Star Trek Deep Space 9 Dominion War 4 Sacrafice Of Angels

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Star Trek - TNG - Dominion War 4 - Sacrafice Of Angels
CHAPTER 1
"BEN, COME IN. What've you got on the Argolis problem?" The admiral's office was a mirror likeness
of Sisko's, with the exception of personal items that implied a certain permanence. Sisko had deliberately
not put any such things in his office, not wanting to give anybody the idea that maybe he liked it here and
wanted to stay.
Despite his inclination to rush in early, he had waited until 0800 before coming to Ross with a battle plan
he'd had ready for much longer, but that would've given too much away. And he had to be careful how
he worded his plans to Ross.
Admiral Ross already had a star chart of Argolis Cluster raised on a wall monitor. After a polite greeting,
Sisko went straight to the monitor--he didn't mind showing that he was proud of his work.
The star chart was loaded with the positions of the sensor array embedded into its program, which
proved to Sisko that Martok had funneled the information through already and he could speak freely--
more or less. There was even a set of faint blinking lights that indicated the fighter group of guard ships
planted there by the Jem'Hadar. Destroying the array was one problem--those ships were another, much
bigger, problem.
"All right, Ben, what's your plan?" the admiral asked. "How do we get an assault squadron in close
enough to blast an array that can see them coming?" Though Admiral Harold Ross was not a great
tactician, he was in fact known for keen selfappraisal and surrounded himself with advisors smarter than
he was, whom he drove relentlessly. He wasn't a very sharp or inspiring fellow, except that he never beat
around the bush and was scrupulously forthright.
"We'll have to draw the guard ships away from the cluster, Admiral," Sisko began immediately. "My
suggestion is to use General Martok and a small task force of ships, no more than five, to create a
diversion big enough to draw off at least half of the picket ships. Then, while the Jem'Hadar think the
activity's going on somewhere else, we send in a single ship to exact the assault." "One ship to take down
the whole sensor array?
Are you kidding?" "Not at all. The array can be neutralized with one powerful and cleverly arranged
assault--" "Gosh, I wonder which ship you have in mind, Ben." Sisko turned to him and smiled. "You
mean there's more than one ship around?" "Okay, but you still haven't told me how you can sneak up on
a thing like that, even with just one ship." "I'11 get to that right now, sir. According to Intelligence, the
array is capable of detaching cloaked ships as far away as two thousand lightyears. By the time the
Defiant got around the Argolis Cluster, the Dominion would already know we were coming." Ross
nodded grimly. "You'd have more than a dozen Jem'Hadar ships on you before you even got close."
Sisko returned the nod. "We need to have the element of surprise on our side. It's the only way." "What
are you suggesting?" "That I take the ship through the Argolis." "You can't take a ship through there!
You'd be cut to pieces." "That's exactly what the Dominion thinks," Sisko told him proudly. "But if we
came at them from the Argolis, they wouldn't know what hit them." "What makes you think you can get
through?" the admiral asked again.
"Dax says she can navigate around the gravimetric distortions. She's studied protostar clusters and she
knows what to look for." Ross glowered at the star chart, then at Sisko, then the chart again. He wanted
to believe it could be done. Even more, he wanted that array shut down.
"It's a gamble," Sisko agreed to the silent protest.
"But it's one I'm willing to take." Troubled, Ross dealt with the fact that part of his job as flag admiral in a
war was to take just this kind of risk, and also to trust the people he'd asked to give him ideas. If he
didn't take suggestions, no matter how dangerous, eventually people would stop giving him their best
ideas. They'd start assuming he wouldn't accept this or that, and they'd quit trying.
A recipe for disaster.
Stopping himself from pushing too hard, Sisko held his breath and waited. The admiral had the facts.
"All right," Ross said, "let's give it a shot. When can you leave?" Sisko cut short an anxious step forward.
"As soon as we've finished repairs on the Defiant." Ross shrugged with just his eyebrows. "Keep me
posted." "I will, sir." With a crisp about-face that really wasn't necessary, Sisko bolted for the door and
mastered himself only enough to keep from running down the corridor. In the turbolift, he tapped his
combadge.
"Sisko to Dax." "Dax here, Benjamin." "How are those repairs coming?" "O'Brien says we shouM be
spaceworthy in twentyfour hours or less. We're also being re-armed and having our stabilizers--" "Tell
him to cut any corners he can. I want to be ready in twelve hours." "Why?" "Because we have a--never
mind. I'll give you the details in person. We have aboutre" "Ross to Sisko." "One minute, Dax. Sisko
here, Admiral." "Come back to my office for a moment, would you?
Something else has come up." "Right away, sir. Sisko out. Dax, are you still there?" 'Tm standing by,
Benjamin." "I've just been ordered back to the admiral's office. Keep up the repair process and muster
all hands for a crew meeting at ten hundred. Sisko out." The turbolift almost got a hemorrhage when he
made it reverse course all the way back through the interior of the station on express setting, but in less
than three minutes he was back in the admiral's office--and he didn't like that. The longer he spent around
Ross, the higher were his chances of blowing the delicate balance he'd set up.
The admiral had no secretary at the moment, so Sisko strode through the outer office and chimed the
door, and was immediately admitted back into Ross's presence.
"You wanted to see me, Admiral?" He avoided adding again?
Ross turned from his personal monitor. "I just got word. Captain Bennet's promotion came through.
At my recommendation, Starfleet's putting her in charge of the Seventh Tactical Wing. She's one of the
best adjutants I've ever had... strong grasp of strategy, and an ability to see the big picture." Uh-oh...
Sisko knew he was sinking fast, but there was only one response for this-- "It doesn't sound like it's
going to be easy to find someone to take her place." Don't say it, please don't say it-- "I already have,"
Ross told him. "You." Unable to keep his expression in check, Sisko tried to appear astonished. "Sir?"
Ross smiled--Damn, he thinks he's doing me a kindness/ 'Tve been very impressed with you these last
few weeks. I think we're going to make a good team." Sisko struggled not to groan. "Thank you, sir..."
"Your assignment is effective immediately." Just before he managed a resigned nod, Sisko felt his spine
go stiff with interior assessment of what Ross had just said. Starfleet lingo was like legal lingo--now
meant now.
"Immediately, sir... what about the Argolis mission?" "Commander Dax will captain the Defiant." A cold
pit opened in Sisko's stomach. A risky mission was one thing when he was in charge--but now, with the
idea of sending his crew out without him, things clicked into place and the full measure of danger
bloomed before him.
"She is up to it, isn't she?" Ross asked.
With an internal flinch, Sisko realized that Ross might be misinterpreting his hesitation as some kind of
doubt in Dax's abilities. That's all they needed!
To have a whole new command team assigned!
"Absolutely, sir," he pushed in quickly. "I'd just... gotten used to the idea of commanding the mission
myself." But Ross wasn't moved. How many assignments had he himself been forced to give up because
he was needed somewhere else? Sisko knew that was the burden of an admiral, and a captain's
attachment to his crew and ship just couldn't play too deeply into overreaching plans and needs. He also
knew that Ross understood the value of that attachment and probably hadn't made this damned decision
lightly.
He'd blown it. He'd done his job just a little too well. Impressed Ross with the plans for covert assaults,
and now his plan for the Argolis mission had broken the fine structure he'd set up. The balance had
cracked, and now he was going to fall into the fissure.
With a sympathetic glance, Ross motioned to several padds stacked on his desk. "Look over these
tactical reports. I want your thoughts on the Bolian operation. We'll meet here at 0600 tomorrow
morning." With numb hands, Sisko picked up one of the padds and gazed at it.
Ross sat down at the desk behind which he himself was trapped. "Ben? Congratulations." Forcing a
plaintive grin, Sisko nodded. Then he turned and left. What else could he do? Argue?
Locked in at Starfleet Command.
What would he tell the crew? Go out and risk your lives in the most dangerous mission so far in this
war... but go without me?
And what would he tell Martok?
How would he ever get back to DS9?
0
CHAPTER 2
WORF HURRIED PAST braised panels with equipment that sparked and snapped in his face and
burned his hands as he passed. Several Klingons, injured or dead, lay crumpled on the deck. He ignored
them all. On the deck five corridor, he found himself and a damage-control team stopped short at a
locked conduit hatch. Ch'Targh and the damage-control team were clustered at the hatch panel, trying to
get in.
"Report," Worf snapped to get their attention.
Ch'Targh turned. "We sealed the impulse injector, Commander." "Where is my son?" "Trapped in that
corridor, sir. After we secured the injector, I sent him in there to put away the tools, and somehow he
tripped the emergency lockdown.
We are trying to override it now." An uncharitable round of laughter rumbled through the working
Klingons. They had their backs to him, so Worf's scolding glare had no effect.
They were mocking him, yes, but not in private. In its way, that was progress. He had never taken
chiding well. Other Klingons learned early to field such social irritations, but Worfhad missed that. His
foster parents had protected him from it.
A sudden stab of realization cut through his chest.
The Rozhenkos would have also protected Alexander, without really meaning to debilitate him. Worf had
been attuned to his own floundering, without considering that the boy might be floundering too, not quite
as sure of himself and his actions as he tried so hard to appear.
Was that possible? Had the boy locked himself away by accident or by design? Was he merely a
confused youth, strangled for attention? Trying any trick to get it?
Would he try such a trick if he had been tranferred to another ship? Where his father was not present as
an audience?
No, Martok was right. Worf was the target of Alexander's actions. Clumsy actions, perhaps, but Worf
knew he was as guilty of faltering, floundering, taking comfort in inaction.
Ch'Targh let out a victorious grunt, and the hatch slid open, spewing a gout of smoke, some cinders, and
a small-boned Klingon teenager. Well, onequarter Klingon.
Worf suddenly wanted to pay attention to the other three-quarters of his son.
Alexander faced him bravely and ignored the chuckles from the other Klingons, so effectively in fact that
soon the chuckling died off and the others waited silently to see what Worf would do and whether
Alexander would care.
"You locked yourself in?" Worf asked.
"Yes, sir." With some kind of understanding, Worf nodded even though he didn't really understand, and
put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Come." Together they walked out of the company of others, whose
opinions no longer mattered.
The others were silent this time. Something had changed.
"General. Thank you for coming." "I come because two of my crew require my help.
As far as friends are concerned, what a waste of time." Martok chuckled out the last few words, and
Alexander smiled with some embarrassment. Sitting opposite his son here in his own quarters, Worf
seemed to relax a little too.
So, Martok sensed, the hard part was over. The two had reached some kind of understanding that they
could not change each other and perhaps that wasn't the key after all. They had stopped trying and now
would make headway.
"Please sit down, General," Worf invited. Since he didn't stand to greet his superior, Martok took that as
a signal that Worf didn't want the advice of a superior after all, but an elder. Yes, a friend. But more--a
family friend.
That was well. And about time.
Martok sat down and wished for war nog. Or something hot. Later.
"What can I do for you?" he asked, deliberately looking at Worf instead of the boy.
"My son is a man," Worf said. "I have been seeing him as a child. What other mistakes have I made?"
"You really want to know?" "I would like your opinion." "I would love to give it," Martok grunted. Now
he looked at Alexander. "You want to hear also?" The boy--the young man--nodded. "I'm considering
becoming a member of your house. My father says it's my choice now. I'd like your opinion." This was
the moment Martok had hoped for. He had steered events and manipulated personalities in order to be
asked to speak. Therefore he was ready.
"Then I will give you my thoughts by speaking some truths and by asking questions of you and requiring
honest answers. Fair enough?" "Fair," Alexander said. Strange that the surly youth had graduated to a
young adult who wanted the air cleared. This was a good thing.
Worf only nodded once.
Martok hitched to the edge of his chair and positioned himself nearly between them, so neither would
imagine he was on the other one's side.
"Worf, you sent your son away many years ago." "To live with my parents, yes." "Humans." "Yes..."
"Alexander, you lived with them and were content?" The boy's eyes flickered, uneasy about this line of
talk. "Yes, but..." "But you wondered where your father was and why he failed to contact you." "I
wondered very much. I heard stories, but never from him." "So you concluded because he was silent that
he did not love you or care for you. Why did you think that?" Alexander's expression turned harder.
"Because he didn't send me away until I told him I didn't want to be a warrior." Now he looked at his
father. "You were ashamed of me." "I was never ashamed!" "Worf--" Martok held out his hand for
peace.
"Alexander, did you prefer to be with your grandparents?" "Yes, I preferred them! My father wouldn't
speak to me once I decided not to be a warrior." Martok let a moment of quiet come between them, and
let Alexander's revelation ring a little, and also waited for something more important--for Alexander to
make contact with his father. And he did. Their eyes met. The shields dropped another ten percent.
Watching Worf, Martok digested the complete shock in his first officer's face and the corresponding
realization there.
"Alexander," Martok said, "the word 'father' does not mean 'all-knowing.' Your father struggled long to
be a warrior. It came more naturally to him, but it was still a struggle. He struggled so hard that there is
little left in him that is not warrior. He is not always a Klingon warrior--sometimes he is a Starfleet
warrior, and that is very different but he has the courage to be different. Still, he is all warrior. When you
said you had no wish to be a warrior, I think your father had no idea what to say to you. When Worf
does not know what to say..." The boy looked at Worf. "He says nothing? Was that it? Because you
didn't know what to say to me, you became silent?" Worf stared at him, but in many ways was staring
back at himself. "I had no idea how to cope with your choice... the choice, not you..." "What your father
is saying, in his lavalike manner, Alexander, is that he does not communicate well." Martok leaned back
in his chair and forced himself to appear relaxed, signaling that progress was being made. In fact, it was.
"When one is a child, everything your parents do seems intentional, doesn't it?" Alexander twitched and
blinked, hearing the unspoken answer.
"Even when they do something hurtful," Martok said, "or clumsy or stupid, you figure there must be a
reason and this must be something they're doing on purpose. Not just because they fouled up!" "Fouled
up," the boy murmured.
"Of course!" Martok slapped his own knees. "You never thought about this. Perhaps your father is just
terrible at being a father. Did you ever think of that?
No, never. You thought he was being a terrible father on purpose! Because he enjoyed it! Parents can't
be doing something that seems bad simply because they are incompetent, but on purpose!" Alexander
both slumped and gawked. "You mean... he..." "I mean he is as clumsy as a fish when it comes to
knowing how a father should behave. This has nothing to do with his love for you or his devotion or how
he thinks of you, boy. When you told him you didn't want to be a warrior, he simply had no idea what to
talk to you about. Not because of you, but because of himselfl" With the insight of a young adult instead
of a boy, Alexander gazed at his father as if looking at artwork for the thousandth time and only now
seeing the brushstrokes. Acrimony suddenly, visibly melted and sheeted to the deck.
"And you," Martok said, shielding his happiness as he turned to Worf, "are guilty of clumsy silence, as are
many parents, but you also respond too much as a warrior. Life is not war, my friend, even when there is
a war going on. Honor is not just fighting with your hands, but with your heart and your mind.
Your son wants to be something other than a warrior, yet he is here. Why do you think he's here?"
Obviously struggling, Worf showed great promise by leaning forward and rubbing his hands as if to clean
them. "If he has other interests... why would he come?" "Why, Alexander?" Martok relayed.
The boy instantly said, "To do my part." "Why now?" "Because now... there's a war." "Simple answer!
Like millions before him," Martok said flatly, "he wants to do his part." He stood up suddenly and
clapped his hands to his thighs.
"Now you will speak as father and son, not as warrior and not-a-warrior." Worf looked up in a panic.
"You're leaving?" "That's right. Sink or swim, my friends. I think you will swim."
When Martok left, Worf expected to feel empty, desperate, even frightened. But his son's gaze, like that
of an equal, like that of an adult, gave him quick respite.
Somehow, the lifeline thrown by Martok was still here even after the general's sudden exit. Worf at first
hated Martok, then greatly respected him for leaving just at this moment.
He squirmed, then faced his son and settled down to speak as equals.
"I have been a poor father," he admitted. "You were right to be angry with me, but you must believe I
always loved you. I always wanted security and attention for you. I sent you to my parents because they
could give those to you. I never required you to be a warrior, Alexanderw" "But Martok's right, isn't he?"
Alexander asked.
"You don't know how to talk about anything else." "I am not a very... demonstrative man." "You're
demonstrative enough to be getting marfled," the boy keenly noted, with a rumble in his throat that hinted
at impending manhood.
Worf felt his face flush. "With women, things are different." Alexander rolled his eyes and sighed. "I sure
hope so. Father, I don't know if I will want to stay a warrior after this is all over, if we win... but I want to
be a warrior now, so I can say to my own son that I did my part when it was important. Do you
understand the difference?" Gazing in fresh respect, Worf murmured, "You communicate very well. You
speak freely... I should learn to respect that." Alexander nodded. "I am demonstrative." Sagging a little
more, Worf pressed his elbows to his knees and gazed at the deck. "I don't require you to be a perfect
warrior, Alexander... but if you're going to be a warrior, you must be able to survive.
For good or worse," he said, looking up now, "you joined the service and you must do a good job for
yourself and your shipmates. I will help you. In return, I ask you to help me be a better father. Tell me
when I am lacking, and I will work on it. There will be times when I respond as a warrior when I should
be responding as a father. To you I grant the honor of... telling me." Alexander actually smiled. "And to
you I grant the honor of telling me when I'm a bad warrior." "I have to," Worf told him. "I'm also your
first officer." "My first officer, my father, and a member of the same house," Alexander told him boldly.
"General Martok thinks I've judged you unfairly. If I've been wrong about you, then I should correct the
wrong. I have a wedding gift for you, Father... to show my respect and admit my mistake, I'll join the
House of Martok." Staring until his eyes burned, Worf absorbed the phenomenal depth of this gesture,
this commitment, and quickly sifted the past few days to make sure he had not made any pressures or
hints--no, this was all Alexander's idea, his own choice.
Worflowered his head and shook it. "This will not be easy..." "I don't care about easy," his son freely
accepted.
"'Easy' isn't worth having." Greatly cheered, Worf suddenly straightened.
"That is a strong sentiment!" "I can be strong when I have to be," his son said with a lilt that sustained
them both.
"Yes... you can. Alexander, I cannot change the mistakes I have made, but I promise you from this day
forward I will stand with you." Unintimidated, Alexander said, "We'll see if you mean that." As a bristle of
resistance rose in his chest, Worf realized his son was probably joking, but that he also had a point. "Yes,
we shall. What you are about to do entails a grave obligation. Do not accept it lightly." "I understand.
And I accept." "Good. I will teach you what you need to be a warrior... and you will teach me what I
need to be a father. Come."
A wooden case, covered with gold stencils in the ancient Klingon language, unchanged for nearly four
thousand years.
Martok opened the box slowly, with ceremonial deliberation. The ready room lights were severely
dimmed, making the candles on the table the primary source of illumination.
Reverently Martok removed the gray-and-black crest of the House of Martok, first carved for the family
of his grandfather, whose name he bore and had honored with his own service record. A rush of personal
pride briefly overwhelmed the general, then he contained himself and concentrated upon the two men for
whom the crest now made its forty-third appearance.
He held the crest above a shallow golden bowl which reflected the glow of the candles in its polished
surface.
"Badge of Martok..." he began. "Badge of courage... badge of honor... badge of loyalty." Ah, the old
words. Shallow in their sound, they were deep in old meaning. He placed the emblem in the bowl.
Together with Worf, he chanted, "Badge of Martok." Worf turned to his son. "Alexander, give him your
dagger." The boy flinched as if coming out of a trance, then handed Martok his weapon solemnly.
Martok waited through the hesitation, then took the dagger and sliced his own palm. Closing his fist, he
squeezed blood onto the emblem. Forty-three.
How full of pride he was! Even though he had no more children coming, his house was growing.
"One blood," he murmured, "one house." He handed the blade to Worf, who cut himself in the same
manner. "One blood... one house." And now Alexander, who was not afraid. In fact, he seemed eager to
cut himself and shed his blood onto the shield. "One blood, one house!" Satisfied, Martok picked up the
jeweled decanter beside the ceremonial bowl and poured blood wine all over the insignia, until the blood
from their three hands blended to a single shade. This was eminently enjoyable, this ceremony, this
wallowing in tradition, despite his preaching to Worf that tradition was only a shading of their identity.
Martok did like the ambience and the ties which this harkened from his memory. He thought of his father
and his grandfather, and those were good thoughts for an old man to enjoy. He felt young again.
Taking one of the candles, he touched the flame to the liquid. The alcohol ignited instantly and flame
rolled to the edges of the bowl, reflecting in the eyes of Alexander and Worf as Martok looked at them
both.
For a moment Alexander seemed to have forgotten what to do, but when Martok turned to face him, he
remembered.
"I will be faithful even beyond death!" the boy vowed.
The fire burned out--he had gotten the words out in time, luckily, or they would have to begin again.
"Now!" Martok barked.
Alexander's hand plunged into the bowl and he winced at the hot liquid, but pulled the insignia out and
affixed it to his shoulder.
Beaming at the young man as if he were his own son, Martok was pleased that Worf moved to stand
beside Alexander as an equal, not before him as an elder.
The general drew a firm breath and felt young as he made the announcement that tomorrow all would
know. The ship would know. The Empire would know. He would tell them all.
"Welcome to the House of Martok... Alexander, Son of Worfi"
0
CHAPTER 3
QUARK'S BAR. The 'upper level. An illusion of sanctum.
Kira Nerys leaned on the metal railing and looked down over the milling crowd on the first level.
Behind her, Rom v, dped a table, keeping true to his role as first brother and busboy to the irascible
Quark, which allowed him to nurse his role as Federation spy.
He had the best qualification to pull it off--he seemed slow, dopey, and greedy, but wasn't any of those.
Thus, the perfect disguise. Any minute.
Below, several Bajorans were uneasily reacquainting themselves with the station, their mood subdued by
the presence of so many Cardassians and Jem'Hadar soldiers. The Cardassians were having a good
enough time at the bar and the dabo tables; the Jem'Hadar were inexplicably standing around watching,
but never joining in. Kira saw Quark and several Ferengi waiters ducking about, serving customers.
Any minute now.
"There he is," Kira murmured. She stiflened slightly, then got control over it. "Damar's a creature of habit,
all right." Almost directly below her, Glinn Damar strode in the main bar entrance from the Promenade.
He had a particularly annoyed expression on his excuse for a face today--good. That meant he was
getting more and more frustrated with Dukat's methods of running the station.
Kira turned her face slightly, so that she could only move her eyes to pretend to be looking in another
direction.
"After a hard day's work," she narrated, "he deserves his glass of kanar..." Damar barked an unintelligible
order to Quark, who moved behind the bar and got the oldest bottle of kanar. While taking a seat at the
bar, Damar glared at the Jem'Hadar soldiers with unbridled contempt.
"Why are the Jem'Hadar always in here, he asks himself," Kira mumbled on, as Rom listened from
behind her. "They don't eat, they don't drink, they don't gamble... all they do is take up space. Ah--
Damar asks his bartender if he found a padd he was working on the other day. He misplaced it, and he
wants it back..." "My brother tells the truth," Rom murmured back, watching Quark pour the drink for
Damar.
"He hasn't seen it." Appreciative of the scowl Quark got for his honesty, Kira felt a little grin creep across
her lips.
"Damar doesn't like that," she uttered quietly.
"The padd contained a draft copy of a secret memorandum he was working on concerning the shortage
of white. Without the drug, the Jem'Hadar will run amok, killing everyone and everything in their paths...
If the Cardassians can't bring down the minefield and reopen the supply line from the Gamma Quadrant,
they're planning to poison the last ration of white and eliminate the Jem'Hadar before it's too late. Rom...
how did you get hold of Damar's padd, anyway?" "I'm good with my hands. Here we go... they've seen
him." "And the Jem'Hadar Third motions for the others to follow him to the bar... they pause a few feet
behind Damar... Damar turns, realizing there's going to be trouble. The Third barks again--and, 1o--he's
got the missing padd. And Damar, true to his nature, accuses them of stealing it." "The Jem'Hadar didn't
like that," Rom said, tense.
"Why's he pointing at the table?" "Because that's where he found it. Right where I left it." "Ah--the other
Cardassians move to Damar's side... I knew this was going to work. The Cardassians and the Jem'Hadar
may pretend to be allies, but they hate each other--Quark, don't get in between--oh!" "Ow!... I didn't
know my brother could fly..." "There they go, Rom. Damar and that Jem'Hadar tearing into each other--I
see a knife!" "That Cardassian's pulling a disruptor rifle! He's firing!" "One Jem'Hadar down!" "The others
are returning fire! Oooh--" "This is bigger than I expected. They're rioting!" "Me too, Major! Duck!"
Constable Odo and a handful of Bajoran deputies had apparently needed nearly twenty minutes to
reestablish some sort of order in the bar, finally separating the Cardassians and the Jem'Hadar
physically-which was no little trick.
Gul Dukat had listened in amazement at the report that there was trouble in the bar, yet somehow he
wasn't really surprised.
Dukat stormed into the bar in time to see Weyoun dressing down the Jem'Hadar Third in the most
aggravated tone the Vorta had used to date. Dukat had come to believe the Dominion's representative
couldn't actually raise his voice, but evidently he could.
The brawlers were bloodied and bruised. Several Bajorans had been injured in the corona of hostility
and were being tended by Bajoran medics and a nurse. Broken chairs, smashed tables--and scars of
phaser fire. Weapons discharged. Unforgivable.
As he came in, Dukat almost tripped over an unconscious Jem'soldier who at second glance seemed to
be dead. And over there was another. At first he was satisfied, almost amused, but then the crowd
parted and Dukat saw two... three dead Cardassians.
Dead Cardassians! And no battle!
This fired a switch he had never felt click inside his head before. Allies... now they had killed each other.
There was no treaty for this.
"Who started this! Damar! Give me a report!" Still furious and yet somehow sheepish, Damar stepped to
him and straightened to attention. "They stole my padd! There was critical information and they have no
right under our agreement with the Jem'Hadar that they can look at classified Cardassianm" "I don't care
what they did!" Dukat exploded.
"You shouldn't have let the situation get out of hand!" Damar parted his lips and his mouth hung open, but
there was nothing he could say to defend himself against a "you shouldn't have." Just to avoid giving him
the chance to think of anything, Dukat whirled just as Weyoun gave his final glare to the Jem'Hadar Third
and said, "You're reduced six ranks." Weyoun was upset--Dukat could see that. Of course he was. The
Cardassian/Dominion alliance was jagged enough without incidental trouble. The Vorta turned to Dukat
and very carefully controlled his tone as he came to stand near Dukat and made sure no one else could
hear them speaking.
"How could Damar have been so stupid as to leave such an inflammatory document lying around for
anyone to find?" Dukat gritted his teeth. "Your men stole it from him." "The Jem'Hadar are not thieves."
"And Damar is not a liar." "Keep your voice down," Weyoun warned. "Our men need to see that we're
still allies. Smile.
Dukat --" "I'm smiling." "Gentlemen." Constable Odo stepped toward them, and suddenly Weyoun
mellowed in a rather horrible way at the nearness of a Founder. Dukat almost threw up.
"I suggest," Odo began, "that we get everyone out of here as soon as possible." "Odo's right,"
Weyoun--of course--said. "Tell your men they're confined to quarters pending disciplinary hearings."
When he saw Dukat bristle, he threw in, "We'll do the same. And... keep.
摘要：

StarTrek-TNG-DominionWar4-SacraficeOfAngelsCHAPTER1"BEN,COMEIN.What'veyougotontheArgolisproblem?"Theadmiral'sofficewasamirrorlikenessofSisko's,withtheexceptionofpersonalitemsthatimpliedacertainpermanence.Siskohaddeliberatelynotputanysuchthingsinhisoffice,notwantingtogiveanybodytheideathatmaybehelike...

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