Star Trek Deep Space 9 06 Betrayal

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CHAPTER

COMMANDER BENJAMIN SISKO finished fastening his dress uniform and pulled at the tight high

collar in irritation. A quick glance into his mirror revealed his brows drawn together into a dark frown, an

expression which had frequently given pause to both his enemies and his Starfleet subordinates.

Dammit, he thought, I didn't sign up for Starfleet to end up playing ambassador to half the sentient races

in the galaxy!

Sisko did not, in truth, much resemble a diplomat at that moment. The face in the mirror belonged to a

man who preferred to take the direct route straight to the heart of a problem, not tiptoe around it with

half-lies and evasions and eloquent phrases that sounded good but committed the speaker to absolutely

nothing.

And especially not wearing resplendent, uncomfortable dress uniforms.

But the fact remained: he was the commanding officer of the former Cardassian space station now called

Deep space Nine, and thus the ranking representative of the United Federation of Planets in Bajoran

space, which positions entailed a number of unwelcome duties and responsibilities, diplomacy among

them. And Benjamin Sisko was not a man to shrink from any duty.

Still scowling, he searched in his drawer for a pair of white gloves.

"Dad! That farking Cardassian replicator's fritzing up again! It—"

"Jake! Watch your language!" Sisko snapped automatically as his teenaged son came into the bedroom.

The boy picked those words up from that Ferengi kid, the father thought, a bad influence if there ever

was one. And Nog had doubtless picked them up from the Cardassians, when the station was

Cardassian, and the personnel used to hang around in his uncle Quark's casino. But it was also true that

he was the only other boy Jake's age on DS-Nine.

"I thought you said we could take the runabout out today. You promised you'd let me take the conn!"

Sisko's irritation immediately changed to guilt as he saw the stricken look on Jake's face, staring at the

dress uniform. It was true, he'd promised his son an excursion away from the station. He hated to break

his word, but he had no real choice—not this time, at least.

"I'm sorry. But an emergency's come up. I have to greet the Kovassii delegation when they dock.

There's no way out of it."

Jake's scowl made him look even more like his father at that moment. "You always say that! There's

always an emergency somewhere in this place!"

Sisko sighed wearily. "Jake, it's my job. You know that. These trade negotiations are important. Don't

you think I'd rather be teaching you to pilot the runabout than standing around in this …uniform shaking

hands with a bunch of self-important diplomats? But we don't always get to do what we'd like in this

galaxy—or any other I know about."

"That'sfor sure!" Jake muttered. "Not around here, anyway."

Sisko's frown returned.

"Well, why do you have to be the one to meet this stupid delegation? Why can't somebody else do it?

What about Major Kira?"

"Because I'm the station commander, that's why. Because that makes me the official representative of

the Federation in this sector. The Kovassii are very touchy about protocol and security. And they're

particularly nervous after that incident at the docking pylon."

"You mean the bomb?"

The commander's frown deepened. So much for security and secrecy in his command. It was impossible

to keep anything quiet around this station. "I'd prefer it if you didn't mention the fact in public, but, yes, it

was a bomb." Sisko sighed. It took a real fanatic to set off an explosive device on a space station full of

civilians. It had gone off on docking pylon two, damaging the main airlock and forcing him to shut down

the pylon just when the station was expecting an unprecedented number of ships to arrive for the trade

negotiations. At least no one had gotten hurt, but it had taken every ounce of persuasive diplomacy Sisko

possessed to talk the Kovassii delegation out of returning directly home to make an official report that

Deep Space Nine was swarming with fanatical maniacs and terrorists. He had personally promised, as

station commander, to guarantee their safety when they docked.

Thus the dress uniform, required by the delicate Kovassii sense of protocol and ritual. Thus his broken

promise to his son.

"So why are all these delegations meeting here, anyway?" Jake asked, the sulky tone still in his voice. "If

they want to negotiate with the Bajorans, why don't they just go down to the planet and have their

meetings there?"

Sisko looked at him. "Is that a real question or just another complaint?"

A pause. "A real question, I guess."

"All right." Sisko touched his comm badge to activate it. "Sisko to Ops. Can you give me an ETA on the

Kovassii ship?"

"They're cleared for pylon three, Commander. They should be docking in forty-five minutes. Their pilot

seems to be taking, um, all due precautions in making his approach."

"You can inform the security detail that I'll be at the airlock when they come in, then. Sisko out."

He turned back to Jake. "All right, I have a few minutes. Look, the Cardassian occupation hurt the

Bajorans in a lot of different ways. I don't mean just deaths and physical damage to their world, like the

damage you can see here on the station. The Cardassians were ruthless. They didn't care if they left a

single soul living on Bajor. At least here on DS-Nine they had to leave basic life-support systems intact.

"It was a brutal occupation. And if you learn one thing, Jake, learn this: Brutality only breeds more

brutality. The Bajorans used to be a peaceful people. When the Cardassians first invaded, they had no

idea how to fight back. But the occupation taught them to fight repression with terrorism. Three entire

generations were brought up that way, living in exile and in forced-labor camps."

It was like one of those word-association tests, Sisko thought to himself:

Klingon / warrior

Bajoran / terrorist

"But I don't get it," Jake protested. "The Cardassians are gone now. The Bajorans won! They got their

world back. So why are they still fighting and blowing things up?"

"That's what I'm trying to explain. Strange things can happen to people when they've spent their whole

lives fighting for a cause. Think about it: Now that you've won, who gets to pick up the pieces? Who gets

to put them back together again? Who gets which share of what little there is left?

"They have peace now, but they can't quite remember what peace used to be like. Some of them have

forgotten any other way of resolving a dispute. Violence can turn into a way of life. And, besides, only a

minority of the Bajorans are involved in all this factional infighting. But the entire world suffers from their

reputation. Too many people think all Bajorans are terrorists."

"So I guess the Kovassii wouldn't want Major Kira to meet them at the airlock, huh?"

Sisko tried to suppress his grin, but he knew that Jake's remark was only the truth. Major Kira Nerys,

his first officer, was a Bajoran, not a Federation officer. Deep Space Nine was officially a Bajoran

station, although it was under Federation administration, and the joint command reflected that

complicated fact.

It was also true that Kira, before she had put on the uniform of an officer in the service of the provisional

Bajoran government, had been an active member of the Shakaar resistance group, which was for all

intents and purposes a terrorist organization dedicated to driving out the Cardassian occupiers by any

means possible. No, the touchy Kovassii ambassadors certainly would not be pleased to discover that

Major Kira was personally escorting them onto the station.

"The point is, Jake, this station is the one place that belongs to all the Bajorans, not just some group or

order or faction. When the delegates come here, they're meeting at the nearest thing to a neutral zone in

all Bajoran space. And what keeps it that way is the presence of the Federation. Our presence. If

Starfleet were to abandon Deep Space Nine, the Bajorans might blow it apart fighting over which faction

would assume control."

"Or the Cardassians would move in and take it over to get hold of the wormhole to the Gamma

Quadrant," Jake added knowledgeably.

"Or the Cardassians would take it over, right. And what keeps them from doing that now? You know

the station doesn't have the weapons to defend itself against Cardassian warship. But because we're

here, the entire Federation is here, behind us.

"And that," he concluded, "is why I have to wear this damnable uniform and go to that airlock to bow

and shake hands with the Kovassii delegation. Because I'm the official Federation representative and

that's my job."

"Uh, Dad?"

"What?"

"Why the gloves?"

Sisko stared at the gloves. "Oh, right." As he started to pull them onto his hands he said, "It's a protocol

thing with the Kovassii. They think displaying bare hands is offensive, for some reason." Flexing his

fingers, he went out into the other room, about to leave, when he noticed the sputtering lights of the

Cardassian-built food replicator.

"What's the matter with that thingnow ?" he muttered, coming closer and hitting the Reset control.

"No, wait! That's what I was going to tell you, the replicator's—"

But it was too late. A foaming pinkish blob materialized on the tray, spattering Sisko's gleaming white

gloves.

"—fritzed again," Jake concluded unnecessarily. Sisko took a deep breath but controlled his language in

the presence of his son.

Just then his communicator beeped. "Commander?The Kovassii ship is expected to dock in ten

minutes."

Sisko exhaled forcefully. "Be right there," he informed Ops. Then, to Jake, "Clean up that mess, would

you? And I don't want you hanging around the Promenade with Nog, either. You have your n-space

topography problems to finish, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes, sir," said Jake unhappily as his father left their quarters.

Left alone, he brooded on his injustices. The replicator was broken again, so there wasn't anything to

eat. This stupid station was full of Cardassian junk, and none of it ever worked right. And those

topography problems werehard . He'd been going to ask Dad to help him with them, but Dad was never

around long enough. He was always in a hurry. There was always some stupid emergency.

And now no trip in the runabout. It wasn't fair.

I should have known I wouldn't get to go, he thought. Nothing good ever happens around this place.

But at least on the Promenade, there was usually some excitement. And kiosks where he could get

something to eat. And if he was lucky, if he hurried, he might even run into Nog.

CHAPTER

THE TWO BOYS crouched low behind a barrier, back where the lights had been blown out by the

bomb blast. Out on the main deck of the Promenade, security teams were herding the last lingering

civilians away from the scene. The wounded had long since been taken to the infirmary, and the

immediate area of Garak's shop was cordoned off.

"What a mess!" Jake Sisko whispered uneasily. Scenes like this always reminded him of that time on

board theSaratoga , when it was hit by the Borg ship.When Mom died . His memories of the event

weren't entirely clear, but certain sounds, certain smells always brought it back: women screaming, the

acrid, choking scent of smoke.

Now that he was on DS-Nine, though, disaster was almost becoming an everyday affair. Assessing the

current situation, he decided that he'd seen worse, though there was going to be one huge job cleaning all

this up. "This station is always a wreck, anyway," he pronounced finally.

"You can say that again," Nog agreed. The Ferengi boy was much shorter than Jake, with the oversized,

sensitive ears of his race. The primary thing the two of them had in common was their mutual wish to be

anywhere else in the galaxy besides DS-Nine. And knowing that in both their cases there was nothing

they could do about it. Jake's father was the station commander, Nog's uncle Quark owned a prospering

casino on the Promenade.

Nog's avid little eyes kept flickering back and forth, from the smashed storefront to the figure of

Constable Odo working with the security team to clear the area. "Why didhe have to show up?" he

muttered.

It was Odo's well-known belief that all the Ferengi were thieves or worse. He distrusted Quark most of

all, but the feeling extended strongly to Quark's nephew Nog. And it was just as strongly reciprocated on

Nog's part.

Jake wasn't quite sure why Nog was insisting on hanging around here, now that the excitement of the

bombing was over. They were going to get in trouble, heknew it. Dad didn't like him spending too much

time with Nog, anyway. But Dad wasn't around right now. Some kind of urgent message had called him

back to his office, and it didn't seem likely that he'd be home again for a while, either.

But now Odo was talking with someone on his communicator. And now he was heading away toward

the security office.

Nog inhaled with a sharp hiss of satisfaction. "All right! Let's go!"

"Go where?"

"I know a way we can get in from the back."

"But …" Jake stared in dismay at the security barriers set up in front of the store. "You can't do that!"

Nog sneered. "Itold you, I can get in from the back. I know the way."

"No," Jake argued desperately. He knew that appeals to stupid human notions like right and wrong

meant nothing to Nog. "I mean, well—what about Garak?"

"What about him? He's still in the infirmary."

"No, I mean—"

"If he's smart, he has inshoorance. Right? And if he's not—"

But just then, without warning, the lights overhead suddenly came on again, Jake yelped in startled

surprise, and a voice yelled out, "You! Come out of there! This is a restricted area!"

While Jake hesitated in guilty indecision, Nog took the opportunity to bolt. The Ferengi boy was quick

and experienced at the game of escape, but this time he wasn't lucky. A few minutes later, he was being

dragged back by the constable, who had a painfully firm grip on an ear ridge. "You, too, Mr. Sisko,"

Odo ordered, and Jake slowly stood up from his hiding place, miserable and ashamed.

"We weren'tdoing anything! We just wanted to watch," he pleaded desperately.

"Empty your pockets," Odo ordered sternly, utterly without mercy or sympathy.

The prisoners complied, Nog sullenly and Jake in mounting dread that the constable would call his

father, or take him to detention. He couldn't stand it if Dad had to come and bail him out of detention.If I

get out of this, I'll never do anything again, I promise, please .

Odo inspected the contents of the pockets, making a more thorough search of Nog's, but apparently he

found nothing he could classify as contraband or evidence of any crime. This seemed to disappoint him.

"I'm going to let you go this time," he said finally, "but I don't want to find either of you around here again.

This area is restricted until further notice. Unauthorized persons in a restricted area are subject to

detentionindefinitely during a state of emergency."

They were released and personally escorted by Odo from the Promenade.

"I knew we were going to get caught," Jake moaned.

"I could have gotten in, ifyou hadn't made so much noise," Nog snapped. "Next time, I go by myself!"

The little Ferengi stomped away.

"All right, then! Go by yourself! Get thrown in the brig again!" Jake yelled back. "See if I care!" Nog

was nothing but trouble, he seethed. Maybe Dad was right about him.

Jake stood alone, abandoned in the corridor. "Ihate this place," he muttered to himself.

The sirens and alarms had stopped sounding a long time ago. Berat checked his chrono again. Hours

ago.

They hadn't caught him yet. At first, when the alert went off and he knew they were after him, Berat

almost gave in to panic. Crouched in his hiding place, a supply closet down in an abandoned-looking

section of the lower core, he'd held on to his stolen phaser as his only salvation, not quite sure if, in the

end, he was going to turn it on his pursuers or himself.

But they hadn't found him. He hadn't even heard the sounds of pursuit.

It was dead dark in the closet, except for the faint momentary glow of his chrono when he checked the

time. Silent and dark. Berat couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, but he could hear himself breathing,

his own heartbeat pulsing, accelerated by fright. And if he held his breath, he could hear the station, the

creaky hiss of the ventilation system, the fitful suck and choke of the hydraulics.

They were familiar, soothing noises, although DS-Nine didn't have the sound of a healthy station. Berat

had never seen a Cardassian facility in this kind of condition. Whole sections down in the docking pylon

seemed deserted. Sections of the power plant, too. The signs of wreckage and wholesale destruction

were everywhere, although attempts had obviously been made at some point to clean up the worst of the

mess. But no one chasing after him, despite the alarms. That was the main thing. He was safe in this

place, in part because it was half-wrecked.

Berat's head fell forward. Still keeping his grip on the phaser, he finally slept.

In his dream, Sub Halek was kicking on his bunk."Berat! Wake up! On your feet! I've got a job for

you, scrag! Today you're going to hang!"

Berat's eyes flew open in panic, he started up, and banged his head on a wall before he remembered

where he was. And why: what he'd done.

For a moment, he was reliving the scene: Halek's angry face, the blow, the slashing pain. Reaching for

the pry bar. The sensation of the impact with Halek's skull, the sound of bone cracking …

Berat gingerly touched his face, felt the bruises throb. But he ached everywhere, worse than ever,

crammed into this closet.

Well, so he'd been an idiot, played right into the hands of his enemies. They had every excuse now to do

what they wanted to him. Once they caught up with him.

But at least he had options now. Some room to breathe. And on DS-Nine there were ships coming in

and out all the time. A way out. Off the station. Out of Cardassian space altogether. His experience was

more on stations than ships, but certainly he could find a ship that could use another engineering

technician. After what Halek had put him through on theSwift Striker , he wouldn't consider any job

beneath him, ever again.

He was wondering whether it might be better to try to stow away or openly ask for a berth, when a

pang hit his gut and he started to figure how long it had been since he'd been able to eat. He paused in

the dark, listening. No one out in the corridor that he could hear.

All right. Here he was, somewhere in the lower core, maybe level thirty-one or -two. Near the reactors.

In some section thatseemed to be deserted. So where was the closest food replicator going to be? What

was the best way to get there without being seen? Mentally, as if he were back on Farside Station, he

traced a path of utility shafts, maintenance accesses, conduits, ducts—hard to squeeze through, some of

those places. But working under Sub Halek hadn't let him put on a lot of extra weight. A good thing for

him now.

He cracked open the door. The whole section was dark, either from neglect or because it was on

power-save, only a few dim safety lights glowing. Even fewer of those than there should have been, in

fact. More malfunctions. Thinking of malfunctions, and food replicators, he went back to the closet and

strapped on his tool belt.

He opened a panel, crawled inside a maintenance tunnel, and shut the hatch behind him. Now he was

safe from discovery, safe enough, anyway. Massive power conduits ran through the tunnel, but they were

lifeless. Berat followed them, wondering how the station managed to function at all with so much capacity

shut down. Was there something wrong with the reactors? How could this place defend itself against

attack?

Whatever was wrong, though, it was lucky for him. If no one ever came into these sections, maybe he

could hide out here indefinitely. As long as he could find food. Feeling slightly more hopeful about his

prospects for survival, he headed through a shaft up to one of the cargo levels. After prowling around the

corridors for a while, he found a deserted workers' lounge with a replicator against one wall. He

approached it cautiously. Someone had kicked in the front panel. Probably the same someone who'd

smashed the chairs and tables, broken the lights, and thrown something disgusting against the far wall.

Malicious, systematic destruction.

Berat shuddered. This place wastoo empty, too long deserted. It was almost like being on a ghost

station. Maybe none of the stories were actually true, but ghost stations, ghost ships were a staple of

spacefaring myth:

Somethinggot onto a station. Sometimes, no one even ever saw what it was, until it was too late, and

everyone was dead, and the station drifted, drifted through space as its systems shut down, one by one.

Other, more violent versions had pirates attacking, or unknown alien ships.

This place looked more like the work of pirates. Which maybe wasn't all too much different from what

he knew to be the truth, that the damage had been done by Cardassian troops, enraged at having to

retreat and abandon the station to the conquered race they despised, determined to leave them as little as

possible to enjoy.

Such as a functioning food synthesizer. With weary resignation, Baret pulled off the broken panel and

started to probe the replicator's interior. On all his previous assignments, up to thirty percent of station

malfunctions had involved the replicator systems, and half of those had been the fault of the matrix grid.

There was something not quite right about the basic design, although the procurement department would

deny it to their graves.

But this time, it was a ruptured power-flux modulator, doubtless broken by someone's big, armored

boot kicking through the front panel. On Farside, he'd have just plugged in a replacement, but he wasn't

on Farside now, and he didn't have a replacement modulator in his tool kit.

But that didn't matter. There were tricks you learned when you'd served on stations and ships for a

while, tricks that didn't come out of the book and you didn't want the inspectors to see—ever. And in a

lounge like this, there was always a head for the workers to use to relieve themselves.

While everyone pretended to ignore the fact, food supply and waste disposal were just opposite sides of

the same basic process. And so … here … in the disposal unit, you needed a flux modulator, just like

you did in the replicator. And though it was true that this model operated at a different modulation rate, if

you adjusted the resistors on the replicator to compensate … like that … as far down as they could go,

then plugged the other module in … there, it would work, as the saying went, as long as it worked.

Holding his breath, Berat programmed the replicator for something simple: one of the hot meat rolls that

were a favorite of the Cardassian troops on Farside Station. There was a pause, a humming sound as the

power faltered; then the roll materialized on the replicator tray, steaming and redolent with familiar spices

that made Berat's eyes water gratefully.

He took a bite. Oh, that was good! He almost laughed aloud in relief.

Maybe, just maybe, he was going to be all right here on this miserable wreck of a station. For a while.

Until he found a ship and could get away.

CHAPTER

KIRA HESITATED at the door of station detention. She was dreading this interview. She thought that

maybe she ought to take a few moments to meditate before she went in to see the prisoner. But that

would just be putting off the moment.

They finally had a suspect in the bombings.

Working for hours without sleep, Kira had gone through the computer profiles of every station resident,

relying not only on the computer's files but her own memories of the resistance years. It had been a long,

painful process, reviving that past, recalling so many names and faces that had been lost. Names of

friends, faces of lovers: their dead, accusing eyes.

But finally, from the records, she'd assembled profiles of all the people on the station with a known or

suspected connection to any of the resistance groups, including herself and four of the monks serving in

the temple. While the computer worked to track the known whereabouts of each back to before the time

of the first bomb incident, security officers had been busy questioning every one known to have been on

the Promenade before the attack on Garak's shop. Someone had put that poster on the wall just before

the bomb went off. That person might have been seen by the witnesses that Constable Odo had located

in his search.

At the same time, Lieutenant Dax had been working with the poster itself, using a new, submolecular

chromatography procedure capable of isolating and identifying the DNA markers from a sample smaller

than a single cell. In the last few hours, their work had all come together. Two persons, both Bajoran

females, had been identified by Dax as having contact with the poster. The same two persons had been

recognized by the witnesses. Kira was one of them. The other was a cargo handler named Gelia Torly,

whose whereabouts were unknown at the time of the bombings.

Now Gelia was in detention, and it was Kira'sjob to interrogate her. There was no use putting it off. It

wasn't going to get any easier.

She hit the control pad and the door slid up. Deep Space Nine had been built by the Cardassians, which

meant there were plenty of cells in detention. Most of them had been occupied throughout the station's

history by Bajoran prisoners awaiting interrogation and execution by their oppressors, an irony that Kira

felt acutely as she faced Gelia in her cell now. They had both been in the resistance, both fighting for the

same goals. There was a bond between them that someone like Commander Sisko or even Odo could

never share.

The Bajoran prisoner stood defiantly and shook back her long hair. She was wearing the wrinkled,

grease-stained coveralls of a dockworker, and a simple silver clasp on her ear. "So. I should've known

it'd be you. Major Kira Collaborator. Nice uniform you have on there."

Kira's lips pressed thinly together, but her only other reaction was a slight stiffening of her back. "Gelia

Torly, this conversation is being monitored and recorded. You've been identified and placed under arrest

in connection with the bombing of a clothing store owned by the Cardassian Garak. DNA tracing has

linked you with an inflammatory poster left at the scene, and witnesses have placed you there, as well.

Can you account for your whereabouts and activity at the time of the bombing?"

Gelia put her hands on her hips. "I was at work."

Kira shook her head. "According to computer records, you left your job three hours before your

scheduled shift ended."

"Then maybe I was having a drink at Quark's."

"Maybe you were—a full hour before witnesses claim they saw a person resembling you put that poster

up on Garak's wall. Do you have anything else to say?"

"What if I don't? Are you going to bring out the pain inducers? Or do you like to conduct your

interrogations the old-fashioned way, with whips and thumbscrews? Maybe you picked up some tips

from the Cardassians, did you?"

A flush of anger colored Kira's face, but her voice was controlled with an effort. "You don't have to say

anything now. That's your legal right. On the other hand, you're a known associate of the Kohn Ma, and

at the moment the only suspect connected with two terrorist attacks on this station. You know as well as

I do that the provisional government has declared terrorism a crime, regardless of motive. The Kohn Ma

is an illegal organization. Think about it, Gelia. Cooperate with us now, and save yourself a lot of trouble.

Gelia's face twisted in a look of contempt. There was a scar across one cheekbone, Kira noticed. An

old scar, faded white by now. "Oh, I've already thought long and hard about it,Major . Just the way I

thought ten years ago, when it was a Cardassian cell I was in." She paused in mock surprise and looked

around her. "Oh, I forgot, this stillis a Cardassian cell!" Then her voice went hard again as she snarled at

Kira, "And I still don't betray my comrades! Some of us haven't forgotten the meaning of loyalty!"

Now Kira didn't care anymore. Her hard-won composure had evaporated. Her voice rose in pitch.

"Loyalty to what? Not to Bajor! Not when you try to blow up a Bajoran station! Not when you try to

ruin relations with the Federation—the only force that's keeping a Cardassian war fleet off our throats!"

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CHAPTER1COMMANDERBENJAMINSISKOfinishedfasteninghisdressuniformandpulledatthetighthighcollarinirritation.Aquickglanceintohismirrorrevealedhisbrowsdrawntogetherintoadarkfrown,anexpressionwhichhadfrequentlygivenpausetobothhisenemiesandhisStarfleetsubordinates.Dammit,hethought,Ididn'tsignupforStarfleet...

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Star Trek Deep Space 9 06 Betrayal

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