Star Trek Deep Space 9 01 Emissary

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Look for STAR TREK fiction from Pocket Books

Star Trek®: The Original Series

Star Trek: The Next Generation®

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine®

Star Trek: Voyager®

Star Trek®: New Frontier

Star Trek®: Invasion!

Star Trek®: Day of Honor

Star Trek®: The Captain's Table

Star Trek®: The Dominion War

Star Trek®: The Badlands

Star Trek® Books available in Trade Paperback

CHAPTER

HIS FIRST ENCOUNTERwith Jean-Luc Picard shattered Ben Sisko’s life forever.

On stardate 44002.3, a fleet of forty Federation starships received orders to proceed to Wolf 359 to

intercept a Borg vessel on its way to Earth. TheSaratoga was the first to arrive.

Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Sisko served as theSaratoga’s first officer. Like the rest of the crew,

Sisko had never seen a Borg and knew little of the race save that Starfleet Command deemed them a

grave threat. He knew they were considered even more treacherous, more dangerous, than the

Romulans; he knew that most others who had engaged them perished. Sisko was not afraid. He had

absolute faith in himself, his captain, his ship, the Fleet.

But he had not been prepared for thesize of the thing.

OnSaratoga’s main bridge viewscreen, the Borg ship hung gray and motionless against a backdrop of

stars, dwarfing the Federation vessel with its vastness. To Sisko’s eyes it wasn’t even a proper ship, but

a huge ungainly cube of spaceborne metal layered with thousands upon thousands of randomly placed

conduits, piping and tiny compartments. There was no sleekness to it, no grace, no suggestion its builders

had taken any care or pride or pleasure in its design. It looked as if some mindless force, some instinct,

had driven them to add on each scrap of metal, each honeycomb, bit by bit. Like a bird building a nest,

Sisko thought.

Or a hive. Insects building a gigantic metal hive.

At the sight, Captain Storil leaned forward in his chair and frowned, a faint crease appearing between his

dark upswept brows.

Sisko took note of the gesture. For the captain, it was the equivalent of a gasp, a muttered curse, a

reaction of resounding surprise. Storil was a Vulcan, dedicated to the repression of feeling in the pursuit

of pure reason. Like most of his race, he possessed an astonishing intelligence and a degree of mastery

over his emotions that made him, by human standards, seem cold and calculating. Sisko had at first

worried that the Vulcan’s decisions would not take into account the morale of his mostly human

command; that was before he learned that Storil’s devotion to logic was nothing compared to his

devotion and loyalty to his crew.

“Ensign Delaney.” Storil tilted his head in her direction. “Attempt to establish—”

The screen flickered and went dark. In place of the Borg ship, a face appeared. A human face, Sisko

thought, in the first millisecond before the image coalesced, but even before the features formed

completely he knew something was terriblywrong .

“Picard,” Storil whispered beside him.

Sisko returned his gaze to the screen. It was indeed Jean-Luc Picard who stood on the bridge of the

Borg vessel. Sisko had seen a Fleet missive when Picard assumed command of theEnterprise several

years before—Picard was one of the best-known captains andEnterprise one of the best-known ships

in the Fleet. The impression Sisko’d gotten was of a dignified, confident man, but there had been warmth

beneath the dignity. This was indeed the famous captain of theEnterprise .

And yet . . . it was not. Not human, not machine, but a monstrous marriage of metal and flesh. One of

Picard’s arms had been extended with an intricate mechanical prosthesis, his eyes augmented with a

sensor-scope protruding from one temple; his pale face was utterly, frighteningly blank. The dignity and

the warmth were gone. Behind him, Borg stood motionless, thoughtless, in their individual honeycomb

compartments. Sisko got a fleeting mental image of mindless hive insects excreting skeins of metal,

wrapping Picard in a cocoon of machinery.

If any part of Jean-Luc Picard remained, the man-machine hybrid gave no sign. The sensor-scope

flashed red, whirred softly, and angled forward, studying the humans with an intelligence as empty, as

infinite, as cold, as space.

If that was what the Borg intended for theSaratoga’s crew, Sisko intended to go down fighting.

“I am Locutus,” it said. The voice was Picard’s, but lifeless, grating, devoid of intonation. “You will be

assimilated. Resistance is futile.”

Sisko’s lips parted, half in astonishment, half in outrage at the forthright arrogance of this proclamation;

his gaze caught the captain’s. Storil’s face remained impassive, composed, but Sisko had served with him

enough years to recognize the faint glimmer of defiance in the captain’s dark slanting eyes.

Assimilate? Sisko’s look said. Like hell we will.

The Vulcan’s gaze serenely affirmed the sentiment.

“You will disarm all weapons and escort us to sector zero-zero-one,” Locutus continued. “If you

attempt to intervene, we will destroy you.”

Zero-zero-one: Earth. Hranok, the Bolian tactical officer, moved pale blue hands over his console, then

lifted his chin and made a small sound of indignation.

Sisko stared down at his viewer and saw a schematic display of three starships gliding silently into

formation around theSaratoga; now four Davids challenged Goliath. “Sir, Admiral Hanson has deployed

theGage , theKyushu , and theMelbourne .” Captain Storil’s attention did not waver from the screen.

“Move us to position alpha, Ensign.”

“Aye, sir,” Ensign Tamamota replied, eyes wide as she forced her attention away from Picard on

viewscreen. Tamamota was young, a bit green, but her hands were steady on the controls; the Vulcan’s

stolid, quiet presence had a calming effect.

“Load all torpedo bays,” Storil ordered in the same tone he might have used to order a routine tactical

check, but Sisko fancied he detected a faint heaviness there; the captain deplored the use of weaponry,

relied on it only as a last resort. “Ready phasers.”

Picard’s mutated image disappeared abruptly, indicating he had understood Captain Storil’s reply, and

was replaced once more by that of the Borg ship.

Hranok’s muscular torso leaned over his console. “The Borg ship is attempting to lock on to the

Melbourne with its tractor beam.”

“Target the origin point of that beam, Lieutenant,” Storil said smoothly. “Fire when ready.”

Sisko watched the screen asSaratoga’s phasers and torpedoes streaked through the void, flared briefly

against the surface of the Borg vessel, then dimmed.

Simultaneously the Borg ship fired a bright, searing beam, striking theMelbourne .

That’s it, Sisko thought before he could stop himself. And we’re next.

For an instant theMelbourne trembled, illuminated against the blackness by a deadly corona of light.

Sisko squinted against the painful brightness on the screen, forced himself not to look away as the

Melbourne’s hull exploded into scorched, hurtling fragments, forced himself not to think of those dead

and dying on a bridge very like this one.

Sisko prided himself on being unshakable and efficient during emergencies. In his first year at the

Academy he had failed an unannounced emergency drill miserably because of an attack of nerves. Since

then he had trained himself so that, even now in the face of certain attack, he felt the overlay of calm

descend, felt his brain shut off the capacity for emotion until he became as impassive and detached as his

captain. A part of his mind screamed that they were all certainly about to die, that he should leave his

post, find his wife and son, spend his last few seconds with them—but the rational part knew that Jennifer

and Jake’s best chance lay in his ability to perform his duty efficiently now.

Time slowed. Sisko became hyperaware of his breathing, of the beating of his heart. He faced his

captain, calmly waiting, not thinking at all as the Borg ship turned, ominous and implacable, to face the

Saratoga .

The deck lurched; Sisko staggered, regained his footing as Lieutenant Hranok called: “The Borg are

attempting to lock on to us.”

“Evasive maneuvers,” Storil said evenly, clutching the arms of his chair for balance. “Delta pattern.”

At the navigation console, Tamamota’s fingers swiftly manipulated the controls. “Delta pattern initiated.”

She glanced down at her readout, recoiled slightly from what she saw, swiveled her head toward the

captain. “We’re not moving.”

From Ops, Delaney confirmed what Sisko already knew: “They’ve locked on.”

Sisko watched the screen as theGage andKyushu opened fire on the Borg vessel, trying in vain to save

theSaratoga , just asSaratoga had done for theMelbourne .

And the outcome would be the same, Sisko realized, with terrible, cold certainty, yet he permitted

himself to feel nothing, only to concentrate on the task at hand as Delaney tersely reported, “Our shields

are being drained. Sixty-four percent . . . forty-two—”

“Recalibrate shield nutation,” Storil ordered patiently, as if they were not seconds away from death.

Feverishly, Hranok worked his console. “Modulation is having no effect.”

“Shields are going,” Delaney called, and this time there was a clear, strident note of panic in her voice.

“We’re going—”

Darkness. With a roar, the bridge erupted in flame. Sisko was slammed to the deck. WhenSaratoga

righted herself, he drew in a lungful of smoke, coughed, and pushed himself to his knees. The billowing

smoke clutched at his throat, stung his eyes; he wiped away the sweat trickling down his forehead,

refusing to be alarmed when his sleeve came away soaked dark red.

No time to be frightened, no time to think. Time toact .

The bridge lay dark and smoldering, illumined only by the sparks raining from damaged consoles. Sisko

strained to hear his captain’s calm voice. Being a Vulcan and stronger than most of his crew, Storil would

be the first to recover—if he was alive.

Silence.

“Damage report,” Sisko shouted hoarsely, and coughed again.

No answer. The emergency lights flickered once, then came on.

“Damage report,”Sisko insisted, as if by sheer determination he could will other survivors. He pushed

himself unsteadily to his feet.

Movement nearby in the dim light. Hranok, wounded, bleeding, pulled himself up on his console while

Sisko moved quickly from body to warm body, feeling for pulses, finding none: first Garcia, then

Delaney. Dead. Dead. Tamamota, dead.

Don’t feel, act. Don’t think, just act.

Captain Storil, the hardest of all, unseeing eyes open and staring serenely, matter-of-factly through the

haze at him.

Don’t feel. Just act.

Sisko drew his hand away from the Vulcan and rose slowly to face Lieutenant Hranok, who hunched

over his console in obvious pain, though Sisko could not see his wounds.

“Direct hit,” Hranok croaked. “Decks one through four.”

Decks one through four. Jennifer and Jake. Don’t feel. Don’t think. Just act.

Sisko touched his comm insignia and said, “Engineering, your status.”

Silence. Sisko and Hranok exchanged grim looks.

“Warning,” the computer said, in a loud, overriding voice that echoed on the silent, haze-filled bridge.

“Damage to warp core. Containment failure in four minutes.”

Don’t think.

Sisko hit his insignia again. “All hands, prepare to abandon ship.” He moved toward the lift, turned as he

realized Hranok was still huddled over the console, trying to work the controls. “Let’s get the civilians”—

(Jennifer and Jake)

Don’t feel—

“to the escape pods, Lieutenant,” he said firmly, not allowing himself to hear his perfect imitation of

Storil’s calm, reassuring intonation.

Don’t think—

Just act.

Hranok nodded and followed.

The turbolift doors opened onto a surrealistic vision of hell. The air was filled with smoke and a

cacophony of despair: the wails of children, the cries of the wounded, muffled weeping.

Don’t think. Don’t feel. . . .

In the dim emergency light, shadowy forms emerged from the ghostly haze, dark silhouettes against a

glowing red background of flame. Sisko smelled seared flesh, felt heat on his face. He and Hranok

stepped onto the deck and staggered to the left. The deck was tilting; stabilizers were failing. Life support

would be next—if they had time. Sisko’s mind steadily ticked off the seconds, calmly reasoned that he

would be able to make it to his quarters, see if Jennifer—

Don’t think. Don’t feel. . . .

Fire leapt at them from a side corridor, singeing the shoulder of Sisko’s uniform; he grabbed Hranok’s

arm, and together they fought their way past the flames toward a group of frantic civilians struggling with

armloads of personal possessions. One woman, her hair singed, her face severely burned, stopped in her

flight to retrieve a holo she’d dropped on the deck and began to weep in panic as other items tumbled

from her trembling arms.

“Leave everything,” Sisko shouted over the roar of flames, with such confidence, such authority, that the

woman immediately straightened, leaving the holo where it had fallen. “Go to your assigned evacuation

areanow .”

The woman let her treasured possessions clatter to the deck; those with her followed suit, began moving

swiftly, purposefully.

Sisko moved forward, passing other civilians, searching despite himself for two faces, fighting against

panic when he failed to find them.

The computer’s unfeeling voice blotted out all other sounds: “Warning. Damage to warp core.

Containment failure in three minutes.”

Three minutes. Enough time. There might still be enough time. They were nearing Sisko’s quarters. . . .

A slumped, unsteady form emerged from the haze; Sisko started in recognition, then swallowed

disappointment that this familiar face was not the one he sought. “Doran!”

Jennifer’s closest friend. Doran’s family occupied the quarters next to theirs.

He caught her as she staggered, exhausted, into his arms.

Hranok had already forgotten his wounds; he scooped her up in his muscular arms easily. “I’ll take care

of her. Go on.”

Sisko shot him a grateful look, paused to ask Doran: “Have you seen Jennifer?”

Doran turned her smoke-smudged face toward him, looked at him with mournful eyes, opened her

mouth to speak, and began to weep instead.

Sisko felt a purely physical pain in the center of his chest. He turned and broke into a half run, no longer

seeing those who passed, no longer seeing the flames, not seeing anything at all until he arrived at his

quarters.

The door was jammed open. Thick, dark smoke billowed out. Sisko stepped into it without hesitation,

not even noticing its effect on his lungs, his throat, his eyes.

An explosion had ripped a large hole in the deck, allowing fire to leap up from the level below. Sisko’s

quarters and a lifetime of accumulated possessions had been destroyed.

He did not care. He pushed his way through scorched debris and shouted, “Jennifer!”

Silence.

“Computer,” Sisko ordered. “Locate Jennifer Sisko.”

Silence. He pushed aside smoldering fragments of furniture and twisted metal bulkhead, searching.

At the edge of the largest pile of collapsed bulkhead and wreckage he uncovered her hand, limp and

smudged with soot from the smoke.

He set to work with a strength and intensity that bordered on insanity. The edge of the bulkhead was

jagged, sharp; his hands became bloody and blistered by the heated metal. Sisko did not notice.

Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just act. . . .

Within seconds he had uncovered Jennifer’s twisted upper torso and discovered Jake’s small, dark

body beside her, she had shielded the child with her body and taken the brunt of the blow. He could see

no blood, but in the darkness and the smoke, it was difficult to be sure. And he could not see her

breathing, but his mind refused to acknowledge the fact.

No blood. Then she’ll be all right. Just knocked unconscious by the fall, that’s all. . . .

“It’s going to be okay,” Sisko told his family in the same calm, confident tone—Captain Storil’s

tone—he had used to soothe the civilians in the corridor, not for a moment allowing himself to think that

his words went unheard. “I’ll get you out of there. You’re going to be okay.”

He strained, letting the sharp, hot metal cut into his palms, letting it sear his flesh, but he could not lift the

wreckage that crushed his wife’s lower body. He strained again. And again. And again.

Don’t panic. Don’t feel.

In desperation, he circled, cleared away more debris, found a way to reach underneath the wreckage

and pull Jake free. The boy was unconscious and badly bruised but breathing; without a scanner, Sisko

could only guess at his internal injuries. When the boy moved slightly in his grasp, Sisko felt a surge of

relief so intense it verged on tears.

Don’t feel. . . .

“Okay, Jake,” he said, in the same cheerful voice he used to comfort the boy after a nightmare, “we’ll

just get your mom now and get outta here.”

But Jennifer was pinned too tightly. Sisko was struggling to lift the wreckage again when Hranok’s

silhouette appeared in the doorway.

“Commander . . . ” It was a plea, an urgent summons.

Sisko turned to him. “Help me.”

Hranok took a tentative step into the smoke-filled quarters, reached for his tricorder and scanned

Jennifer. Sisko did not look at him, only pushed harder against the bulkhead as Hranok replaced the

tricorder without a word.

“Sir.” Hranok’s tone was unusually gentle. “We have to get to the—”

At his abrupt silence, Sisko stopped pushing and met the Bolian’s startled gaze, followed it to where it

rested: on the commander’s charred, bloodied hands.

Sisko stared down at them numbly, not understanding the significance. His hands were unimportant now;

the only thing that mattered was Jennifer. He felt a surge of irritation at Hranok’s hesitancy.

“Just help me get her free.”

Hranok reached down and scooped Jake up in his strong arms, then lingered awkwardly beside his

commander. “Sir . . . ”

Furious, Sisko grasped the jagged edge of the bulkhead, not even flinching as the heated metal sliced

deep into his flesh, and pushed with all his strength. “That’s an order!” he shouted at Hranok, then turned

to see the Bolian staring in mute horror, Jake in his arms.

For a moment Hranok and he gazed at each other in silence, and then the Bolian said simply, “She’s

gone. There’s nothing we can do.”

Sisko stared at Hranok and did not understand. Did not let himself understand; he could not let her go

so easily. “Transporters?”

“None of them are functional, sir.” Hranok swung himself and Jake toward the exit. “We have to go.”

“Warning,” the computer said. “Damage to warp core. Containment failure in two minutes.”

Sisko shook his head. He knelt beside Jennifer and took her cool, limp hand in his bloody one. He could

not leave her to die alone. In his mind there was no other possible choice; death with his wife seemed a

far better fate than life without her. “You go ahead, Lieutenant. Take the boy.”

His voice was deceptively rational, reassuring; another might have left him behind. But when a security

officer appeared in the doorway, Hranok handed the boy to him, then grasped Sisko’s arm and yanked

him to his feet.

“Now,sir.”

With a calm tinged with madness,

(Don’t feel. Don’t feel . . . )

Sisko said, “No. I can’t leave without her.”

Hranok pulled with all his might. Powerless against the Bolian’s greater strength, Sisko was propelled

toward the door, he struggled to turn his head, to keep his gaze on Jennifer as long as possible, unable to

feel, unable to grasp the reality of what was happening.

“Dammit,” he told Hranok, with the same strange, numbed calm, “we can’t leave her here.”

Hranok replied by pushing Sisko out the door. Sisko held up his wounded hands—hands that had failed

him, had failed Jennifer—and stared dully at them.

He did not remember running through the burning corridors, did not remember joining the dozen others

in the cramped escape pod. Sisko remembered only two things: the sight of Jake, still unconscious in the

security officer’s arms, and the sight of the dyingSaratoga as other tiny pods sailed free.

Sisko made his way to the porthole and stared at the receding wreckage, its scorched and twisted bull

gleaming with the reflected glow of the continuing battle, the area of space lit up like a summer sky with

heat fightning. TheKyushu was gone now, and theGage would be next, and so it would continue until all

of them were gone.

To Sisko it was meaningless. Irrelevant, just as Picard had said. The Borg were right: resistancewas

futile. All was destroyed.

Feelings were the most irrelevant of all; Sisko was beyond emotion. In his mind he lay dead beside

Jennifer, their bodies consumed by flame.

He watched asSaratoga exploded like a small sun, and let himself be blinded by the light.

CHAPTER

“WHY DID YOUdo that to me?” Jake asked bitterly, when he and Nog were out of Keiko’s earshot.

He strode so rapidly that the Ferengi was gasping in an effort to keep pace with him. “Is that your idea of

a joke?”

A deep crease formed between Nog’s hairless brow ridges; his eyes widened with confusion. “I thought

you would know when to run. I was clearly mistaken.”

Jake stopped in the middle of the walkway and stiffened, hands clenched into fists. “How was I

supposed to know you were going tosteal them?”

“I’m a Ferengi,” Nog replied with an air of wounded dignity, which quickly changed to glee. He glanced

surreptitiously over his shoulder, then drew a green-flecked roll from his pocket. “Here. I saved this for

you. Hungry?”

Jake groaned and started walking again.

Nog followed, and took a large bite of the stolen droli. “I do not understand humans,” he said with his

mouth full. “Why are you angry? You were caught because of your own stupidity. A Ferengi would have

known when to flee.”

“Well, a human wouldn’t,” Jake countered, not even watching where he was going, just walking fast as if

he could put distance between himself and the humiliation of what had just happened. Things had been

bad enough, but now Keiko would say something to Ensign O’Brien, and Ensign O’Brien would say

something to Dad, and Dad was going to be furious and probably tell him never to see Nog

again—which right now didn’t seem like such a bad idea. “Because humans don’t steal. At least, not

most humans. It’s . . . it’s dishonest.”

“You humans and your honesty!” Nog took a second savage bite of the droli, then another, until Jake

could barely comprehend his words. “I have never understood it. How can it make sense to be honest

when there is clearly more profit in deceit?”

“Because . . . because that’s a crummy way to live, that’s why, always having to worry that someone’s

going to steal everything you own the minute you turn your back.”

“You have no sense of adventure,” Nog said, jabbing a sharp-nailed, stubby digit at him. “You do not

understand the thrill of outwitting a foe, of living by your wits. Your race has a very boring view of life.”

He finished off the bun with a flourish and licked his fingers.

Jake felt heat rise to his cheeks. “We understand adventure! We’d just rather explore the universe than

other people’s pockets!”

“Hmph.” Nog sniffed. “Have you ever stolen anything, Jake Sisko?”

He tilted his chin up at the suggestion. “No! Have you ever tried to be honest?”

“If I said yes, you would know I was lying,” Nog replied, grinning. “Then how can we understand each

other if we do not make an attempt to experience each other’s world?”

Jake fell silent, unable to think of a rebuttal.

“Come.” Nog tugged his elbow and gestured. Jake looked to his right to see that they had arrived in

front of Quark’s casino again. “Let me help you experiencemy culture, hew-man.”

“You’ll just get me in trouble again,” Jake said darkly. “Besides, if I go in there”—he jerked his head in

the direction of the busy casino—”they’ll just tell me to leave ‘cause I’m a kid.”

“I know a secret passage.” Nog lowered his voice and gestured enticingly. “No one will see us. I

promise I will do nothing without telling you first. And I will not get you into trouble this time.”

Jake frowned as he stared into the busy casino. “You promise?”

“On my honor as a Ferengi,” Nog said somberly, then let go a low, braying laugh.

* * *

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ContentsChapterOneChapterTwoChapterThreeChapterFourChapterFiveChapterSixChapterSevenChapterEightChapterNineChapterTenChapterElevenChapterTwelveLookforSTARTREKfictionfromPocketBooksStarTrek®:TheOriginalSeriesStarTrek:TheNextGeneration®StarTrek:DeepSpaceNine®StarTrek:Voyager®StarTrek®:NewFrontierStarT...

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