Star Trek - DS9 - Dominion War - Book 01

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(ebook-txt) Star Trek - DS9 - Dominion War Book 1.txt

Chapter One

Ro LAREN LOOKED UP at the yellowing clouds, which

rested uneasily upon the jagged teeth of the olive-

hued mountains in the distance. She didn't see the

beauty of the twilit sky or the flowering land with

harvesting season upon it; all she saw were the vapor

trails of shuttlecraft and small transports streaking

away from the planet Gallon. The former Starfleet

officer knew that most of those vessels were little more

than junk and had no warp drive. Where did they

think they were going?

Her hands paused over the lush sprawl of tomato

vines and plump red fruit in her small vegetable

patch. Who would have thought she could have gotten

so much pleasure from coaxing food from the ground?

Emotions gripped her throat like the teeth of a vole,

and she wanted to lash out with her fists. This isn't

just! No sooner had they found a semblance of peace

than another war was engulfing them with its acrid

stink. Ro knew well the stench of war. Burning rubble,

bloated bodies, wretched refugee camps--those were

her childhood memories. This war was less her fight

than any of those other conflicts, yet it threatened to

dwarf them all.

She heard a door slam inside the corrugated shed

that served as their home. Ro took a deep breath and

rose from her muddy knees. Lean, hardened by

manual labor, her brown hair cropped short, she was

more striking than beautiful. Her nose ridges were

prominent, and she wore the traditional chains and

bands on her right ear, proclaiming her Bajoran

heritage in this mostly human Maquis community.

Ro wiped her hands on the apron that covered her

frayed jumpsuit, and she listened to his footsteps

creaking on the thin floor of the prefabricated shed.

Derek sounded unusually tense; he was probably

working up the nerve to face her.

The door banged open again, and she heard his

footsteps on the black volcanic gravel that served as

their soil. Only a combination of hydroponic tech-

niques, chemical fertilization, and constant irrigation

had rendered it fit for growing. Ro wasn't keen on

leaving this soil just yetwshe had poured too much

sweat into it.

The human walked around the comer of the shed

and stopped when he saw her. She could tell every-

thing she needed to know from the slouch of his

shoulders and his tired blue eyes; even his mustache

drooped wearily. He was gray-haired and many years

her senior, but he had a rakish charm that kept him

youthful. Today that charm could not disguise the

weathered, worried lines in his face. Derek had been a

freelance smuggler and weapons runner, but she had

won him over to the Maquis cause. He still dealt

weapons, but for his people, not profit.

She ran to him, and he wrapped his wiry arms

around her slender frame. A strand of his gray hair

brushed her cheek, and Derek lifted her chin and

gazed at her. "They didn't take the deal," he said

softly. "We have to go."

"Again?" she muttered, pulling away from him.

"I've been forced to run too many times--I'm not

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sure I can do it again. We stood up to the Cardassians

and the Federation; can't we stand up to them?"

He gave her a melancholy smile. "These aren't the

Cardies or the Feds. This is the Dominion. We can't

fight them; nobody can. The Federation, the Kling-

ons--they're getting crushed right and left, and the

Jem'Hadar warships look like they're invincible. Plus

they've rebuilt the entire Cardassian fleet, and they're

eager for conquest. Believe it or not, our envoys saw

two ships full of Federation prisoners come in while

they were docked at Tral Kliban for the negotiations."

Ro snorted derisively. "Some negotiations. What

did you expect, trying to convince the Cardassians

that we're neutral? Once an enemy of the Cardassians,

always an enemy."

"Not so," answered Derek softly. "We may have

failed, but the Bajorans accepted a nonaggression

treaty. They are neutral."

"Bajor?" scoffed Ro. "I don't believe it."

He gave her a sad smile that insisted it was true. "I

don't think Bajor had much choice, and the Domin-

ion probably did it just to annoy the Cardassians, to

let them know who's boss. Deep Space Nine fell, and

it's all going to fall--the whole Federation. Only the

cloaked mines they stuck in front of the wormhole

have saved them so far.

"We're small potatoes, but the Dominion will get

around to us. Our spies say they want to clear out this

sector, because they're building something big on the

other side of the Badlands, near Sector 283."

"What?"

"An artificial wormhole," answered Derek with

awe in his voice. "They may be using slave labor--

Federation prisoners."

Ro stared at him, stunned by the implications.

With an artificial wormhole deep in Cardassian space,

Dominion forces could travel back and forth between

the Alpha and Gamma quadrants without using the

Bajoran wormhole. They could even destroy it, along

with everything the Bajorans held dear.

"Some of our cells have already returned to the

Federation," declared Ro. "We've got to swallow our

pride and do the same thing. With the Federation's

help, maybe we can defend this system instead of

running."

Now it was Derek's turn to snort. "The Federation

will be lucky if they can defend Earth. We're unim-

portant, forgotten. About all we can do is find some

quiet place to hide until it's all over." His attempt at a

smile looked more like a wince.

"So the proud Maquis just run for their lives, giving

up years of struggle?" asked Ro disdainfully.

Derek kicked a black pebble. "Our envoys got one

promise from the Cardassians--they'11 give us time to

evacuate, as long as we don't try to enter the hostili-

ties."

Ro stared at him in disbelief. "Evacuate to where?

There's no running from a war like this. We can fight,

or we can surrender and be at their mercy."

"Bajor's always an option," answered Derek,

calmly ignoring her tirade as he often did. "Remem-

ber, Bajor is neutral. In fact, the committee is assem-

bling a crew for you, and you're going to captain the

Orb of Peace and take as many people as we can fit in.

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Traveling as Bajorans--with you in command--you

stand a good chance of getting through Dominion

space."

"I wasn't even at the meeting!" snapped Ro. "Who

decided this for me?"

He gave her a weary smile and gripped her shoul-

ders. "Laren, you're the only one who can pull off a

mission like this. We've got to gain control of the

evacuation, so we don't just have people scattering to

the four winds. We'll never find each other again. The

Maquis are a community, even if we keep getting

chased off our land. I'll feel better knowing you're on

Bajor. I'll come as soon as possible."

Ro's nose ridges compressed like a bellows. "You're

not coming with me?"

"No. Someone has got to move our weapons stores,

and I'm the only one who knows where everything is.

I mean, we're not total pacifists, are we?" For an

instant, the roguish grin was back.

She gripped him desperately, and he hugged her,

his fingers digging into her flesh. When their lips met,

it was a bittersweet kiss with a taste of tears. In a

vegetable patch behind a corrugated shed on a little-

known planet in what was formerly the Cardassian

Demilitarized Zone, now the Dominion, they clung to

each other. They knew it could be the last time.

"How long do we have?" she asked hoarsely.

"An hour, maybe. Your ship is en route."

"They may have to wait," said Ro, taking his arm

and pulling him toward the shed.

Ro materialized in the small but elegant transporter

chamber of the Orb of Peace. In her gray cap and

jumpsuit, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder,

she looked like a common crew member. But she was

the captain on this ship, as testified to by the impor-

tance of her welcoming committee. Crunched into the

dimly lit chamber were three provisional admirals,

two of the envoys who had returned empty-handed,

and a cadre of dignitaries that spilled out into the

corridor.

I might have known, thought Ro. I'm ferrying the

brass to safety, not the common folk.

Although these men and women outranked her in

the Maquis hierarchy, they looked upon her with awe.

Ro was a legend to the Maquis--a reclusive figure

who had deserted Starfleet to join their hopeless

cause, only to become one of their greatest heroes.

Time and time again, she had distinguished herself in

guerrilla attacks against both the Cardassians and the

Federation. Yet when the Cardassian-Klingon War

brought them relative peace, she had spurned Maquis

offers of higher rank. A small cell of well-trained

fighters was all she had ever commanded, until now.

Ro knew she was an enigma to these people, an

outsider whom they both respected and feared.

"Citizen Ro," said Shin Watanabe, one of the

recently returned envoys, "we are pleased that you

have undertaken this mission."

Ro stepped off the transporter platform, and the sea

of people parted respectfully for her.

"You know our objective," said one admiral

brusquely. "Do you think we can make it to Bajor?"

With her jaw set determinedly, Ro studied the faces

confronting her. Most of what she saw was fear,

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uncertainty, and anger, emotions she could well un-

derstand. These people were close to falling apart,

and she had to make sure they held together.

"I know you're all afraid," she began, "and so

am I. But we have to get one thing straight before we

start this journey. I am now Captain Ro--by your

choice--and I am in total command of this vessel.

Bajor is a considerable distance, and a lot can happen

between here and there. I want your promise that

nobody will overrule my orders and decisions."

Watanabe laughed nervously. "Well, naturally, we

will have some input and advice--"

Ro jumped back onto the transporter platform,

then turned to face them. "Transport me back. I'd

rather take my chances with the Cardassians than

have you questioning my orders."

A female admiral charged forward. "Laren, we've

known each other a long time. Don't start playing

hierarchical mind games."

"We all know a ship can have only one captain,"

said Ro evenly. "We have no world, no homeland--

only this vessel flying under a false flag. When you

elected me captain, you chose to put your lives into

my hands. It was your decision. If I'm in charge of

this ship, then we're going to be a crew, not a rabble.

It's that simple--take it or leave it."

The second admiral, a older man named Shaffer,

saluted her. "Aye, Captain. You have my word on it,

and I'll throw anyone into the brig who argues with

you."

The others stared at him in shock; then they low-

ered their heads in resignation, shame, and fear. Ro

hadn't meant to come down on them so harshly, but it

was best to settle this matter here and now. The

journey would be difficult enough without endlessly

debating every decision. Besides, Ro wasn't in a very

charitable mood today. The good-bye with Derek had

been painful.

"Admiral Shaffer," she said, "have I been assigned

a first officer?"

"Not yet. For the past year, this ship has only had a

maintenance crew. We've staffed it as best we could

on short notice."

"Then would you be willing to serve as first offi-

cer?" asked Ro.

He nodded solemnly, and the Bajoran jumped off

the platform and knifed through the crowd. She

ushered Shaffer out the door into the corridor, ignor-

ing the stares of the others. After walking past a spiral

staircase that led to the lower deck, Ro got her

bearings and strode toward the bridge, with the

admiral walking beside her.

"What's the ship's status?" she asked Shaffer.

"As you know, the Orb of Peace was in bad shape

when we bought her on the black market. We refitted

her, leaving enough original technology to show a

Bajoran warp signature."

"So she's slow," said Ro, "and underarmed."

Shaffer smiled. "Well, we boosted her armaments

with six photon torpedoes, and she is capable of warp

three--but she's still just a midrange transport."

"What's our complement?"

"Crew of twenty, plus eighty passengers."

Ro scowled. "They must really be crammed in."

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"They are. But she was meant to carry clergy, so it

didn't take much to refit her as a troop transport.

There's one good thing--she has a working food

replicator."

"That makes her a rarity in the Maquis fleet," said

Ro dryly. "See if the replicatot can make some

Bajoran uniforms for the bridge crew. Are there any

other Bajorans on board?"

"Only one, a junior engineer named Shon Navo."

"He's no longer an engineer. Promote him to the

bridge crew--he's to be on duty every moment when

I'm not, which won't be often. If we get hailed by

Dominion ships, they must see a Bajoran in com-

mand on the bridge."

"Understood," said Shaffer.

A door slid open at their approach, and they swept

onto the bridge. The small bridge of the Orb of Peace

was more tasteful than practical. It was appointed in

red with austere control consoles that looked like

prayer booths, and the main viewscreen was framed

with sayings of the Prophets. "The ways of the Proph-

ets lead to peace" was the first word of advice to catch

her eye. Ro hid her scowl, having never been as

religious or aesthetic as most of her people.

The three-person crew, which included a young

pilot at the conn, an operations officer, and a tactical

officer, jumped to their feet. "Captain on the bridge!"

piped one.

"At ease," she told them. "I'll learn your names as

we go. First dim running lights by sixty percent.

That'll help to hide the fact that most of us aren't

Bajorans." The young crew sat stiffly in their seats,

and the ops officer dimmed the lights as ordered.

There was no official captain's chair on the Bajoran

craft, and Ro took a seat at an auxiliary console. "Set

course for Bajor."

"Direct course?" asked the conn. "No evasion?"

"Ensign, obey my orders as I give them," said Ro

testily. "We're not going to be evasive--we have

nothing to hide. We're a Bajoran trade delegation to

the Dominion, and now we're headed home. I only

wish that we had time to surgically alter everyone to

look Bajoran; but we don't--so we'll have to fake it.

Set course for Bajor, maximum warp."

"Yes, sir." The young blond woman worked her

ornate controls. "Course laid in."

"Take us out of orbit, one-third impulse."

"Aye, sir."

Admiral Sharfer moved toward the doorway. "I'll

get to work on those uniforms, and I'll have Mr. Shon

assigned to the bridge."

Ro nodded. The reality of their departure from

Galion had left an unexpected lump in her throat, and

she didn't trust herself to say much.

"We're clear of orbit," reported the conn o~cer.

"Warp engines on-line."

Ro pointed her finger exactly as she had seen a

certain Starfleet captain do it. "Engage."

Phaser blasts from two Galor-class Cardassian war-

ships crackled across space and rocked the sleek form

of the Enterprise-E. The Sovereign-class vessel shud-

dered before it veered into a desperate dive, with the

yellow, fish-shaped warships in quick pursuit.

On the bridge, Captain Jean-Luc Picard gripped the

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armrests of his command chair. "Evasive maneuvers,

pattern Zeta-nine-two!"

"Yes, sir," answered Will Riker at the auxiliary

conn controls. The regular conn officer sat dazedly on

the deck beside his burned-out console, and Dr.

Beverly Crusher ministered to a wound on his fore-

arm. Everywhere on the bridge was the acrid smell of

burnt and overloaded circuits, caused by high-density

electromagnetic pulses sweeping the ship.

"Shields down to forty percent," reported Data at

the ops console. The android spoke in a calm, busi-

nesslike tone that belied the urgency of the situation.

"Target aft torpedoes on the lead craft," ordered

Picard.

"Targeting quantum torpedoes," reported Ensign

Craycroft on tactical. She was a young woman with

nerves of titanium, and she reminded Picard of

another young woman who had manned that station

ten years ago on another vessel called the Enterprise.

It seemed like a lifetime since they had grieved the

loss of Tasha Yar, because now Starfleet lost a thou-

sand Tasha Yars every day.

"They're lined up," Riker reported urgently.

"Lower shields," ordered Picard. "Fire!"

Ensign Craycroft plied her console. "Torpedoes

away!"

A brace of torpedoes shot from the tail of the

Enterprise, and they looked like shooting stars as they

streaked across the blackness of space. The torpedoes

swerved into the lead Cardassian ship like hungry

piranhas, and it exploded in a blaze of gas, flames,

and imploding antimatter which engulfed the second

ship behind it. The second ship veered off, sparkling

like a Christmas tree before it went dark and began to

drift. The Enterprise kept going, steady on course.

Riker looked back at Picard and gave him a boyish

grin. "Works every time."

"It works on Cardassians in any case," said the

captain cautiously. He didn't like being reduced to

tricks, but when they were outnumbered by superior

forces, they needed all the help they could get. The

Cardassians were arrogant and eager to make a kill on

big game such as the Enterprise. That made them

careless, something the Jem'Hadar were not.

"Damage report," ordered Riker.

"There are energy fluctuations on the starboard

nacelle, bridge, and decks fifteen through twenty-six,"

reported Data. "Plasma couplings and EPS conduits

on deck seventeen require immediate repair. Recov-

ery systems are compensating, and repair crews have

been dispatched. Shields are holding steady at forty

percent, and I am rerouting power from the main

reactor. Five casualties reported, none serious."

Beverly Crusher rose wearily to her feet and

brushed back a strand of blonde hair that had escaped

from her hair band. Her lab coat was stained, and her

face looked gaunt--a doctor at war. "I'm on my way

to sickbay," she said.

The doctor looked down at her patient and gave

him a professional smile. "Ensign Charles is stabi-

lized, but I want him to sit still for a while. I'll send

somebody for him as soon as I can. Just keep him

comfortable."

Picard gave her a wan smile. "Still shorthanded

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down there?"

"No, I just come up here in case both you and Will

get knocked out, and I can finally take over. I want to

be on hand when it happens."

"Good thinking," said Riker, who appreciated gal-

lows humor more than Picard. "But we could have the

computer notify you."

"I'm sure I'll know." The doctor put her head down

and walked across the spacious bridge, past two

empty science stations, unused since the war started.

Her shoulders stiflened as she entered the turbolift,

but she didn't look back.

Picard swallowed dryly. He was having a hard time

adjusting to a war in which they were being over-

whelmed on all fronts, in which every department

was shorthanded and shell-shocked. Many of his most

experienced crew members were now chief engineers,

doctors, and captains on their own vessels. Only by

calling in personal favors had he managed to hang on

to his core staff of officers. Defeats and surrenders had

taken their toll, but Starfleet could build more ships

faster than they could build good crew to fly them.

"What's the fleet situation?" he asked Data.

Theoretically, they were in the middle of a major

offensive against Dominion forces, but Starfleet had

stopped massing their ships in close formation. The

Dominion fleets simply outgunned them, and they

couldn't stand toe-to-toe against them. Instead the

new tactic was to spread the battle in three dimen-

sions, so that the enemy had to break off and pursue.

With good luck and a good crew, a captain might face

only two or three Cardassian warships instead of one

Jem'Hadar battle cruiser, and he might live to fight

another hit-and-run skirmish another day.

Data shook his head. "Captain, I cannot make an

accurate assessment without breaking subspace si-

lence, although long-range scans should indicate pos-

sible hostilities." The android's fingers swiftly worked

his console.

"Search for distress signals," said Picard, rubbing

his eyes. "Let's go to our secondary mission--res-

cue."

"Setting predetermined course for secondary mis-

sion," reported Riker. "Warp three?"

"Full impulse, until we make repairs," replied the

captain. "I want to coddle this ship--she's all we've

got."

Riker nodded and tapped his comm badge. "Riker

to Engineering. How are we doing, Geordi?"

"Fine," came a curt reply. "I know I owe you a

repair crew--they're on their way. Is the war over

yet?"

"Not quite," said Riker with a half smile.

Captain Picard settled back into his chair. By all

rights, they had destroyed one enemy ship and had

crippled another, and they should be finished for the

day. But somebody out there needed help--a great

many somebodies.

On the Orb of Peace, the bridge was not as spacious

and as efficiently laid out as the circular bridge of the

Enterprise. The dimly lit chamber reminded Ro of a

small Bajoran chapel, facing the viewscreen instead of

the shrine. To complete the impression, there were all

those religious homilies decorating the frame around

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the viewscreen. However, the elegant Bajoran instru-

ment panels lent a soothing reddish and turquoise

glow to the surroundings.

Ro looked back at Shon Navo, a teenager who ought

to be in school instead of fighting a war. The two of

them were wearing the rust-brown uniforms of Bajor,

and they were wearing their most ostentatious ear

apparel. As the only Bajorans on this Bajoran ship,

they had to play every part. For two hours, their

journey had been totally uneventful, and they were

chewing up the parsecs as fast as the transport would

go. Ro felt she could take a few moments to coach the

boy in his duties.

"Mr. Shon," she began, "stay close to me."

"Yes, Captain," he said eagerly, as he shuffled up to

her right shoulder blade. She judged him to be slightly

shorter than herself.

"If anybody hails us for any reason, you are to

position yourself in a similar position, very close to

me. We'll go on visual and let them know we're

Bajoran."

"Yes, sir."

"I will address remarks to you as if you were my

first officer, and we will speak in Bajoran. They'll be

able to translate it, so keep the remarks pertinent."

He cleared his throat nervously.

"Yes?"

"I... I don't speak Bajoran. I used to know it as a

kid, I think, but I've forgotten it." "War orphan?"

He nodded. "And my new parents took me with

them to the Fellowship Colony. Boy, that was nice...

for a while. Then the Federation betrayed us and

handed us over to the Cardassians."

"Let's keep personal opinions to a minimum," said

Ro. "We're going to Bajor. Despite being officially

neutral, Bajorans hold the Federation in high regard.

After all, the Emissary is a human."

The boy's face hardened. "Thus far, the Cardas-

sians have killed all four of my parents and have tried

to kill me several times. Anyone who appeases them is

a coward."

"I'm not telling you you can't hate," said Ro. "Just

keep it to yourself." "Yes, sir."

"You might be forced to answer a hail when I'm not

here. Don't delayreit looks suspicious. Simply identi-

fy yourself as the first officer and send for me. This

isn't a big ship--I'U get here quickly. Time permit-

ting, I'll teach you a few Bajoran words. You can start

with--"

"Captain," said the operations officer, his back

stiffening, "there's a fleet of ships passing within four

parsecs of us. Two of them have dropped out of warp

and are breaking off. They're headed our way."

"Where are the other ones going?" asked Ro urgent-

ly. "Plot their course."

"The two Jem'Hadar ships have gone back into

warp and will catch up with us in a few minutes!" said

the nervous pilot.

"We'll talk our way out of it," declared Ro. "We're

lucky they're Jem'Hadar, not Cardassians. Get Ad-

miral Sharfer to the bridge. And I want to know where

the rest of that fleet is going."

"Oh, no," groaned the tactical officer. "They're...

they're headed toward Galion! What are we going to

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do?"

Ro could tell she was a Maquis-trained officer, not

Starfleet, and she tried to have patience with her.

"First of all, get control of yourself."

"Yes, sir," responded the woman, straightening her

shoulders. "Should I arm torpedoes?"

"No, don't make any aggressive moves without my

command. By the way, we all have people back on

Galion."

The woman smiled gratefully at her, then gulped.

"Should we warn them?"

"If we send a message right now," said Ro, "we

probably won't get to finish it."

Ro turned to gaze at Shon Navo. The fresh-faced

Bajoran looked so innocent, even though his life had

been steeped in tragedy and hatred. "Shon, I want you

to be the first thing they see. Just identify our vessel,

say we're Bajoran, and that you have sent for the

captain. With any luck, they'll be in a hurry."

She paced behind her unfamiliar crew. "Lower the

lights another ten percent. Put the ships on screen."

The viewscreen revealed two silvery shapes in the

distance, dwarfed by the vastness of space. The

Jem'Hadar attack ships looked unprepossessing--

they were smaller than the Orb of Peace--but Ro

knew they were tremendously swift, maneuverable,

and destructive. She had never seen the Jem'Hadar,

but she had heard reports of their single-minded

ruthlessness and devotion to their masters, the

Founders.

"They're at warp six and gaining on us," said the

pilot.

"Steady as she goes," ordered Ro. "Don't come out

of warp unless they force us to. Don't change speed."

On the viewscreen, the Dominion ships were larger

now--two puglike fighters with twin nacelles, all spit

and chrome. Ro imagined that her ship was being

scanned and their warp signature was being verified.

Even though she was expecting it, the sudden beep of

the communications panel made her pulse quicken.

"They're hailing us," said the tactical officer with a

quavering voice. "And they're demanding that we

come out of warp."

"Answer the hail first." Ro motioned to Shon Navo

to step in front of the viewscreen as she retreated to

the shadows at the rear of the bridge.

Spine erect, trying to look like his idea of a first

officer, the young Bajoran stepped into the pool of

light in front of the viewscreen. He cleared his throat

and nodded.

At once, the frightening aspect of a Jem'Hadar

warrior appeared on the screen. His face was gnarled

with prickly ridges like a cactus, and his skin was gray

and lifeless. His eyes appeared to be red and vivid, yet

they were darkly hooded like a lizard's eyes. A strange

mechanical appendage seemed to grow out of his

collarbone and hover in front of his left eye, and a

tube pumped a white liquid into an orifice in the side

of his neck. Behind the Jem'Hadar stood another less

imposing figure. Like her, he was hovering in the

shadows.

"We are the Orb of Peace, a Bajoran transport,"

said the young Bajoran in a confident yet respectful

tone of voice.

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"Come out of warp," ordered the Jem'Hadar in a

gruff voice. "This is Dominion space."

"I'm only the first officer," answered Shon, his

voice cracking. "The captain has been summoned."

"This is Dominion space," repeated the craggy face

on the viewscreen.

"And we are friends of the Dominion," replied Ro,

marching to the front of the bridge. Shon Navo fell

into line behind her, nearly leaning on her back for

support. She could feel him shivering.

"Captain Tilo at your service," she added.

"Come out of warp," ordered the Jem'Hadar.

Ro nodded to the conn and said loudly, "Full

impulse. Maintain course for Bajor."

On the Dominion attack ship, the shadowy figure at

the rear of the cockpit leaned over the shoulder of the

pilot. This one was a different species than the

Jem'Hadar, although he certainly wasn't Cardassian.

He had huge ears, pale violet eyes, and an obsequious

expression, like a professional politician. A Vorta, she

thought, the midlevel managers of the Dominion.

"What is your business in this sector?" he asked

pleasantly enough.

"We are a Bajoran trade delegation," she answered.

"In the past, we have traded with many worlds in this

sector, and we hope that we can continue to do so."

"We're in a state of war," answered the little man

with the big ears, "as we aid our allies in their battle

against the unscrupulous practices of the Federation.

You might be wise to continue on your way home

without further interruption."

"That is our intention," answered Ro. "Thanks to

the benevolence of the Dominion."

The Vorta nodded in appreciation of the compli-

ment, then he added, "We had noticed a large number

of passengers on your vessel--most of them human."

"Carrying passengers is a sideline," answered Ro

evenly, "especially on our return voyage. We are

headed straight home."

"Make certain of that." The Vorta nodded to the

Jem'Hadar pilot, and the screen went blank as the link

ended. A moment later, they watched the two Domin-

ion vessels zoom off into warp.

Ro scowled. "What's their course?"

"The same course we traveled," replied tactical.

"They're headed toward Galion and the Maquis

settlements."

"Do we resume warp speed for Bajor?" asked the

helmsman, his voice quavering.

Ro gazed from the expectant faces of her young

crew members to the wizened face of Admiral Shar-

fer. None of them ventured an opinion; none of them

offered to make the decision for her. This is what she

had said she wanted--total control over this vessel

and the lives of a hundred people--and she had it.

Her eyes rested on the young blond woman at the

tactical station: her face was tight with fear, but she

kept her tears at bay. Ro knew the fear wasn't for

herself but for those left behind, unaware that an

enemy fleet was streaking toward them. Her moist

eyes seemed to say that only an animal flees without

any concern for loved ones left behind. They couldn't

beat the Dominion ships to Galion, but they could try

to rescue survivors.

Page 10

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