could hardly imagine caring less than she did at that moment. The station was lost.

The brave Bajorans had accepted surrender. Even the vaunted Federation was stymied... there had been

no further reaction to the seizure of Deep Space Nine. She was yanked to her feet and held immobile,

while a binding plastic collar was locked onto her throat.

Bitterness tasted sweet on her tongue. Kira stood when they released her, not even glancing at the piece

of catwalk railing she had battered over the dean's head, striking from ambush with every Newton of

force she could gather. The power of the blow had knocked him to his knobby knees, but that was the

only effect; when he stood up, he was unhurt.

"You must receive a demonstration of the power of the collar of slaves," recited the dean, his curiously

uninflected voice nevertheless conveying a subterranean river of emotion. He made no overt signal, but

the collar tightened, cutting off Kira's windpipe.

They had caught her after an exhalation. Within seconds, her lungs screamed for air. But she stood

absolutely still, eyes closed, not letting herself gasp or double over and keeping her hands at her side.

The collar tightened further, and Kira felt consciousness ebb. Cutting off blood to my brain, she thought

dully.

She felt a sharp pressure against her cheek, but it didn't seem important; the blackness welcomed her.

Then her head ached, suddenly washed with agony.

She was drowning in a lake, coughing up bittertasting water onto what must have been the seashore. But

the beach felt too hard, too cold.

She lay on the deck of maintenance tube 19, Level Four, while a pair of insectoid invaders sprayed

bitter-tasting water on her face. "You now see the authority of the collar for slaves," buzzed the dean.

"You must obey the rules for prisoners or the collar will be used to execute you. There is a limbic

integrator. It senses violent impulses and acts automatically." The offstage voice again, surely the Kai's.

She was speaking to someone, one of her special team. "How are you coming with the project I set for

you, finding the Orb?" "We are nearly done, my Kai," said a man whom Kira vaguely recognized from

Ops duty during the initial battle.

"You will finish in time?" "We will." 'Ms I instructed, you will tell me when you find where the rebels hid

the Orb, and I will send Kira to fetch it." It seemed odd for the Kai to emphasize the first three words,

but Kira had other needs.

Dimly, she sought the anxious figure of Kai Winn.

How curiously motherlike she looks! "Was I-- unconscious?" croaked Major Kira.

"Yes, child. I think the collar cut off the flow of blood through the artery." The Kai leaned close, speaking

for Kira's ears only--though Kira presumed that the insectoids heard every word, either using

audio-amps or because they had exceptionally keen hearing. "There is a time when we who walk with the

Prophets must learn that humility is an important virtue. Trust me, child. I surely know what I'm speaking

about. It seems the end of the world, but really, it's not: what you can tolerate, you can endure." The

major's lips flickered for a momentary smile.

The words fi'om the psalm: tolerate and endure. "I will struggle no longer," said Kira Nerys. "You will

watch me become a model slave." She allowed herself to be led in purest docility back to the access

corridor.

A model slave... and astonished, Kira realized that she meant it. The insects had taken over the station,

and there was nothing that anyone could do about it. Not yet, she appended dully. Struggle was futile;

she proved it to herself alone in her cabin, deliberately working herself into a fury, only to feel the collar

tighten by itself as it had on the dean's command.

"I'm just trying to lull them into a false security," she told herself; but it was hard to believe it. Many times

over the next days, she "woke" to realize she had been serving the dean and the other invaders for

several hours without noting a single, militarily useful weakness, nothing to use against the enemy.

Do I slip so easily into a slave's role? she wondered, lying awake in terror half through the night.

She caught the Kai watching her through lazily lidded eyes, a knowing smile on Winn's lips. Kira felt the

seduction of acceptance, and the thrill it produced set her body to shivering. How deep into this "cover"

can I go and still escape?

"What will you do during this Resistance, child?" asked Kai Winn unexpectedly the next afternoon.

"Resist," said Kira, hearing the echo of a previous conversation. But she meant she would resist

temptation to succumb to her fate. Prophets, she prayed, it's so damned easy to make a big show and

resist, defiant, like a teenage girl in Shakar~ cell during the Occupation. She bent, lowering her head as

the dean approached; she waited for him to issue orders. they were never difficult or humiliating, which

made it worse. But it's a hell of a lot harder to resist with bowed head and a soft voice. Help met Don't

let me lose my temper or lose myselfl. If the Prophets answered, Kira couldn't hear Their words.

Kira's duties were to run messages to the Kai and other Bajorans, demonstrate the use of station controls

(the dean never asked Major Kira about weaponry), reprogram the replicators, and bring the ceremonial

first and last meals to the dean (though he served himself, for which Kira thanked the Prophets). She was

to finish each task and return to the dean, unless he contacted her over the comsystem to give further

orders. But Kira perfected the art of dawdling, which she'd never mastered before, taking as long to

complete each project as she could reasonably pretend to need. She walked slowly, in a stately manner,

killing even more time: every ten minutes slain was one fewer task before she could crawl into her rack.

Kira Nerys shrank and shrank, until at last she found her irreducible core. Her spirits contracted into a

sharp ice-blade that pricked her breast and irritated her stomach. After the rest of her pride, efficiency,

courage, recklessness, and bravado had boiled away, Major Kira found at last the pure will that would

finally drive away the new invaders. And she found a new respect for Kai Winn, whose own will must

have been mighty indeed to sustain her through so many years of silent, hidden resistance-- with a bowed

head and a soft voice.

Kira's eyes began to open. She began to see every crack and weakness, every overlooked line of attack

in the invaders' profile. Their sleep was too sound, almost comatose. When eating, they neither talked nor

looked around. They needed special suits outside the hull to withstand cosmic background radiation. The

"insects" were too individualistic, tending to go wildsiding through the station, and the dean could hardly

reel them in at times. They were nevertheless terrified to be alone and always roamed at least by threes.

Kira easily accepted that they had been Dominion slaves, probably as completely dominated as the

Jem'Hadar. But they had been used for other purposes, and Kira probed to discover what exactly they'd

done for the Founders (while she bowed and answered, "Yes, most gracious dean; instantly, great one").

The Founders, Kira knew from personal experience and conversations with her friend Odo, liked

specialization. They used the Jem'Hadar for war and the Vorta for diplomacy; what could the Liberated

do for shapeshifters?

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StarTrek-DS9-026-RebelsLiberatedCHAPTER1MAJORKIRANERYSstoodrigid,forcingherbodynottotrembleinsuppressedangerandhumiliation.ItwasalltheBajoranfreedomfightercoulddonottoleapacrossthebriefgapandthrottletheblack-clad,black-helmetedalien"dean"whonowcommandedDeepSpaceNine...orEmissaryWSanctuary,asKaiWinnh...

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Star Trek Deep Space 9 26 The Rebels Rebels Liberated

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