Star Trek Deep Space 9 05 Fallen Heroes

Contents

About The Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

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About the Author

Dafydd (pronounced DAH-veth) ab Hughseemed perfectly normal until one day in 1987 when, on his

way to meet DA Jim Garrison with vital evidence on the Kennedy assassination, he was abducted by a

“long, cigar-shaped” craft piloted by Men In Black (MIBs).

Since then, Mr. ab Hugh and his puppet friends have written both science fiction and fantasy, including

the Arthur Warlord saga, about a British SAS agent pursuing an IRA operative back in time to the days

of King Arthur (Time’s Fell Hand and Far Beyond the Wave), and the Jiana series (Heroing and

Warriorwards). His novelette “The Coon Rolled Down and Ruptured His Larinks, A Squeezed Novel

by Mr. Skunk” (Azimov’s, August 1990) was nominated for both the Hugo and Nebula awards.

Mr. ab Hugh privately insists he is really Volteron from the planet Volteria.

CHAPTER

1

MAJORKIRANERYSWASAMAZEDthat the unknown ship had made it through the wormhole at all.

Every instrument display in Ops maxedout, Kira felt a tingle creep along her flesh, and Lieutenant Jadzia

Dax announced “Ship coming through,” all simultaneously.

Kira stared at the main viewscreen through bloodshot eyes. Ordinarily, she enjoyed watching the

wormhole flower into existence, disgorge a ship, then disappear as if swallowing itself. At the moment,

she cared only that whatever chose to happen did soquietly and did not increase the pounding in her

head.

The day in Operations was slow, fitting Kira’s mood. Dax sat at her science console, looking

impeccable as usual. Every strand of hair pulled back into the omnipresent ponytail, face freshly

scrubbed, uniform glittering, neck spots sharply defined.

In contrast, Kira’s hair clung to her scalp oddly, despite her shower, and her reflection in the morning

mirror had looked more glowering than usual, matching her morning-after mood. At her insistence, the

lights were dimmer than usual.

Commander Benjamin Sisko had been in his office since Kira came on duty, and she had not seen him

through the entire watch. From her vantage point, all she could see of Chief Miles O’Brien was the top of

his head as he rummaged in the systems core beneath the main viewer.

The peculiar ship that had just come through caught Kira’s attention even through her haze as it limped

out of the wormhole. Dax gracefully tapped at her console, increased the magnification before Kira even

asked.

The ship’s hull was breached at a dozen points. One bubble-shaped warp pod was damaged, leaking a

thin stream of coolant behind the ship; the other was sheared off entirely. In places, the metal hull was

peeled away from the ship like the dangling skin of an accident victim.

Chief O’Brien looked up from repairing the Ops air-recycling duct long enough to say “Jesus”; then he

lost interest and returned his attention to the circuitry. His hair was more scruffy than usual, and sweat

beaded his forehead: the interior of the duct was hot and humid.

“Is anybody even alive on that—thing?” asked Kira, standing behind the lieutenant. Quiet as she tried to

make her voice, her head still pounded so hard she winced.

The major raged silently to herself.Damn that saucer-eared Quark and his Ferengi wine! She had

gone into Quark’s Place the night before for a few innocent drinks of synthehol; but the Ferengi, in a

typically disgusting attempt to get her drunk enough to say yes, slipped some vile, Ferengi wine into her

glass instead of synth.

Real wine . . . withreal alcohol. Fortunately, Odo had noticed that Kira was sloshed and hauled her

back to her quarters before she began dancing on tables or offering to fight any man in the joint.

The downside was that Odo (and apparently everybody else) refused to believe it wasQuark’s idea, not

Kira’s, for her to swill Ferengi wine all night . . . or at least, they all pretended not to believe her protests;

she could not be sure.

“You wouldn’t think so, would you?” Dax relied brightly. She seemed to Kira to take special delight in

being even more cheery than usual, as if somehow sensing that Kira was hungover. “But the pilot seems

alive and unhurt. And no dead bodies aboard. Either he was alone or he threw them all out the airlock

before passing through the wormhole. He’s hailing us.”

Dax precisely stabbed the comm-link button with her fingernail. Kira jumped at the noise.

“Lonatian freighterSquare Deal ,” croaked the voice; “come to dicker, eat a meal. Captain Square-Deal

Djonreel; for docking rights I do appeal.” Audio only; Dax was still trying to resolve the video.

The major stared at Dax, who could barely contain her smile. Kira turned back to the screen. “Major

Kira. Deep Space Nine.” Her throat was raw, and her voice croaked almost as badly as the captain’s.

“Docking here with us is fine,” added Dax unnecessarily.

O’Brien jumped into the act, not even looking up from the transporter circuitry. “Long as you don’t

moan and whine.”

Kira glared first at one, then the other. “Would you two stay off this official line?” Then she winced,

silently swore a Bajoran blasphemy. She hadmeant to say “official communication.”

“Doesn’t scan,” said Dax.

The voice replied, surprised. “Such wit, such grace, from all of you. I just came through. What do I do?”

Finally, Dax synched in the visual display. Square-Deal Djonreel, if that was in fact his name, looked like

a Bajoran festival lamp with eyes: onion-shaped head so brightly lit by his interior lights that it hurt Kirato

look at it; big, round hole at the top, probably his nose; mouth obscured by two flaps of “onionskin” flesh

dangling from just below two bright pink target circles, which might have been eyes. Kira had never seen

his race before.

Another damned Federation weirdo. Why can’t everyone just look normal, like a Bajoran?

Kira spoke carefully, making sure none of her words rhymed. “Take docking pylon five, Captain

Sq—Captain Djonreel. Just take your—your manipulating digits off the controls; Lieutenant Dax will

tractor you to the pylon.” It was the safest course of action; from the look of Square-Deal Djonreel’s

ship, it could lurch out of control at any moment.

Should I disturb Sisko?Kira debated.Should I swallow my pride and ask Bashir to fix up my

hangover? Should I run gleefully down the Promenade with a carving knife, killing every Ferengi

I see? At last, she said “Dax, keep an eye on the wormhole. Whoever shot him up might come after

him.”

Major Kira finished her stroll around the operations table, glancing at each station. Everything was

working, amazingly enough. Then she returned her console, closed her eyes, and rubbed her temples,

dreaming up ingenious punishments for Quark and whoever invented doggerel.

The object of Kira’s fury sat blissfully unaware that his life hung by the thread of Kira’s civility. Quark,

the Ferengi owner of the social “hot spot” on DS9, Quark’s Place, stared into the ornate, antique Ferengi

treasure chest that contained his hoard of gold-pressed latinum, carefully gathered over many years

selling drinks and—other things.

Since it was a slow business day, Quark had decided to take an uncharacteristic but much-needed

three-hour holiday away from business. He initiated a very special program in one of the holosuites, a

program to which only he knew the code key, and sat now in a dank, moldy dungeon that smelled of

centuries, gloating over his latinum.

Quark felt safer opening his treasure chest in such an environment.

Unexpectedly, a crack of light appeared in the midst of the ancient, stone wall. Quark stared. The crack

widened, opening into some sort of secret door.

“That’s not in the program,” Quark puzzled, then realized to his horror that someone wasopening the

holosuite door , ignoring theOCCUPIED sign, and in a moment would actually see Quark’s treasure!

The Ferengi frantically scooped the bars of gold-pressed latinum into the chest, carelessly dropping one

on the ground. Before he could pick it up, Quark’s timid older brother Rom poked his impossibly ugly

face through the unexpected door, leering at Quark and his latinum. Quark slammed the lid on the chest,

then hopped up on the wooden plank table, sitting to block Rom’s view of the Ferengi artifact.

“Ah. Quark. I thought I might find you here.”

“What an amazing deduction, Rom. And the only clue you had was that Itold you I’d be in holosuite

two. I also told you not to disturb me.”

“Oh. Am I disturbing you?”

Quark rolled his eyes. Thank cash that Rom’s son Nog showed rather more intelligence and promise

than his father. “What is it, you irritating, earless littlephilanthropist? ”

Rom gasped at the obscenity; flustered, he reached behind him and dragged yet another person into

Quark’s private fantasy: a strange, brightly lit onion with legs. “Th-th-this is Captain Square-Deal

Djonreel. Says he must speak to you. Urgent. I-I-I . . . ”

“Should get back to the bar,” finished Quark, barely containing his rage at the interruption of his holiday.

“I should get back to the bar,” suggested Rom, skulking back out of view with an obsequious Ferengi

cringe (number four—the “relative’s cringe”).

“What do you want?” demanded Quark, then realized it could be an important client. “Sir.” He made a

halfhearted cringe (number one—I cringe on general principles; now what do you want?), still

irritated by Rom.

“Box,” said Captain Square-Deal Djonreel. “Locks. Offer deal—a real steal.”

His chest burst open and a limb stretched forth, holding a large box marked with the seal of the

Cardassian empire. Despite long years serving all the disgusting races that frequented Quark’s Place,

particularly the Cardassians, Quark’s stomach churned as the captain’s other limbs twitched and writhed

in bright, orange goo. Square-Deal Djonreel was only the second Lonat that Quark had ever seen; the

first time, he actually fainted, ruining one of his father’s perfectly devious business deals. Quark

unconsciously rubbed his bottom, remembering his father’s subsequent “discussion.”

Why can’t everybody just look normal, like Ferengi?he thought.

Quark reached out, not leaving his perch, and took the box. It was definitely Cardassian, even older

than his Ferengi treasure chest. The seal was from the Uta Dul dynasty, more than a century old, and

unbroken .

The Ferengi stared greedily at the box, itself worth more than Quark’s entire personal fortune, and tried

to bore his vision straight through the Kuluk-metal sides to peer at the mysterious, enticing contents.

Unfortunately, a Cardassian seal was not something one could hammer open or pick with a swizzle stick.

The Cardassians used “force shield” seals for their most important possessions; the seals required a

precise sequence of radio-wave frequencies broadcast into them. A wrong frequency would cause the

seal to detonate, destroying the box contents and possibly the face and hands of the unskilled locksmith.

Few Ferengi knew how to pick a Cardassian seal; Quark was one of those few. At least, it had seemed

straightforward enough the last time he had done it.

The box was heavy. Quark gingerly shook it, hearing a satisfactory rattle of stuff. “What’s in the box?”

he asked, trying (without success) to sound bored and uninterested. “Um . . . um . . . I hope not rocks,”

added Quark belatedly, realizing the rhyme was forced (and lame).

Lonats always spoken rhyme for some insane reason. They claimed that their poetry was subtle, supple,

and graceful in their native language; but the Universal Translator turned it all into nursery verse. If you

rhymed back at them, you often got better deals.

“Don’t know. Didn’t show. Sold it to me sight unseen; must be something pretty keen.”

Quark looked up from the Cardassian box and noticed that the captain was staring down at the bar of

gold-pressed latinum that fell when Quark scooped up the rest. “Ah . . . ah, Square-Deal Djonreel,” said

the Ferengi, trying to distract the captain from the shiny bar. “I really can’t be—philanthropic. Don’t you

even know the topic?”

The Lonat glowed, finally figured out what Quark meant. “Ancient alien artifact. Probing more would

lack in tact.”

“I haven’t much, and that’s a fact. But I can offer, ah, the princely sum of two bright bars of latinum”

“Two?You villain! What a laugh. Fifty wouldn’t equal half!”

“Fifty! I mean, you can’t believe I’d offer fifty; you know Ferengi must be thrifty.” Quark reached up,

rubbed his ears while thinking. “I’ll give this deal my best refinement. I’ll try to sell it on consignment.”

Square-Deal Djonreel pondered, alternately glowing and dimming, flapping his onionskin mouth.

“Despite the pain it is to sever, I cannot dicker here forever. Consignment you shall have consent . . .if

we settle on percent.”

Quark licked his lips, beginning to enjoy the game. “I run the risks in such a sortie. I say we split it

sixty-forty.”

“Forty percent? That’s my cut? You take me for some kind of nut?” The captain moved closer,

menacingly.

Not good,thought Quark. Djonreel would insist upon at least fifty percent.

The saving grace was that Lonats were not very good at lightning calculations . . . a fact that any good

Ferengi considered a perfectly acceptable bargaining tool. “All right!” said Quark. “All right! Don’t start

to pound. How does sixty-fifty sound?”

Square-Deal Djonreel dimmed to merely bright. Something seemed fishy, but he could not quite tell

what. But even more than humans, Lonats hated more than anything to seem hesitant or uncertain in a

deal.

He did the best he could. “More Ferengi bunko tricks, the . . . bottom price is sixty-sixty.”

Quark grinned crookedly, feeling his pointed teeth with his tongue.Tricks-the with sixty? When a Lonat

resorted to such a feeble rhyme, he was severely rattled. Bracing himself, he stuck out his hand, took the

captain’s appendage. “Your cut of the sale will be recorded. Till you return it will be hoarded.” Quark

intended to take sixty percent of any sale, then give the rest to Djonreel; as the agreed split—sixty

percent to each partner—was clearly impossible, any Ferengi court in the sector would consider Quark’s

interpretation close enough to pass muster.

Square-Deal Djonreel dimmed almost to the luminescence of a normal being. He was not happy with his

own performance in the complicated dance of the deal.Probably expected at least some up-front

latinum , thought Quark.

“And now I must depart this place,” said the captain, “and head out into deepest space.” He took a last,

longing look at the bar of latinum beneath Quark’s dangling feet, sighed a deep amber, and turned

around. He stared in confusion at the dungeon wall where a door had been when he came in.

“End program,” gloated Quark. No sooner had the words escaped than he found himself sitting on air

instead of a fine, Ferengi jailwood table. He flailed his arms and fell heavily to the deck.

As Square-Deal Djonreel squelched through the door, Quark again rubbed his aching bottom,

wondering what the mystical connection was between Lonats and that portion of his anatomy.

Constable Odo stared in utter amazement at the wall display.The wretched little Ferengi has finally

done it , he thought;he’s driven himself mad with his debaucheries .

Odo sat in his security office, behind the heavy but utilitarian desk, watching one of several wall displays

that continuously showed parts of Deep Space 9. Odo had a standing rule: no matter who or what else

was displayed, at leastone screen must always be following the station’s public enemy number

one—Quark.

At this moment, Quark was huddled in one of his own holosex suites, running some ghastly prison

program and talking with the pumpkin-headed Lonat in the most bizarre fashion.

As the conversation proceeded, Odo briefly wondered whether he could use the weird, nursery rhyme

negotiation to persuade Dr. Julian Bashir to transport Quark to a psychiatric facility on Bajor for his own

protection.

Odo had just awakened from his bucket, and his brain was still a bit fuzzy as the pieces fell slowly into

place.

Still, the event was weird enough, even for the disgusting Quark, that it warranted investigation. Odo

stood, made sure none of his features or clothing had run, and boiled out the glass door of his office

toward Quark’s Place.

Unless the little hood is having me on. Was it possible the Ferengi had discovered Odo’s hidden

“spy-eye” in the holosuite and was trying to trick Odo into making a fool of himself?

The constable had installed the bugs when Dr. Bashir, who would not tell him why, asked him to. Before

the doctor’s request, Odo was so repulsed by the thought of what went on in the suites that it never

occurred to him to watch.

But Bashir insisted that they be installed, muttering something paradoxical about Lieutenant Dax and

Major Kira being eternally grateful, even if they never found out about it. That way, Odo could “keep an

eye on things” even when not physically present, disguised as an article of furniture, a rug, or a bottle of

Quark’s vile spirits.

No, thought the constable;Quark may be clever, but even he wouldn’t routinely sweep private

holosuites for hidden bugs . After all, he was not a Cardassian.

Odo pushed into the Promenade, then turned sideways to swim through a mob lined up to play The

Gokto Lottery. The constable scowled: he could not remember seeing an application from the Bajorans

to run a game of chance.Have to talk to the commander about it. Or better yet, Kira .

The station was full to overflowing from the latest wave of tourist ships to the wormhole. With the

tourists had come a yammer of merchants, a mummer of missionaries (all faiths), a fraud of

mountebanks—and of course a lift of pickpockets, a shiv of muggers, and a deviant of flashers, Ferengi,

and other perverts.

The political turmoils sweeping Bajor had crashlanded on DS9. Every other step, Odo had to duck

under a banner or dodge a sign-waving, chanting crowd of Bajoran fundamentalist or antifundamentalist

(tolerationist?) protesters. The current fashion for the orthodox “Bajor for Bajorans” was dark blue, gray,

and black, while the progressive faction preferred light and sky blue.

For some reason, none of the Bajorans these days liked red, but it was still a popular color among the

hordes of tourists, come to gawk at both the wormhole and the riots.

The sea of sentiency made Odo squirm, longing even for the days of Cardassian rule: at least then, there

was a sense of decorum, decency, and above all occasionalsilence .

The holding cells were jammed so full of “detainees” awaiting either trial or a one-way ticket off Deep

Space 9 that three of Odo’s men had a full-time job just keeping them from killing each other. The

constable had already converted a cargo bay to an emergency jail, getting Chief O’Brien to divide it up

with portable force shields.

Growing annoyed at the sea of intelligent and nearly intelligent beings that washed against him, Odo put

his arms together and shifted them into a wedge like a “cowcatcher” on an old-fashioned Earth

loco-motive , a wheeled engine that pulled cargo along a railed track. He ploughed toward Quark’s,

brushing the people aside.

When Odo reached the den of iniquity, he was amused to discover that Quark was not benefiting from

the mobs. There were now so many merchants selling out of inexpensive pushcarts on the Promenade,

with virtually no overhead, that they easily undercut Quark’s prices for everything from synthehol to legal

gambling. In fact, the Ferengi had recently become quite the moralist, demanding that Odo, Kira, or

Sisko himself “do something” about such disgusting, wide-open marketeering on the Promenade.

Even Quark’s notorious holosex suites ran mostly empty, since most of the worlds represented on DS9

these days had sexual needs so pedestrian and boring that they would never dream of paying for an

elaborate, sexual holodeck program.

Quark’s Place was a huge, three-story facility, the largest private operation on DS9. Where the

“exterior” of the Promenade was banners and bunting, the constant rumble of the rabble, beggars,

miners, and assorted nuts inside Quark’s was a completely different universe: the casino had fewer of the

dregs of the sector but was, if anything,more sleazy, dangerous, and illicit than the Promenade itself.

The bar was stuffed floor to ceiling with glitzy, flashing lights, the well-dressed, and thousands of kilos of

ersatz jewels—though Quark would have hotly disputed the adjective.

Any of the hoi polloi who wandered in were subtly steered toward a Dabo table in the corner, away

from the “pressed and groomed” crowd in the rest of the club. There were so many colors visible at any

one time, it often hurt Odo’s eyes, used as he was to more spartan ways. The most exotic colors, of

course, were the syntheholic (and supposedly alcoholic, though Odo had never caught the Ferengi)

drinks mixed by Quark himself, with occasional help from Rom.

Quark bragged that anybody could getanything in Quark’s Place; the gnomelike Ferengi was not

amused when Odo agreed, naming a number of exotic, sexually transmitted diseases. “My holosex suites

are the cleanest in this sector!” raged Quark, growing redder by the second.

Odo entered Quark’s place just in time to see the Ferengi scuttle from the holosuite, down the stairs,

toward his safe, the Cardassian box tucked securely under one arm.

“Good evening, Quark,” said Odo, making himself curl his mouth up in what he hoped was a menacing

smile. “What have you got there? More bars of latinum? Brekkian narcotics?Stolen cultural artifacts?”

Quark started and glared suspiciously at Odo. “Never mind what I have here. My business is my own.

Something I can do for you, Odo? Would you like a nice holosex session with a Ferengi harem?” His

own grin was more of a leer.

Odo straightened, then increased the effect by making himself several centimeters taller. “I’ve no interest

in your disgusting perversions, Quark. But I do have a legitimate interest in sealed, Cardassian boxes that

might contain anything—such as a new plague virus or explosive device.”

Quark twisted his body around to conceal the box. “What makes you think it’s a sealed, Cardassian

box?” he demanded, suspicious.

“The Cardassian seal around it.”

Quark peeked down at it. “Oh. So I see. Well, I’ll be sure to tell you what was in it. Now goodbye.”

“Quark, I understand you caring nothing for your own continued existence, since nobody else does. But

we do care about the safety of this station . . . and you arenot going to open that box without complete

scans first. Conducted by Chief O’Brien and Dr. Bashir.”

“But—but then everybody will know what’s in it!”

“Oh dear, you mean you might have to actually sell it honestly, with full disclosure? Yes, I do see where

that would be a problem.”

“Odo, thank goodness. Don’t scare me like that! For a moment, I thought—”

Quicker than even the greedy Ferengi could move, Odo stretched his arms out like grappling hooks,

seized the box, and wrenched it from Quark’s hands.

“Thief!I’ll have you arrested and locked in your own cells, Odo!”

“Stop whining, Quark. You’ll get your precious box back, just as soon as O’Brien and Bashir assure me

it poses no danger to the station.” He turned toward the door, took three steps, and felt the Ferengi

breathing on his back.

Odo stopped suddenly, and Quark ran into him. “And where are you going?”

“If you think I’m going to allow a shapeshifter to handle my property without watching him every step of

the way, then you must think I’m a credulous cretin.” Odo opened his mouth, but before he could speak,

Quark interrupted. “Don’t even think it! You’re in enough trouble, lifting other people’s perfectly

legitimate property, without adding slander to your crimes.”

Rolling his eyes, Odo strode off toward the infirmary. Try as he might, he could not shake the stubborn

Ferengi, who stuck closer to him than his own shadow.

CHAPTER

10

“I KNOWTHEM,”repeated Odo as he fumbled with the invader’s helmet latches; “Iknow this race!”

After several moments, he managed to pull the black bubble off the creature’s head.

Inside was a vaguely reptilian face covered by soft, springy, cactuslike spines. A casual observer might

mistake it for fur, until touching it.

The fur-spines were coated with a brownish sap, which might have been excreted by the long,

well-muscled tongue that lolled out of the invader’s mouth. The sap had hardened into a tacky, resinous

shellac after drying in the still air for two days.

The creature’s eyes were huge and perfectly circular with a vertical slit between the eyelids, rather than

horizontal, as in humans, Cardassians, Klingons, and most other humanoid races.

“Who are they?” asked Quark from across the room. For some reason, he felt dread at the thought of

approaching the creature . . . not that he was afraid it would suddenly spring back to life and kill him;

rather, he felt a premonition that it would somehowtalk to him , imparting some dreadful secret that

Quark did not want to know.

“They have no name,” said Odo, rising and inspecting the invader’s hand firearm. “They are the most

secretive race known, and the only people I’ve ever heard refer to them are Cardassians. I don’t think

anyone else has met them, which is just as well.”

“What do you mean, they don’t have name?”

“I mean they don’t tell anyone who they are. They don’t make treaties, trade agreements, or friends.

They don’t talk to other races. The Cardassians call them theBekkir , but that’s just a Cardassian animal

similar to an Earth badger or a Ferengi digfish—it digs a hole and hides, and only attacks those who

venture too near.

“GulDukat told me that the Cardassians attempted to make common cause with them against the

Klingons a hundred years or so ago, but the Bekkir destroyed the three Cardassian ships sent as

emissaries, and the Cardassians decided to leave them alone.”

“How strangely un-Cardassian,” said Quark. “I would have expected a punitive expedition. I’m

disappointed.”

“They live in the Gamma quadrant, too far for an effective campaign. This was pre-wormhole,

remember. Anyway, nobody knows how many of them there are or how powerful their technology is.

The Bekkir are extreme xenophobes, fearing and despising all other races that have ever contacted them.

Nobody knows anything about them.”

“Well,” said Quark, “we know something now. We know they can come tens of thousands of

light-years to attack a space station.”

“That is curious. According to Cardassian lore—and much of this could be myth—there are only two

ways to provoke an attack by Bekkir: to attempt to find out their home system, or to hold one of them

captive.”

Star Trek Deep Space 9 05 Fallen Heroes

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